The Blue Brick Cafe, East Dulwich

The Blue Brick Cafe
14 Fellbrigg Rd
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 3742

by Herby Banger

Skiving off work is an art form and preparation is foremost. The day before the bunk you must start showing the symptoms that will tomorrow lay you low; a slight cough, maybe a complaint of a headache. If you convince, then phoning in the next morning will be a breeze of well-wishing reassurance. It will relax your every sinew. For me, everything was going according to plan as I hung up the phone. Yet my guilty tranquillity was disturbed not two minutes later by the arrival of builders to the flat above me.

It wasn't too long before I had a real headache and all I could do was leave the house, aghast that I had risked so much for so little reward. Aimlessly I walked the streets around my home, and came to an unexpected crossroads in the day: for before me was a mirage, a long lost image of a café that had occupied my unconscious mind for many years; The Blue Brick Café.

It had always seemed closed, but here now it welcomed me in with its 3-barred glow of electric heat. Inside I was transformed, not into a phoenix, but into a child of the person that I had become. The Blue Brick Café is everything I had missed from a time I had barely known. I had never been there before but the placed seeped memories and nostalgia, of rainy days and unexpected encounters. It is kitsch in a way that no other place can be, for it is unchanged and unerringly charming – comfort on an uncomfortable seat.

It is almost irrelevant that the breakfast I ate was beautiful and simple. No frills were necessary, yet to my delight there were unmistakable signs of real home made effort.

Friendly and honest, now that it is found I shall not stray from the path again.

Jocks Café, Acton

Jocks Café
152 Horn Lane
Acton
W3
020 8993 4456

by Chris P Bacon

A continental strumpet berates her nauseating child in the doorway, obstructing my entry. An elderly man, possibly centuries old, converses with a teenage builder about the state of British politics. Tea-soaked newspapers lie strewn across formica table surfaces, the fug of cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the still air. The atmosphere bodes well. This is a local greasy spoon, for local people, and it doesn't disappoint.

Tea and toast is presented in the correct manner i.e. as soon as possible after one's arrival (in order to stem the liver's rapid acceleration toward purgatory). A generously-sized platter is presented soon after, consisting of two eggs, two sausages (split and fried), bacon, beans and hash browns. Black pudding is offered, but refused. Whilst being a traditional part of the English breakfast offer, there are times when a blood-soaked, phallic tube of gristle is best avoided, and this is one of them.

The eggs are cooked to perfection – runny yolks but confident whites. The thick slices of bacon are lovingly fried; the beans and hash browns are average, but the sausages sublime. Toast is simple, liberally spread with butter, and the tea is splendid. Moreover, it is presented in a lovely warm mug, rather than the polystyrene monstrosities that so many "cafes" use these days.

Considering that all this comes in at less than five pounds, this café is something of a gastronomic revolution. The food, the atmosphere, the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd. It's all here, in abundance.

Bleeding Heart Tavern, Clerkenwell

Bleeding Heart Tavern
Bleeding Heart Yard
off Greville Street
Farringdon
EC1N
020 7242 2056/8238

by Mama Lade

Why should weekends have all the breakfast fun? Preparing to do battle with Wednesday, that's when you really need the nutritional armour - and it's so soothing to consider, as you sculpt castles in your kedgeree, that others are hard at work. The Bleeding Heart Tavern opens at 7:00, so you could be at your desk by 8:30, but where's the schadenfreude in that? Papa Lade and I sedately took our seats at 9:00. The window framed a Lowry-like scene of scurrying workers, miserably scarfing breakfast bars and cardboard coffee. Watching them only sharpened our need for good food to insulate us from a bad world.

The menu was encouraging, the atmosphere pleasantly casual. The service in fact was so casual it frequently bordered on vague...but somehow the lack of slickness was appealing and when my haddock arrived and the toast was soggied by inadequately drained poaching liquid, it really didn't matter. It felt homely. And the vast, smoky fish was perfectly cooked, complemented by a plump poached egg and lashings of thick, no-nonsense hollandaise. His lordship had the full English: Suffolk bacon, spanking good sausages, two pretty fried eggs, brown toast, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, addictive fried potatoes. The one quibble was "our very special home-made baked beans". Tasty, but all wrong. Breakfast demands the gloopy goodness of non-special baked beans made by machines. Anything more sophisticated misses the point. That aside, our breakfast worked. We were fortified, ready to face the worst. Even the posse of industrious Lowry-ites, polluting the best meal of the day with a "meeting" at the table next to us, could not spoil our mood.

