Ottolenghi
287 Upper Street
Islington
N1
020 7288 1454
by Phil English
The ravening hunger in my stomach is replaced by a sinking feeling. Peering past the meringue ziggurat in Ottolenghi's window display it appears that the only available seats are at the long communal table between two battalions of doting mummies and daddies and their offspring. I shouldn't really be surprised: Ottolenghi is Islington boiled down to its trendy-specked, buggy-wheeling, whole-grain quintessence. It is Upper Street's shrine to urban middle-class fecundity. With wacky furniture.
Fortunately, being a broad-minded sort of fellow (who is shown to a secluded table for two at the back of the restaurant out of range of regurgitated baby pap), I am able to give the food my full attention.
Gastronomically Ottolenghi is hard to fault. The menu was 100% orderable, offering a nice range from toast and pastries to heartier, eggier fare. My home-made baked beans with ham hock is a delicious and extremely generous quasi-cassoulet, which comes with an excellent fried egg perched atop a spicy round of black pudding. Eggs Benedict with blood orange hollandaise is silky, rich and citrusy. The eggs are poached à point, gushing with yolks the colour of Le Creuset cookware. The drinks are less impressive. Tea comes, bewilderingly, potless and in bag-form, while café latte is served in one of those tall glasses that are occasionally inflicted on the froth-hating anti-cappuccino brigade.
At the end (or rather the beginning) of the day, breakfast is about so much more than food. If you prefer the rustle of the newspaper to coochy-cooing before lunch then give Ottolenghi a wide berth. On the other hand, people who like this sort of thing, will love this sort of thing.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Mr Christian's, Islington
***MR CHRISTIAN'S HAS NOW CLOSED***
Mr Christian’s
20 Camden Passage
Islington
N1
020 7359 4103
www.mrchristians.co.uk
by Vita Bicks
Following a biblically overindulgent Saturday night, our Sunday breakfasting requirements were high. Happily, Islington offers the jaded celebrant a plethora of breakfasting venues of the sun-dried, knit-your-own-yoghurt variety. In a spirit of recklessness induced by lack of sleep, we threw parsimony to the wind and plumped for Mr Christian’s.
Mr C’s is primarily a delicatessen, and a very good one, selling fresh bread of every conceivable variety, a smorgasbord of toothsome cheeses and chocolate brownies of surpassing excellence. How could they go wrong with breakfast?
The answer, it transpired, was comprehensively. It took 40 minutes for our breakfasts to arrive, despite there only being about eight other diners. Fifteen minutes in, the waitress informed me that the Eggs Benedict were unavailable, the chef having “run out of hollandaise” (make some more, man!). Five minutes later, she was back again to tell me that my second choice of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and a muffin was no-go as they were out of muffins - would toast do? In the event, the only thing that arrived promptly was the (substantial) bill.
This I could have overlooked, were the food itself not so profoundly, gobsmackingly terrible. The radioactively pink salmon was flavourless; the toast unbuttered and hilariously underdone. The egg was a fiesta of awfulness: it tasted of water, and ranged in consistency from runny mucus to a fist-sized lump I could balance on my fork. Mr Bicks’s eggs were, admittedly, perfectly poached, but his asparagus was tough and his bacon inedibly salty. My apple juice was vile; his tea stewed. Would that this unforgivable breakfast could fade from my memory as quickly as the hangover that unwittingly gave rise to it. We’d have been better off staying in bed with a bowl of Special K and a couple of paracetamol.
Mr Christian’s
20 Camden Passage
Islington
N1
020 7359 4103
www.mrchristians.co.uk
by Vita Bicks
Following a biblically overindulgent Saturday night, our Sunday breakfasting requirements were high. Happily, Islington offers the jaded celebrant a plethora of breakfasting venues of the sun-dried, knit-your-own-yoghurt variety. In a spirit of recklessness induced by lack of sleep, we threw parsimony to the wind and plumped for Mr Christian’s.
Mr C’s is primarily a delicatessen, and a very good one, selling fresh bread of every conceivable variety, a smorgasbord of toothsome cheeses and chocolate brownies of surpassing excellence. How could they go wrong with breakfast?
