Bistrotheque, Bethnal Green

Bistrotheque
23-27 Wadeson Street
Bethnal Green
E2
020 8983 7900
www.bistrotheque.com

by Orva Easy

It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning. This splendid first impression was further fortified when our waiter batted not an eyelid at our unhesitating order of a bottle of prosecco; and when we wondered about the whereabouts of their cigarette machine, he allowed us to ‘stick it on the bill’ and provided us with temporary relief from his own pocket while he waited for change. This is the nicest place I have ever had breakfast, I thought to myself, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet.

After a perusal of the lengthy brunch menu, its delights ranging from ‘pink grapefruit’, through ‘lardons with sauté potatoes and fried egg’ all the way to ‘rack of lamb’, we both plumped for the safety of smoked haddock, spinach and poached egg with hollandaise. With our bottle of bubbles and pack of twenty (yes, twenty, not sixteen), we whiled away a very pleasant ten minute wait in the direct line of a fan (thoughtfully repositioned by our charming waiter), and concentrated on getting drunk.

When at last it arrived, I was momentarily taken aback by the smallness of our little breakfast towers, balanced on English muffins in the centre of vast white plates. One small incision into the fluffy poached egg, however, and disappointment faded into childish enjoyment as the yolk oozed out and mingled pleasingly with the liberally applied hollandaise. The piece of haddock, which was at least as thick as my thumb, was perhaps slightly over-poached but meaty enough to be forgivable. I forget the spinach, and at £8 one does rather hope to remember every aspect of a breakfast, but the spring in my stagger as I lurched out into the sunshine made it entirely worthwhile.

Kika, Highbury

Kika
228 St Pauls Road
Highbury
N1

by Dr Sigmund Fried

Dreadlocks, vegans, trustafarians, people who play the bongos in parks, trance, didgeridoos, scented candles, dreamcatchers, capoeira, juggling, Leo Hickman, headscarves, yoga and the piety - oh sweet Bachus, the piety. These are just some of the terrible things that ran through my still wet brain on entering Kika, based on the décor (like a particularly vivid Howard Hodgkin), the music (Zero 7/Lamb/Morcheebaaaarrggghhh) and the furniture (Elvis in Hawaii). It's fair to say I was in a mildly misanthropic mood.

I gingerly opened a menu. Great, they do a cooked breakfast. But what's this in the small print? Vogel bread? Organic, homemade baked beans? It's healthy! Nnnoooooooooooo!!! Why, for the love of Agamemnon, I thought, would anyone do this, when it contradicts everything us Brits have ever believed in? It's perverse!!

15 minutes later I had my answer - that is to say I'd eaten my answer and loved it. While the bread and beans were perfectly pleasant, it was the regulars (sausage, bacon, egg) that made it so good, being of a high (organic) quality not normally found in a £5 breakfast. A distinct lack of grease, it turns out, is actually a good thing for the fragile constitution. Weird.

Taking in my surroundings again, this time with a feeling of wellbeing and contentment, I couldn't help notice how lovely the bright, vivid paint work was, how quaint the wonky wooden furniture was, how the soothing jazz cigarette music calmed one's spirit, and how lavishly fecund the garden at the back was.

In fact, the only twist too far, even with my new-found cynic-free disposition, was the red bush tea that came instead of the builders that I so craved. Healthy or not, red bush tea tastes like feet. Oh, and public bongo players can still f*** right off as well.

Kalendar, Highgate

Kalendar
15a Swains Lane
Highgate
N6
020 8348 8300

by Mabel Syrup

Anonymous said, “Some one should try Kalendar in Swains Lane, that is the best breakie in nw5, you won’t be disappointed”.

“We shall take up this challenge” cried Mabel to her Malcolm one hungry Saturday morning.

It was a slight set back when it was discovered that Swains Lane neither exists in NW5, nor in certain A to Zs. Nerves were calmed, however, and stomachs shushed when it was found nestled at the bottom of Parliament Hill (N6 for anyone who’s counting).

Kalendar is set in a line of attractive cafes all equally brimming with people and regarding them on this morning was to arrive at the crest of the hill and see the beautiful sparkling sea you have been yearning for. This feeling continued past the man eating French toast and bananas, the delicatessen brimming with fresh cheeses and breads, the unmatching wooden chairs and tables that give the feeling of a large country kitchen, the iced tap water that arrived promptly, right up until the first piece of cutlery pierced the first item on our plates.

Kalendars’ English Breakfast filled us with promise; a handsome sausage, two organically shaped poached eggs, a robust strip of bacon, perfectly charred tomatoes and a slightly-too-large pool of baked beans.

I can’t begin to describe my disappointment when I discovered the sausage to be undercooked and an actual gag ensued after a bite of almost utterly raw egg. This is one of the saddest breakfasts I have had. Kalendar obviously know about good food and the importance of high quality ingredients yet we suffered the results of trying to cater for too many people in too little time. I would revisit Kalendar as I have faith it can succeed, but perhaps on a weekday, and perhaps I would have the French toast.

