Elbows Café, Hackney

Elbows Café
Victoria Park
103 Lauriston Road
Hackney
E9
020 8986 2466

by Cathy Latte

I’ve awoken with a peculiar desire for vigorous exercise. I flop out of bed and off to the gym.

The thick-necked demonic woman on the rowing machine is very distracting, I have a vision of her pulsing calf vein leaping out and exploding on the wall. I feel a bit ill. Maybe I got up too fast. I plan breakfast to take my mind of it.

With a renewed zest Peggy Bread and I bound into Elbows taking our seats in big wicker chairs, the kind Cheshire housewives choose for their conservatories. They sit a little awkwardly not quite under the table, but that’s ok. Peg orders scrambled eggs and ham, the same for me but with veg. The breakfast menu’s not extensive and if you don’t like eggs then you’re a bit screwed. But there’s something virtuous about Elbows; not being surrounded by beer infused saturate cravers for a start, where toast’s served drizzled with olive oil not dripping with butter, where children guzzle nutrient soaked snacks. And it’s not that pricey either.

Food arrives and I’m about to tuck in when Peggy trumpets proudly “It’s a sprout!” As I turn she almost takes out my right eye with the impaled fork she’s waggling wildly around. Peggy, daughter of a Major is doing a marvellous impression of a flag waving, arsenal capturing lieutenant. But by darn it the girl’s right. Our fluffy eggs are punctuated with all manner of greens: sprouts, courgettes, spinach, pepper, peas. I know what you’re thinking. Sprouts and peas? And at breakfast? It should make no sense, but by golly it does, and I don’t even like sprouts. I don’t know what sauce they put on the accompanying salad but it tastes bloody great.

My oh my, what a saintly morning, I think, collating a nice big forkful of vegetation.

The Gate, Newington Green

The Gate
11 Albion Rd
Newington Green
N16
020 7923 9227

by Mama Lade

Ah, the joys of global warming. They tell me it's November, but we walked to the Gate café through sunbeams thick enough to make you fall in love. Hardly a challenge round here; Newington Green is brimming with young couples. Shell-shocked by the trench warfare of house-buying, they cling to each other a little desperately, hoping it will all be worth it. This cocktail of climate change and financially precarious romance must be what keeps the Gate busy; the befuddled locals don't notice the food. But Papa Lade and I are clear-eyed. After all we are renting, and love breakfast more than each other.

He chose the Full English (as he always does) announcing he wasn't going to eat it all so he wouldn't feel sick (as he also always does). It will surprise no-one that this plan failed, but this was due to the hunger of a hangover, not the quality of the breakfast, which was decidedly average. Actually, the bacon was quite good, but I wasn't feeling charitable. This is why: overcooked scrambled egg on dry bread that had never known the touch of butter. Lonely strips of smoked salmon huddled in the shadow of tasteless tomatoes beyond even the help of salt. An utterly pointless dusting of gritty herbs around the edge of the plate. Tinned pineapple in the "fresh" fruit salad. And a bill just shy of £30. Oh, the wanton abuse of innocents too terrified by interest rates to notice what's on their forks. But the atmosphere was oddly upbeat. The sun seemed to remind everyone of a time when they didn't know what subsidence was. Even Papa Lade, feeling sick, with HP on his nose, looked surprisingly loveable. The Gate, I realised, has its charms. But food is not one of them.

Starbucks, Anywhere

Starbucks
Anywhere

by H.P. Seuss

I fucking love Starbucks. Say it proud! I fucking love Starbucks and what they have done to coffee drinking in this country. It's fucking great.

Gone are the days of tepid brown piss in a cup. Gone are the days of Nescafé. Fling open that door. Bowl up to the counter. Say: "Get me a venti extra-hot soya milk toffee-nut latte, no cream, extra sprinkles". Say it with conviction and say it with pride. Don't obfuscate. Don't pretend you don't understand the ordering system. Don't be all bashful and go "I just want a cup of coffee". (If you just want a cup of kawffee, you schmuck, you have two choices: filter or Americano. Don't say you don't know what filter coffee is. Americano is espresso plus however much hot water you ask for, you complete dickhead. If you're so offended by global captialism in action, ask for fair-trade coffee. Your friendly barista will be happy to oblige, you lily-livered liberal gimp).

Don't give me that jive about the nice Italian café round the corner. They had it coming. Go to Starbucks instead. Better still go to Starbucks in Borders. Don't give me that jazz about that charming second-hand book store across the street, either. Go to Borders, take whatever magazines you want off the shelves - Heat, Horse & Hound, Home Pornographer, I don't give a shit - and take them all to the in-store Starbucks, where you can peruse them to your heart's content for the price of an eggnog frappuccino. Fetch some books. Bone up on free markets. Read a poem. Meet a friend. Share a skinny choc-chip muffin. Dust it with nutmeg. Buy a pouch of House Blend to brew at home. Plug in your laptop. Turn Starbucks into your office - rent: one latte every two hours. Just don't, whatever you do, order the egg and bacon roll. It tastes like shit.