The answer, it transpired, was comprehensively. It took 40 minutes for our breakfasts to arrive, despite there only being about eight other diners. Fifteen minutes in, the waitress informed me that the Eggs Benedict were unavailable, the chef having “run out of hollandaise” (make some more, man!). Five minutes later, she was back again to tell me that my second choice of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and a muffin was no-go as they were out of muffins - would toast do? In the event, the only thing that arrived promptly was the (substantial) bill.
This I could have overlooked, were the food itself not so profoundly, gobsmackingly terrible. The radioactively pink salmon was flavourless; the toast unbuttered and hilariously underdone. The egg was a fiesta of awfulness: it tasted of water, and ranged in consistency from runny mucus to a fist-sized lump I could balance on my fork. Mr Bicks’s eggs were, admittedly, perfectly poached, but his asparagus was tough and his bacon inedibly salty. My apple juice was vile; his tea stewed. Would that this unforgivable breakfast could fade from my memory as quickly as the hangover that unwittingly gave rise to it. We’d have been better off staying in bed with a bowl of Special K and a couple of paracetamol.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Special Dispatch: Mermaid Restaurant, Hastings
Mermaid Restaurant
2 Rock a Nore Road
Old Town
Hastings
TN34
01424 438100
by AA Grill
Saturday morning and hung-over in Hastings. We enter the packed Mermaid Restaurant and leap into some just-vacated seats behind the steamed-up windows, looking out onto the seafront. The Mermaid is a fish 'n' chip restaurant, and one of some repute at that (chalk boards with Telegraph quotes tell you so) and is sat just across the street from a fine array of friendly-looking fishmongers’ stalls. All this fishiness, then, poses a question: does breakfasting in such piscatorial surroundings compromise a breakfast?
But forgetting the food for a bit, this is a distinctly odd-looking crowd. Okay I’m being generous here. These people are ugly in the manner of a Victorian freakshow. It’s actually putting me off the idea of food. They are all stuffing their faces, however, with rather succulent, crispy-looking and outlandishly large servings of cod or haddock and chips. But I’ve always found fish and chips a decidedly post-meridian kind of dish, so it’s the breakfast menu all the way.
Alan and I both choose the 'Breakfast Special', while Fanny has the rather strange bedfellows of poached eggs (perfectly soft and gooey) and fried onions (rather unappetizingly oily) with mushrooms, and Diana chooses scrambled eggs on toast. The specials are certainly good value in a kilos per pound kind of way, the broad plates coming heaped with the usual breakfast fodder (and sprawling in a mass of beans that’s virtually making a break for the door). And toast. Now soaked with beans. Each of the servings is workmanlike – nothing’s missing except maybe a little soul. Or maybe a little sole. And that’s really the problem here. Despite the breakfast trade, and the reassuring broadsheet quotes, in its morning clothes the Mermaid remains a fish and chip shop; the walls are still lined with fish-identification charts and marine-themed tat, after all. As we leave I find myself suddenly jealous of the ugly people sat beside us eating battered cod. I haven’t had what they’ve had, but I still stink of fish.
2 Rock a Nore Road
Old Town
Hastings
TN34
01424 438100
by AA Grill
Saturday morning and hung-over in Hastings. We enter the packed Mermaid Restaurant and leap into some just-vacated seats behind the steamed-up windows, looking out onto the seafront. The Mermaid is a fish 'n' chip restaurant, and one of some repute at that (chalk boards with Telegraph quotes tell you so) and is sat just across the street from a fine array of friendly-looking fishmongers’ stalls. All this fishiness, then, poses a question: does breakfasting in such piscatorial surroundings compromise a breakfast?
But forgetting the food for a bit, this is a distinctly odd-looking crowd. Okay I’m being generous here. These people are ugly in the manner of a Victorian freakshow. It’s actually putting me off the idea of food. They are all stuffing their faces, however, with rather succulent, crispy-looking and outlandishly large servings of cod or haddock and chips. But I’ve always found fish and chips a decidedly post-meridian kind of dish, so it’s the breakfast menu all the way.