Pret a Manger, Somewhere or Other

Pret a Manger
Somewhere or Other
PR8 MNJ
www.pret.com

by Poppy Tartt

Straight off the streets of chaos and no pity, the clientele of Pret a Manger are damp around the ankles, queuing for a breakfast, one hope, one quest. Word on those streets is Pret now offers a breakfast wrap. MCs better start chatting about what’s really happening and I ain’t even talking about the weather; I think I’ve made my feelings clear about wraps in the past. I’m clocking my options in the glass case: greasy croissants rammed with ham and tomatoes, breakfast baguettes, the breakfast wrap. The strangest things can happen from wrapping. It looks like a crushed wet napkin. It’s got beans in: nuff said, surely. Beans always want to escape, like kids off an council estate; 'fuck that, I’ve got my sleeves to think of' I’m shouting at the perky foreigner who’s serving me. ‘Would you like a napkin with that?’ she hits back. I skulk off to a distant stool with my bacon and egg baguette. My palms are sweaty and these weak arms are heavy, now I’m guzzling on coffee just to keep my head straight; don’t buy tea at Pret, it’s rubbish. Pret’s plotting for a title like Eat, who’s competing. Both go easy on the coffee heavy on the foam so your cup’s light as you like, careful you don’t lose your grip and leave a stain on a businessman’s suit. The breakfast baguette is hard to remember, like a dream. Too much garlic leads to a confused state, my buds fail to return a unanimous verdict on taste. Some kid’s gone crazy with the salt and pepper shakers, thank god I bought a yoghurt for later.

Euston Sandwich Bar, Fitzrovia

Euston Sandwich Bar
370 Euston Road
Fitzrovia
NW1
020 7387 5538

by Blake Pudding

“She’s Portuguese.”

“She’s Polish.”

“She’s Portuguese, look they sell those delicious custard tarts.”

“Everywhere sells those now. They are delicious though, aren’t they?”

“I’m positive she’s Portuguese.”

“Barbara,” I called out. “Are you Polish or Portuguese?”

“I’m Polish,” Barbara said, looking offended. “The Portuguese are a miserable bunch, though they do make those delicious custard tarts - I love them.”

We were sitting at the best table in the Euston Sandwich Bar opposite Great Portland Street Station. It was the kind of table Michael Winner would insist on were he to frequent this august establishment. I was with top London publisher, Henry Jeffreys. When he suggested a breakfast meeting, I thought he was going to choose some ghastly Soho media venue so was pleasantly surprised when he picked this place.

“Gentlemen?” Barbara hovered imperiously.

We both went for bacon, egg and chips with tea of course and without beans, which we both consider a ridiculous throwback to a time when you couldn’t buy fresh vegetables and everything came in tins. Need I say that the food was superb? The chips were of the thin cut variety and, I mean this as high compliment, better than those in McDonald’s. The bacon was elegantly crisped and the eggs were pink, pert and runny.

Henry then held forth rather aimlessly on bookish topics such as “wither the high street retailer”, but to be honest I wasn’t listening. Instead I admired the feast in Formica that is the Euston Sandwich Bar and basked in a reverie of satiety so different from the continental mania one gets from coffee and custard tarts.

Nico's Restaurant, Bethnal Green

Nico's Restaurant
299 Cambridge Heath Rd
Bethnal Green
E2
020 7739 8832

by Blake Pudding

I woke up with the word "leadership" on my lips. Perhaps it was to do with the meandering my life had taken of late or perhaps it is something to do with the Duke of Wellington, whose boots are never far from my feet. I had been at a fashion party the night before trying to think of the Estonian for "does your father know you're here?" I roused my brother Thomas and suggested a trip to Nico's.

First impressions were good. There were big sheets of bright cardboard cut into Batman-esque "ker-powww" shapes but with "Sausage, egg and chips £3.49" or "Steak pie, chips and beans £4.49" instead. There was a bald cockney behind the counter- he didn't have a badge on saying Nico because there was no need - this was clearly Nico and he was clearly in charge. From that moment on I knew we were in safe hands.

I went off-piste with the fried eggs, bubble, bacon, tomatoes, tea and toast. I forget what Thomas had. Wellington said that an army marches on its stomach but I doubt anyone could march after this amount. There was a mountain of delicious bubble under which I kept on finding more and more rashers of bacon. There were two eggs and no less than 3 big tomatoes grilled to a sweet gooey consistency. The tea came from a pot and the bread was crusty.

After finishing I smiled at Thomas much as Wellington must have smiled at Blucher after Waterloo, a smile that spoke of a job well done. Then a set breakfast of leviathan-like proportions came past and I realised how paltry our victory had been. Meanwhile as Nico was marshalling his forces in the kitchen, it dawned on me that the only losers here were lovers of uncluttered miltary metaphors.