Dominique's in Hampstead Heath, Hampstead

Dominique's in Hampstead Heath
19 South End Rd
Hampstead
NW3
0871 0755050

by Poppy Tartt

It's difficult to order breakfast under the gaze of a mad woman. This woman's madness - or at least her complete failure to observe conventional social codes dictating how much you stare, how much you touch your face, how much you shuffle and how close you come to other people's breakfast tables - manifests itself most strongly when she leans over and snaps her hand, 'yap yap yap', at you as you are talking. She seems to be a striking red-haired symbol of the not-so-firm grip you have on your own sanity. Luckily you have a firm grip on the menu, and a nascent hunger.

Dominique's is one of those places that makes Hampstead look like Hampstead - a place populated by vaguely continental-looking cafes with small tables and children spilling out into leafy streets. Whether the mad woman is a regular feature of the café is impossible to say; the breakfast however, which presumably is a regular feature, is large and primarily excellent. The beans, thank god, keep themselves to themselves at the corner of the plate, interfering slightly with the grilled tomato but to no great detriment. The eggs, protected from the red terror by a vast swathe of bacon, glisten suspiciously and are a little slick, but you remain friends. The sausages are the ragged kind, ripped apart to seem more numerous and meaty, but the trick works. Altogether it's enough to distract you temporarily from thoughts of mental health, yours and society's, until you realise that you have eaten everything in a frenzy and now feel sick - surely evidence of madness lurking - and now your friend, who ascetically ordered only raisin toast, who says she has seen that very mad woman waving a broken umbrella on Holloway Road, is eating your leftover bacon rind.

Est Est Est, Gatwick Airport

Est Est Est
South Terminal
Gatwick Airport
RH6
01293 579040
www.estestest.co.uk

by Malcolm Eggs

Sharp objects aren't the only things confiscated on your way into Gatwick departure lounge: they also do away with the unspoken rules of breakfasting. Suddenly it's fine, it seems, to start the day with vegetable soup, cheeseburgers or Carlsberg Export. Perhaps it's in this spirit of utter bedlam that Est Est Est came up with the idea of a 'breakfast pizza', an option we forwent in favour of two traditional breakfasts, a maple and banana crepe and a 'foccacia con pancetta e uova', at a total cost of £32.

Slightly miserable bacon aside, my traditional breakfast was quite a looker. The proud, dark and confidently charred sausage contrasted elegantly with the lighter shades of the two fried eggs, themselves framed by a big Portobella mushroom and a glamorous scattering of sautéed potatoes. My plate resembled a page ripped from the Observer Food Monthly - and unfortunately it tasted like one too. The potatoes were bland, the sausage had been nicked from a school dinner lady's pocket, the egg yolk had been phoned in from an Afghan bunker and the mushroom was Dr Frankenstein's (lesser known) failed clone of a mushroom. Could it be that I was I eating a virtual reality breakfast?

Meanwhile, Ed Benedict was being dragged into a pancake quagmire. A sticky, sickly deluge of luminous syrupy goo was causing the bananas, berries and even the mighty pancake to drown pathetically. The colours from this scene were so garish that if it was 1988 I'd have been able to sell a photo of it to the people who made Athena posters, but it was an appalling breakfast. My recommendation is to opt for a hot dog with a gin and tonic.

Simpson's-in-the-Strand, Covent Garden

Simpson's-in-the-Strand
100 Strand
Covent Garden
WC2R
020 7836 9112
www.simpsonsinthestrand.co.uk

by Blake Pudding

After being accused of miserliness by a disgruntled reader I decided to repair my bruised ego by taking breakfast at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. I took along my much put-upon assistant Laura and London’s most notorious hypochondriac John O’ Connell. I arrived late and hungover having spent the night hobnobbing with right-wing socialites at the Spectator’s summer party. The moment I staggered through the revolving door a pretty Russian with an accent that could turn Elton John straight asked me if I was Mr Pudding. She then showed me to my table where my guests awaited me.

The breakfast menu was extensive, taking in the full English, pastries, porridge, fruit, kippers and the like. But in surroundings this old-fashioned I think only a fool (or a foreigner) would order anything other than kedgeree. When it arrived it brought back memories of the colonial childhood I never had. It was gooey and beautifully spiced like a kind of Anglo-Indian risotto and it came with lavish amounts of lightly smoked haddock. The hard-boiled eggs, however, were overcooked. My companions went for the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (are they fools or foreigners?). Both seemed happy with theirs, though I think John muttered something about his eggs being on the cool side.

The bill including service, juices and teas was about £50. This does seem very expensive but bear in mind that we could have had fruit salads and pastries too, as they were included in the price of our mains. The mains themselves were designed for our increasingly chubby transatlantic cousins; I did not need to eat again until supper. So if you are a generous sort with a generous appetite then Simpson's is the perfect place to breakfast.

Peter de Wit's, Greenwich

Peter de Wit's
21 Greenwich Church Street
Greenwich
SE10
08713 327 097

by Des Ayuno

With its classy dark green and white facade, Peter de Wit's held promise for two hungry travellers fresh off a Thames cruise. The discovery of a shaded terrace out back was in keeping with the relaxed, idyllic nature of the day.