Alan and I both choose the 'Breakfast Special', while Fanny has the rather strange bedfellows of poached eggs (perfectly soft and gooey) and fried onions (rather unappetizingly oily) with mushrooms, and Diana chooses scrambled eggs on toast. The specials are certainly good value in a kilos per pound kind of way, the broad plates coming heaped with the usual breakfast fodder (and sprawling in a mass of beans that’s virtually making a break for the door). And toast. Now soaked with beans. Each of the servings is workmanlike – nothing’s missing except maybe a little soul. Or maybe a little sole. And that’s really the problem here. Despite the breakfast trade, and the reassuring broadsheet quotes, in its morning clothes the Mermaid remains a fish and chip shop; the walls are still lined with fish-identification charts and marine-themed tat, after all. As we leave I find myself suddenly jealous of the ugly people sat beside us eating battered cod. I haven’t had what they’ve had, but I still stink of fish.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Silva's, Soho
Silva's
220 Shaftesbury Ave
Soho
WC2
by Dr Sigmund Fried
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad"‚ goes the old Larkin poem, and who can argue with that? With the things they force upon you in adolescence: trumpet lessons, Sunday school, the angst-ridden yearly sojourn to Brittany (and in the case of my friend Kevin, the triathalon), it's a wonder we can later interact socially at all. However, unless you're unfortunate enough to be dealt the doubly crippling blow of being born in Coventry and having a father who admires Hitler, parents are generally a good thing: the feeding you, the putting you through college (and in the case of my friend Kevin, the bail money) - the list is near endless. With this in mind, I resolved to show gratitude to my genitors by inviting them down to stay (with the extra incentive of some Prom tickets).
Now, the parent visit is always an excellent excuse to spend some time outside the confines of the holy triumvirate of the achingly hip that is Shoreditch, Dalston and Crackney. And so, in amongst the (normally-too-pricy-for-me but, hey, dad's paying) places we patronized that liberally punctuated our sightseeing, we found the delightful Silva's on Shaftesbury Avenue. Run by a wonderfully feisty Italian Matriarch, the £4.30 breakfast price tag, including tea or coffee, was pleasingly incongruous with the look of the place, given the stylish-but-cosy old world feel. The quality of the food was also at odds with the cost - the bacon being crispy, the sausage meaty and the egg a vibrant yellow, with a commendable supporting cast of beans and mushrooms.
Later, approaching the Tate Modern, a Jane Austen quote popped into my head: "nobody is healthy in London". Under the awe-inspiring gaze of the former power station, happy and my belly full, this didn't seem to matter.
220 Shaftesbury Ave
Soho
WC2
by Dr Sigmund Fried
"They fuck you up, your mum and dad"‚ goes the old Larkin poem, and who can argue with that? With the things they force upon you in adolescence: trumpet lessons, Sunday school, the angst-ridden yearly sojourn to Brittany (and in the case of my friend Kevin, the triathalon), it's a wonder we can later interact socially at all. However, unless you're unfortunate enough to be dealt the doubly crippling blow of being born in Coventry and having a father who admires Hitler, parents are generally a good thing: the feeding you, the putting you through college (and in the case of my friend Kevin, the bail money) - the list is near endless. With this in mind, I resolved to show gratitude to my genitors by inviting them down to stay (with the extra incentive of some Prom tickets).
Now, the parent visit is always an excellent excuse to spend some time outside the confines of the holy triumvirate of the achingly hip that is Shoreditch, Dalston and Crackney. And so, in amongst the (normally-too-pricy-for-me but, hey, dad's paying) places we patronized that liberally punctuated our sightseeing, we found the delightful Silva's on Shaftesbury Avenue. Run by a wonderfully feisty Italian Matriarch, the £4.30 breakfast price tag, including tea or coffee, was pleasingly incongruous with the look of the place, given the stylish-but-cosy old world feel. The quality of the food was also at odds with the cost - the bacon being crispy, the sausage meaty and the egg a vibrant yellow, with a commendable supporting cast of beans and mushrooms.
Later, approaching the Tate Modern, a Jane Austen quote popped into my head: "nobody is healthy in London". Under the awe-inspiring gaze of the former power station, happy and my belly full, this didn't seem to matter.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Camden Kitchen, Camden Town
Camden Kitchen
102 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7485 2744
by Malcolm Eggs
The litmus test of a breakfast-serving restaurant is exactly the same as it is in secondary school chemistry. Ask any crawling rag man lost in the desert and he'll confirm: it's the tap water, old chap - water is our right, not just as customers, but as life forms. In the Camden Bar & Kitchen they eschew the two most common options, here listed in order of frequency, of (a) not bringing the water or (b) bringing the water. Instead, they inform you of the existence of a jug on the bar from which you are welcome to help yourself. They are tap water Blairites, the Daily Mail would say.