Little Mo's Cafe, Deptford

Little Mo’s Cafe
219 Deptford High Street
Deptford
SE8
020 8692 5177

by Des Ayuno

Little Mo’s is definitely at the wrong end of the high street – away from the temptations of Deptford Market; away from the vintage clothing shop that seems to think it’s in W8, not SE8; away from the Salvation Army, where clusters of creatively coiffed students clog the doorway. Little Mo’s is actually Little Mo, announced on its tatty facade in a bright red, bizarrely Wild West-style font. In the dusty front window a stack of broken furniture is topped with an enormous, shrivelled jade plant. There is a fruit machine, and a loo that is so nearly an outdoor toilet as to surely require EU-legislated demolition. The only other customer that chilly morning was a gentleman nursing a cuppa who had parked his shopping cart, full of overstuffed plastic bags and odd textiles, and his two walking sticks (one broken), directly in the doorway. In short, it is such a black hole of unremitting, empty-eyed misery that it probably inspired the EastEnders character of the same name.

I went for the safe option of eggs, mushrooms and beans on toast; my companion (a devoted admirer of the place) ordered something that sounded like “the big pork breakfast” with wild enthusiasm. His most persuasive entreaties did not convince me to try the pink sausages nor grey bacon, both of which he pronounced heavenly. My meal was serviceable. The food was beside the point. I shall return on a rainy day in November, possibly after the death of a distant family member or pet, to wallow in dejection and self-pity – and I shall thoroughly enjoy it.

Evin Cafe Bar, Dalston

Evin Cafe Bar
115 Kingsland High St
Dalston
E8
020 7254 5634

by Orva Easy

I wondered, and I wonder still, whether I had emerged into a Sliding Doors situation. On one side of the table, a splendid spread of fresh, carefully presented deliciousness; on the other, a listless, unsatisfying plate of less-than-inspired produce, ill-wrought into something resembling a breakfast, apart from the glaring absence of an egg.

"There it is!" the waitress exclaimed, pointing excitedly to where my hitherto truant egg was emerging from the kitchen, carried aloft on its own saucer. Compelled to enquire politely as to its whereabouts, I had become quite cross. Her childish joy at discovering the reluctant foodstuff, however, dented my ill will, and I returned to my breakfast uncomplaining. This despite the fact that the egg had apparently been cooked by someone who had never eaten one, the sausage was of indeterminate origin, though it might have served as an acceptable weapon and the bacon was more like biltong. The buttering of the toast can only be described as eccentric.

"There you go, and some halloumi for you to try," the waitress smiled indulgently at the visiting Icelanders, who peered in wonderment at this strange and new foodstuff. Unused as they are to exotic or indeed fresh food, rapture followed as they hoed their way through the Mediterranean breakfasts - the feta salty and creamy; the yoghurt (or YO-ghurt as they insist on calling it) perfectly paired with clear, runny honey; the hefty garlic sausage chargrilled to perfection and the halloumi (a revelation!) amusingly squeaky. The coffee was pronounced excellent, and since they have to stay awake through eternal night for half of the year they know something about it.

If you like a bit of the Med on your breakfast plate, this place is a winner. Otherwise, you'll have egg on your face. If you're lucky.

Café Bohemia, Hackney

Café Bohemia
2 Bohemia Place
Mare Street
Hackney
E8
0208 986 4325

by Cathy Latte

That long stretch of Mare Street can feel mightily oppressive. As you pass those big grey buildings it’s as if one by one they’re uprooting themselves out of their sockets, up onto your shoulders. Sirens rip through your nerves, dirt congeals on your shoes – you’re unsettled.

However, the distant vision of Mess café can always raise dwindling post-inebriated spirits, and seeing it ahead we two picked up pace. 20 metres on, my jaw slackened: the breakfast queue was out the door and ten people deep. Overcoming the need to fling myself to the pavement and beat the ground in despair I regained composure, muddled a decision and walked back to the best and nearest option I could think of: Bohemia, where I had been once before.

Bohemia should be great, tucked pleasantly away under a railway arch. Its big open door windows spill light everywhere, while trains rumble comfortingly above. But once inside I was met with a familiar wave of unease, like returning to a relationship that was disappointing first time round and finding that nothing has changed. Sure, the idiosyncrasies are still charming; their odd taste in music, their slapdash approach, and they do make a good cuppa. But something’s just not right.

I flinched as I watched the long, worrying sausage delivered to the table ahead and tried to steady my trembling hand. When our food eventually showed my toast was white, not brown, the tomato a no-show, and the greasy mushrooms contenders for the National Trust’s ‘ugliest vegetable’ competition. His bacon appeared thick as gammon, our eggs the wrong way round. The pitiful reason? That poached are made on the other side of the kitchen to everything else. Beaten and soiled, we could do nothing but pay our bill and limp back off into the bleak Hackney day.