Orders were noted with friendly courtesy: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and tea for me, and an off-menu request for "the closest thing you've got to a veggie breakfast" and fresh orange juice for the Scot. When the waiter faux-grimaced over the sports pages (covering England's quarter-final exit in agonising detail), it seemed an endearing extension of the place's chummy welcome.

That, however, was the end of a beautiful morning. The fresh orange juice was as accurately named as Sybil Fawlty's fruit salad. The veggie breakfast contained all the standards, inoffensively prepared - eggs (scrambled), toast (margarined), tomatoes (roasted), mushrooms (tinned), beans (holding it all together) - as well as an unidentifiable lump. I alone braved a forkful and discovered it was stuffing. It was a daring inclusion, but sadly inedible, as proved the rest of the Scot's breakfast when a hair surfaced in the eggs.

Long, dark and glossy, it could never have fallen from the waiter's sparsely thatched crown, although he appeared to be the sole member of staff present. In any case, my eggs were hair-free, and the smoked salmon was stacked on top rather than scrambled with - both small mercies. But the toast was cold and the enormous, unadvertised green salad ignored.

It should be mentioned that the offending meal was removed from the bill, but a lethargic melancholy stopped us pointing out the fundamentally offensive nature of the entire experience and, as we left, the waiter's nervous, apologetic giggles followed us for too long down the high street.

Special dispatch: Bill’s, Lewes, East Sussex

Bill's Produce Store
56 Cliffe High Street
Lewes BN7
01273 476 918
www.billsproducestore.co.uk

by Orva Easy

“Toast and jam?” no. “Cheese on toast?” no. “Baked beans on toast?” no. A short and sullen pause. Then a churlish whisper. “Marmite.”

There is, in truth, only one solitary snag in eating your breakfast at Bill’s and that is the necessity, due to its popularity, of sharing a table with a skinny, neurotic, ineffectual East Sussex dairy-phobe and her ghastly little shitbag of a son. This tiny tyrant, urged on by his mother’s apparent inability to digest anything more complex than pureed wheatgrass, refused to eat anything on the menu, left his marmite-soaked crusts and was (rightly, in my opinion) outraged when the ‘slush puppy’ his idiot mother had promised him with false and misplaced cunning appeared as a freshly-squidged, e-number and sugar-free fruit smoothie. He refused even to try it. I contemplated dumping it over his head.

Fortunately, this is a small price to pay to languish in a breakfaster’s paradise. Bill’s Breakfast is a mountain of steaming deliciousness, precariously balanced on a rectangular plate and thoughtfully garnished with a sprig or two of tasty little purple salad leaves. Everything is organic, the eggs sing of fresh air, good feed and weekly shed-screenings of Chicken Run and you can practically taste the boundless bliss that filled the life of your bacon, skipping with joy even unto the waiting arms of the butcher. What sweet tears he must have wept to see piggy's trusting little eyes squinting up at him as the sun glinted on his big shiny knife.

For a moment, Mrs Milk-free was transfixed, horrified, by my empty plate, licked clean of the last dribble of grease and egg yolk. The jug of soya milk hung in the air; her offspring took the opportunity to stick his snotty finger in the communal Marmite. Then she ran. A breakfast well taken, I thought to myself.

The Providores and Tapa Room, Marylebone

The Providores and Tapa Room
109 Marylebone High Street
Marylebone
W1U
020 7935 6175
www.theprovidores.co.uk

by Scott Cheigg

It is said that French toast commands £8.50 at The Providores and Tapa Room on Marylebone High Street, so my friend appears in a stylish summer dress and I am sporting smart shoes, dress trousers and a fitted shirt, and if it wasn't for the large black eye - obtained in a brawl outside a nightclub in Soho, three nights previously, because I didn't like the way someone was looking at me - nobody would be able to tell that I don't belong in an establishment such as this, lest someone look at me the wrong way and I have to hospitalise another citizen of this town.

We are ushered to a corner table (in an attempt, I suspect, to hide me) and our waitress - all smiles and sitting down beside us to make us feel very welcome indeed - takes our order consisting of: one vegetarian breakfast, one vegetarian breakfast with a side of black pudding, one raspberry and strawberry smoothie and one pot of builder's tea.

The service is prompt and the food largely excellent. Our eggs - scrambled - are delicately herbed. I cannot vouch for the black pudding because I would not let such an item pass my lips for fear of vomiting, but my friend raises a verbal glass to them. The mushrooms are as fine a fungus as I ever taste, the tomatoes impressive without being showy and the sourdough bread the perfect bed for our victuals. Satiated, we rest awhile, watching the hour hand creep toward midday, or cocktail o’clock. When it comes, we indulge in Bloody Marys and Chocolate Martinis and doff our metaphorical cap to The Providores and Tapa Room, vowing to return for the French toast the following Sunday (assuming the mugging I am planning this evening comes off to the tune of £50).