Having imbibed a sizeable quantity of red wine, lager and champagne the previous night I downed my first tumbler of water in a single gluckgluck and spent much of my stay in some sort of transit between table and jug. The 'Kitchen Breakfast' (£6.95) was a classic spread (with tomato instead of beans) but for the introduction of what they call a 'potato cake'. It was a tumultuous affair. The sausage was great, all hot and herbed-up, but the garlic mushrooms were cold. The ciabatta toast had an arty crunch, but the potato cake was surreal. The fried eggs were impossible to fault ("I felt they were my eggs" said my dining companion), but the bacon was cold.
Asked to testify about this breakfast whilst under oath, I would remark that the positives outweighed the negatives, that I have even been back for lunch since (it was halloumi salad and it was excellent), and that I still think about it with a residual fondness, the specific source of which proves elusive.
102 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7485 2744
by Malcolm Eggs
The litmus test of a breakfast-serving restaurant is exactly the same as it is in secondary school chemistry. Ask any crawling rag man lost in the desert and he'll confirm: it's the tap water, old chap - water is our right, not just as customers, but as life forms. In the Camden Bar & Kitchen they eschew the two most common options, here listed in order of frequency, of (a) not bringing the water or (b) bringing the water. Instead, they inform you of the existence of a jug on the bar from which you are welcome to help yourself. They are tap water Blairites, the Daily Mail would say.
Having imbibed a sizeable quantity of red wine, lager and champagne the previous night I downed my first tumbler of water in a single gluckgluck and spent much of my stay in some sort of transit between table and jug. The 'Kitchen Breakfast' (£6.95) was a classic spread (with tomato instead of beans) but for the introduction of what they call a 'potato cake'. It was a tumultuous affair. The sausage was great, all hot and herbed-up, but the garlic mushrooms were cold. The ciabatta toast had an arty crunch, but the potato cake was surreal. The fried eggs were impossible to fault ("I felt they were my eggs" said my dining companion), but the bacon was cold.
Asked to testify about this breakfast whilst under oath, I would remark that the positives outweighed the negatives, that I have even been back for lunch since (it was halloumi salad and it was excellent), and that I still think about it with a residual fondness, the specific source of which proves elusive.
Monday, August 14, 2006
The Breakfast Club, Greenwich Picturehouse, Greenwich
The Breakfast Club
Greenwich Picturehouse
180 Greenwich High Road
Greenwich
SE10
(occasionally)
www.the-breakfast-club.com
by Hashley Brown
"Yes it's true... this man has no dick."
This line of Dr Peter Venkman's has echoed through my head ever since that Sunday morning, when sat too close to the screen, bleary eyed like the sticky-fingered 7 year old of my youth, I greedily consumed a blockbuster before lunchtime. The comic genius of Bill Murray et al was sadly lost on the prepubescent Hashley - but not this time, as accompanied by a whole cinema full of equally nostalgic 80s children, I chortled and whooped as Venkman, Spengler and Stantz strutted around a ghoul infested NYC.
Herein lies the genius of The Breakfast Club.
Sadly, at the Greenwich leg of what has become a national roadshow for people who once owned Transformers pyjamas, this cinematic genius extends not to the edible side of the proceedings. How glorious could it have been had they dreamed a little bigger, and one really could dine sumptuously before indulging in that most wonderful treat of going to the cinema in the morning (in stark defiance of my mother imploring me to make the most of the daylight). As it was, we wolfed down mediocre pastries and coffee at the bar, and my breakfasting heart sank. What a travesty to be punning on a film! and a meal! at a cinema! in the morning! ... and not coming up with the breakfasty goods.
They could at least have offered us marshmallows.
Greenwich Picturehouse
180 Greenwich High Road
Greenwich
SE10
(occasionally)
www.the-breakfast-club.com
by Hashley Brown
"Yes it's true... this man has no dick."
This line of Dr Peter Venkman's has echoed through my head ever since that Sunday morning, when sat too close to the screen, bleary eyed like the sticky-fingered 7 year old of my youth, I greedily consumed a blockbuster before lunchtime. The comic genius of Bill Murray et al was sadly lost on the prepubescent Hashley - but not this time, as accompanied by a whole cinema full of equally nostalgic 80s children, I chortled and whooped as Venkman, Spengler and Stantz strutted around a ghoul infested NYC.
