The Breakfast Club, Soho
33 D'Arblay St
020 7434 2571
by Poppy Tartt
I’d dreamed of The Breakfast Club. This, surely, was breakfast-Mecca: its name, its concept, its jouissance. But no.
My companion was my dear old Uncle Feather. Feather is easily rattled and the shock of the menu was very great: The Breakfast Club does not serve a proper English breakfast. How I longed for the simplicity of such establishments as ‘Chicken and Rib’ or ‘Pizza Time’. This place, I said to Feather firmly, will not be getting my vote for The Ronseal Tell It Like It Is Award. Mercy, no, said Feather.
My poor uncle, desperate to have his breakfast any which way, opted for the Breakfast Wrap, yet another meal that fashion has seen fit to snatch from its plate and roll up in a pancake. It arrived, an attractive cross section of pale colours, screaming with nutrition. But to me the ubiquitous Wrap is the enemy of diversity. It rolled into town like a tortillo typhoon some time ago, wrapping up everything in its wake, slashing the very bread from sandwiches.
Out of sheer desperation I chose the ‘Healthy Brekky’: cereal, toast, tea and orange juice. I did not want orange juice – but the tiniest venture off menu led the staff to form a huddle and thence an unyielding wall. You must pay full price nonetheless, they insisted cheerily. Further entreaties were deflected like so many rays of sun by a jaunty visor.
All in all, there is something bleakly Neighbours about the BC, putting it rather at odds with its Soho location. Predictably they do produce excellent smoothies, a word I can hardly bear to pronounce. But with no smoking throughout and a freakishly healthy vibe, this place should be peddling its vitamins on a beach in Australia somewhere, not knocking on the door of London’s dirty heart.