Herein lies the genius of The Breakfast Club.
Sadly, at the Greenwich leg of what has become a national roadshow for people who once owned Transformers pyjamas, this cinematic genius extends not to the edible side of the proceedings. How glorious could it have been had they dreamed a little bigger, and one really could dine sumptuously before indulging in that most wonderful treat of going to the cinema in the morning (in stark defiance of my mother imploring me to make the most of the daylight). As it was, we wolfed down mediocre pastries and coffee at the bar, and my breakfasting heart sank. What a travesty to be punning on a film! and a meal! at a cinema! in the morning! ... and not coming up with the breakfasty goods.
They could at least have offered us marshmallows.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Leon, Spitalfields
Leon
3 Crispin Place
Spitalfields
E1
020 7247 4369
www.leonrestaurants.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
On a lukewarm Friday morning in August I'm standing in the Leon bathroom, whose decorative theme is family holiday photos, and I'm wiping yolk from my shirt and chest. Some of the children in the photos remind me of me. I imagine the me then looking out at the me now (I have drunk too much coffee and I am picking pieces of egg out of my hair) and I conclude that the me then wouldn't be impatient to grow older.
A minute ago, on my way to the bathroom, I told the waiter about my egg, which had exploded with a big 'CRACK' when I cut into it, hurling its contents all over me, Cathy and the restaurant window: it would have been churlish to waste such a unique complaining opportunity. But I felt both disappointed and disturbed by his reaction, which was apologetic, but not particularly surprised.
I return from the bathroom to our table outside. He approaches us with a refund, a round of free drinks, a handful of tokens for more free drinks and an attempted explanation, which consists of two assertions. Firstly, that they had forgotten the chef's birthday. Secondly, that this chef did not rinse the eggs in cold water before peeling them (as part of the 'I Heart England' breakfast they come 'boiled').
Apart from the terrorist egg, the breakfast is fine: the bacon fun and streaky, the portobello mushroom and tomatoes done properly, the toast a bit raw but allowable. It all seems quite boring. I am struck by a wish to see the rest of it detonate, or perhaps turn into flying lizards, so we can see what other assertions the unflappable waiter has concealed up his sleeve.
3 Crispin Place
Spitalfields
E1
020 7247 4369
www.leonrestaurants.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
On a lukewarm Friday morning in August I'm standing in the Leon bathroom, whose decorative theme is family holiday photos, and I'm wiping yolk from my shirt and chest. Some of the children in the photos remind me of me. I imagine the me then looking out at the me now (I have drunk too much coffee and I am picking pieces of egg out of my hair) and I conclude that the me then wouldn't be impatient to grow older.
A minute ago, on my way to the bathroom, I told the waiter about my egg, which had exploded with a big 'CRACK' when I cut into it, hurling its contents all over me, Cathy and the restaurant window: it would have been churlish to waste such a unique complaining opportunity. But I felt both disappointed and disturbed by his reaction, which was apologetic, but not particularly surprised.
I return from the bathroom to our table outside. He approaches us with a refund, a round of free drinks, a handful of tokens for more free drinks and an attempted explanation, which consists of two assertions. Firstly, that they had forgotten the chef's birthday. Secondly, that this chef did not rinse the eggs in cold water before peeling them (as part of the 'I Heart England' breakfast they come 'boiled').
Apart from the terrorist egg, the breakfast is fine: the bacon fun and streaky, the portobello mushroom and tomatoes done properly, the toast a bit raw but allowable. It all seems quite boring. I am struck by a wish to see the rest of it detonate, or perhaps turn into flying lizards, so we can see what other assertions the unflappable waiter has concealed up his sleeve.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Clarke's, Kensington
***CLARKE'S IS NO LONGER SERVING BREAKFAST***
Clarke's
124 Kensington church Street
Kensington
W8
020 7221 9225
by Pam de Mie
A smiling welcome comes packaged in a fresh summer's day atmosphere as you squeeze your way through the tiny entrance to Sally Clarke's restaurant. It is dedicated to brunch on Saturdays only, from 11am - 2pm. I love coming here after a morning spent at the local farmer's market, as choosing ingredients for cooking serves to titillate the taste buds in preparation for Sally's bountiful fare. There is an individual and very comprehensive menu to select from and you make your own combination if you like, but Sally has chosen flavours that marry perfectly.
We always start with her gusty take on a Bloody Mary as I adore that celery-laden kick of tomato juice & alcohol at midday. Should you choose 'Anton Mosimann's Birchermuesli with Apple', 'Toasted Hazelnuts and Yoghourt' or an 'Open Omelette with Irish Organic Smoked Salmon, Jersey Royals, New Season's Peas, Chives and Soured Cream', you are getting the best ingredients the UK can provide. This is the secret to Sally's success.
Our brunch for 3 cost £61.00 and there is a minimum spend of £12.00 per person, as well as a mobile phone ban. My order of 'Eggs Benedict on a Homemade English Muffin' was accompanied by spinach at my request. The eggs had perfectly runny bright yellow yolks and were high and round, not flat and watery. The muffin was not doughy in any way but light and crisply toasted, as was the pancetta. But the Hollandaise sauce was the piece de resistance: a generously vinegary presence which was perfect with the richness of the other ingredients.
As if that wasn’t enough, there’s another Clarke’s next door, which sells take-home versions of the very same breads, cakes, biscuits, eggs, fruits and vegetables, muesli, olives, cheeses - the list is truly, delectably endless.
Clarke's
124 Kensington church Street
Kensington
W8
020 7221 9225
by Pam de Mie
A smiling welcome comes packaged in a fresh summer's day atmosphere as you squeeze your way through the tiny entrance to Sally Clarke's restaurant. It is dedicated to brunch on Saturdays only, from 11am - 2pm. I love coming here after a morning spent at the local farmer's market, as choosing ingredients for cooking serves to titillate the taste buds in preparation for Sally's bountiful fare. There is an individual and very comprehensive menu to select from and you make your own combination if you like, but Sally has chosen flavours that marry perfectly.
We always start with her gusty take on a Bloody Mary as I adore that celery-laden kick of tomato juice & alcohol at midday. Should you choose 'Anton Mosimann's Birchermuesli with Apple', 'Toasted Hazelnuts and Yoghourt' or an 'Open Omelette with Irish Organic Smoked Salmon, Jersey Royals, New Season's Peas, Chives and Soured Cream', you are getting the best ingredients the UK can provide. This is the secret to Sally's success.
Our brunch for 3 cost £61.00 and there is a minimum spend of £12.00 per person, as well as a mobile phone ban. My order of 'Eggs Benedict on a Homemade English Muffin' was accompanied by spinach at my request. The eggs had perfectly runny bright yellow yolks and were high and round, not flat and watery. The muffin was not doughy in any way but light and crisply toasted, as was the pancetta. But the Hollandaise sauce was the piece de resistance: a generously vinegary presence which was perfect with the richness of the other ingredients.
As if that wasn’t enough, there’s another Clarke’s next door, which sells take-home versions of the very same breads, cakes, biscuits, eggs, fruits and vegetables, muesli, olives, cheeses - the list is truly, delectably endless.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Ambassador, Clerkenwell
The Ambassador
55 Exmouth Market
Clerkenwell
EC1R
020 7837 0009
www.theambassadorcafe.co.uk
by Vita Bicks
Ah, breakfast with friends. Does London – does life? – offer any greater pleasure? Who among us does not relish its familiar sacraments: the distribution of newspaper supplements, the kisses between the coffee cups, the discussions of literature and politics over the bacon…?
In truth, alas, this is the stuff of orange juice adverts. In the real world, where people have hangovers, communal breakfast generally descends into an unseemly tussle over the magazine, while conversation oscillates between the recriminatory (“I can’t believe X/Y/Z did X/Y/Z”) and the functional (“Pass the sauce”). And who has time for kissing when there’s toast on the table? So this weekend, with my habitual cafe partner awol in the Caucasus, I skipped down to risibly modish Exmouth Market for a genuine treat: breakfast for one. Because, doncha know, I’m worth it.
Décor-wise, the Ambassador straddles the tricky line between minimalism and airport lounge, but on a baking July morning, its cool cream-and-green interior was soothing. Less soothing were the prices. At £3.50, the yoghurt and muesli was affordable - but who leaves the house for muesli? No, I decided: in for a penny, in for £7.50. I plumped for scrumptious-sounding buttermilk pancakes with treacle bacon and banana compote, and settled down with a cup of smooth-as-silk Guatemalan filter and my very own paper with a sigh of contentment.
Service was somewhat sluggish, and portion size unnervingly modest - but my first bite was a foretaste of heaven. The pancake, dense but fluffy, would grace a New York breakfast table; its syrupy sweetness was perfectly counterpointed by the smoky bacon and tangy banana. This is delicious but economically unsustainable breakfasting (£11.20! without booze!), which is why I recommend that you do as I did, and take someone you really love.
55 Exmouth Market
Clerkenwell
EC1R
020 7837 0009
www.theambassadorcafe.co.uk
by Vita Bicks
Ah, breakfast with friends. Does London – does life? – offer any greater pleasure? Who among us does not relish its familiar sacraments: the distribution of newspaper supplements, the kisses between the coffee cups, the discussions of literature and politics over the bacon…?
In truth, alas, this is the stuff of orange juice adverts. In the real world, where people have hangovers, communal breakfast generally descends into an unseemly tussle over the magazine, while conversation oscillates between the recriminatory (“I can’t believe X/Y/Z did X/Y/Z”) and the functional (“Pass the sauce”). And who has time for kissing when there’s toast on the table? So this weekend, with my habitual cafe partner awol in the Caucasus, I skipped down to risibly modish Exmouth Market for a genuine treat: breakfast for one. Because, doncha know, I’m worth it.
Décor-wise, the Ambassador straddles the tricky line between minimalism and airport lounge, but on a baking July morning, its cool cream-and-green interior was soothing. Less soothing were the prices. At £3.50, the yoghurt and muesli was affordable - but who leaves the house for muesli? No, I decided: in for a penny, in for £7.50. I plumped for scrumptious-sounding buttermilk pancakes with treacle bacon and banana compote, and settled down with a cup of smooth-as-silk Guatemalan filter and my very own paper with a sigh of contentment.
Service was somewhat sluggish, and portion size unnervingly modest - but my first bite was a foretaste of heaven. The pancake, dense but fluffy, would grace a New York breakfast table; its syrupy sweetness was perfectly counterpointed by the smoky bacon and tangy banana. This is delicious but economically unsustainable breakfasting (£11.20! without booze!), which is why I recommend that you do as I did, and take someone you really love.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Wetherspoon Express, Stansted Airport
Wetherspoon Express
Satellite 2
Stansted Airport, Airside
Stansted
Essex
CM24
01279 669040
www.jdwetherspoon.co.uk
by Herby Banger
It’s Stansted, it’s early. It’s me and my friend Ash strolling wearily through passport control on our way to catch a plane. It’s going to Edinburgh, it’s our friend's stag night. We’re feeling the need for a breakfast to quell the nerves we are feeling - nerves in anticipation of the impending debauchery.
We steer clear of the bagel place on Ash’s previous experience; a sordid tale of inadequate service, blind stupidity and violence in the form of baked goods being used as projectiles. It’s a great story that will have to keep, but it should be noted that I advise everyone to steer well clear.
Finding the only alternative is a Wetherspoons pub we assess all of its breakfast menu options and discover curiously that you can only have scrambled eggs with the different sets on offer. Going for the full English, sitting down at a table to peruse the recently purchased papers from WHSmith, we scan the first page and find that beside us is a waitress ready with our meals. It’s quick. It’s unbelievably quick. It’s realising that the reason you can only have scrambled eggs with your breakfast is because they survive better under a hot lamp and that the whole ensemble: sausages, bacon, beans, mushrooms and tomato, have been sitting in vats behind the scenes.
It’s eaten quickly, and it’s surprisingly good although everything on the plate has the same texture: mushy and soft. It’s not Rembrandt, it’s not even Damien Hirst. It’s more Rolf Harris; simple, accessible and easily digestible. It’s finished without much comment, setting us up perfectly for the run to our gate and the battle to find a good seat on the budget plane to bedlam.
Satellite 2
Stansted Airport, Airside
Stansted
Essex
CM24
01279 669040
www.jdwetherspoon.co.uk
by Herby Banger
It’s Stansted, it’s early. It’s me and my friend Ash strolling wearily through passport control on our way to catch a plane. It’s going to Edinburgh, it’s our friend's stag night. We’re feeling the need for a breakfast to quell the nerves we are feeling - nerves in anticipation of the impending debauchery.
We steer clear of the bagel place on Ash’s previous experience; a sordid tale of inadequate service, blind stupidity and violence in the form of baked goods being used as projectiles. It’s a great story that will have to keep, but it should be noted that I advise everyone to steer well clear.
Finding the only alternative is a Wetherspoons pub we assess all of its breakfast menu options and discover curiously that you can only have scrambled eggs with the different sets on offer. Going for the full English, sitting down at a table to peruse the recently purchased papers from WHSmith, we scan the first page and find that beside us is a waitress ready with our meals. It’s quick. It’s unbelievably quick. It’s realising that the reason you can only have scrambled eggs with your breakfast is because they survive better under a hot lamp and that the whole ensemble: sausages, bacon, beans, mushrooms and tomato, have been sitting in vats behind the scenes.
It’s eaten quickly, and it’s surprisingly good although everything on the plate has the same texture: mushy and soft. It’s not Rembrandt, it’s not even Damien Hirst. It’s more Rolf Harris; simple, accessible and easily digestible. It’s finished without much comment, setting us up perfectly for the run to our gate and the battle to find a good seat on the budget plane to bedlam.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Story Deli, Spitalfields
Story Deli
3 Dray Walk
Old Truman Brewery
91 Brick Lane
Spitalfields
E1
020 7247 3137
by Eggatha Chrispie
I must admit that by the time this review was suggested to me I’d got to know Story Deli like the back of my fork. But frankly, any excuse to visit this haven is a worthwhile one. The marvellously flexible menu (handwritten, of course, in organic chalk on an organic chalkboard) is easily interpreted, and Beverley, ever-friendly, efficient and chatty took the order. My choice this visit was mackerel and poached egg with toast, plus a soya latte.
By the time I’d got half way through this latte, I was experiencing a familiar feeling of blood-loss in the lower part of my thighs – brought on by too-high cardboard stools (tall boxes, basically) combined with a too-low wooden table. But, hey, when a coffee’s that good, it’s not a problem. It wasn’t long before the food turned up, which was good, as the latte cups are not what one would describe as ‘over-generous’ - and in fact, the whole meal wouldn’t lend itself to that description, but there is something about Story Deli that makes one very content with one’s lot.
There's a delicious vinegar-y overtone that lingers around my perfectly poached eggs. The toast is sort of griddle-cooked, and though made from white flour (a pet hate of mine) the sin is excused in this instance. The mackerel, meanwhile, is oily but wholesome, perfectly golden and very, very tasty. I could actually eat it every day and not get tired of it.
On Dray Walk, anything goes (including, on one memorable visit, the staggering figure of Pete Doherty) and Story Deli has gone down very well.
3 Dray Walk
Old Truman Brewery
91 Brick Lane
Spitalfields
E1
020 7247 3137
by Eggatha Chrispie
I must admit that by the time this review was suggested to me I’d got to know Story Deli like the back of my fork. But frankly, any excuse to visit this haven is a worthwhile one. The marvellously flexible menu (handwritten, of course, in organic chalk on an organic chalkboard) is easily interpreted, and Beverley, ever-friendly, efficient and chatty took the order. My choice this visit was mackerel and poached egg with toast, plus a soya latte.
By the time I’d got half way through this latte, I was experiencing a familiar feeling of blood-loss in the lower part of my thighs – brought on by too-high cardboard stools (tall boxes, basically) combined with a too-low wooden table. But, hey, when a coffee’s that good, it’s not a problem. It wasn’t long before the food turned up, which was good, as the latte cups are not what one would describe as ‘over-generous’ - and in fact, the whole meal wouldn’t lend itself to that description, but there is something about Story Deli that makes one very content with one’s lot.
There's a delicious vinegar-y overtone that lingers around my perfectly poached eggs. The toast is sort of griddle-cooked, and though made from white flour (a pet hate of mine) the sin is excused in this instance. The mackerel, meanwhile, is oily but wholesome, perfectly golden and very, very tasty. I could actually eat it every day and not get tired of it.
On Dray Walk, anything goes (including, on one memorable visit, the staggering figure of Pete Doherty) and Story Deli has gone down very well.
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