Special Dispatch: The Breakfasts of Oxford (Part 2: The Rose Tea Rooms, Jericho Café, Queen's Lane Coffee House)

The Rose Tea Rooms
51 High Street
Oxford
OX1
01865 244429

Jericho Café
112 Walton Street
Oxford
OX2
01865 310840

Queen's Lane Coffee House
40 High Street
Oxford
OX1
01865 240082

by H.P. Seuss

"Lawks a Mercy!" I cried about waking. For it was late! "Hasten yourself, My Lady," I said, "it is nearly noon."

But whether through her natural langour or a mischievous desire to fluster me, My Lady did not hasten herself. She toiled over her toilet; she dithered over dressing; she would not be abduced from her ablutions. I was champing to go! And was suffering forty seven minutes later when we left for the Grand Café and My Lady impertinently and seriously suggested that I ought to congratulate her on the speed of her dressing.

Ah, the Grand Café! It has the aspect of a Viennese coffee-house: brassy, elegant and expensive enough to keep out the rubbish. We like their cakes, we like their teas, and I have had my eye on their breakfast menu for a long time. We burst in on the golden scene, whereupon the doorman regretted to inform us that breakfast was no longer being served. The door-chime tinkled mockingly in the hollow of my headache as we moped out.

I was upset. However, My Lady, observing my fallen crest, suggested we sally to the Rose, where, with any luck they would still be serving breakfast at a quarter past twelve, and if not, they do a very servicable omelette on the luncheon menu. We had no such luck (I even brandished Mr Eggs' letter of introduction - nothing doing). We plumped for the omelette.

My Lady is as good as her word and her word is good; my "brunch" was suitably eggy and, at my behest, bacony and mushroomy. Service was not strong; three Slav flapped ineffectually around seven tables. The coffee was good. But so-so, in all. "My Lady", I said, as she wiped a chive from my chin, "tomorrow we are up with the lark".

But blow me if the same precidament didn't befall us the very next morning. The Grand Café again tinkled a "no". But it's only one minute past noon! "Even so". A little death.

But I had a brainwave. I led My Lady past the noon cut-off joints to Jericho, where the doughty owner of the eponymous café responded to my query emphatically: "Why wouldn't we be serving breakfast?" Quite so! A full plate (vigorous sausage, fascinating beans) was downed in a happy hubbub. Jericho Café is, I remembered from my student days, a marvel: always festively busy, yet always obliging with a cosy cranny.

No time for fry the following morning - My Lady and I had to dash for the London stagecoach. Queen's Lane Coffee House, however, obliged me with two slices of Marmite on toast which were so delicious that I was inspired to purchase the same in London, and was disappointed. Will I commend QLCH on the basis of their Marmite? Emphatically yes. It was only My Lady's peculiar prejudice against the admittedly rather studenty place that kept us thence the day before, actually.

In sum, breakfast (like education) in Oxford is high-quality, though inaccessible. It is a city of frustrations and rewards. It is also, as I remarked to My Lady on the Hackney turnpike, pondering the Grand Café, a city of unfinished business.

To be continued...?

The Uplands Cafe, East Dulwich

The Uplands Cafe
21 Upland Road
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 3948

by Tina Beans

There is nothing quite like being caught in the crossfire of a bar brawl to make a girl need a hearty breakfast. After all, it’s not every Friday night that two grown men decide to fall on your head mid-fight. Waking up a bit dazed, I made my way to the Upland Cafe in an attempt to cleanse my soul and fill my belly. This cafe has had a revamp in recent times and it would be hard to describe here the full oddity of the previous establishment, then called Café Ideal. I’m no psychic, but the vibes were definitely all wrong.

It is now a bright and airy place, with very friendly and welcoming staff. A nice man took our order using an impressive breakfast shorthand – BWD anyone? I could feel my strength slowly returning as we sat down to wait.

Already encouraged by the quality of the condiments (they were Heinz and HP), I was happy to receive buttery fresh mushrooms and a perfectly cooked egg. The bacon was crispy as requested, the pieces generous. But what made this breakfast great was the sausage, my favourite breakfast ingredient. Well cooked, this banger was herby – but not in a poncey way. Which sums it up, really – if you’re sick of dressed up, bourgeois breakfasts that don’t deliver then you will like this place. You won’t find herbs in your scrambled eggs, but you will find all the expected cooked well. Oh, and if you really are too battered from the night before, they do anything you like to take away.

Finally, seeing the aforementioned nice man hand out free lollypops to all the kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?

Special Dispatch: The Breakfasts of Oxford (Part 1: Quod, Old Parsonage, Malmaison)

Quod
Old Bank Hotel
92-94 High Street
Oxford
OX1
01865 202 505

Old Parsonage
1 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2
01865 310 210

Malmaison
3 Oxford Castle
Oxford
OX1
01865 268 400

by H.P. Seuss

Dusk blackened into night as we crossed the turnpike on the Oxford Road, My Lady and I, and lurched into that sweet city with her dreaming spires for the first stage of our breakfast tour. A thin mist whispered down High-street, the stillness of the scene rent only by the gay cries of romping scholars. We alighted at the Old Bank. I presented Malcolm Eggs' letter of introduction and nimble footmen sprang to relieve us of our luggage and usher us to our lodgings.

We slept soundly.

Upon waking next morning about daylight, I flung open our window to be greeted by the bracing sight of Radcliffe's Camera, Bodelian's Library and All Souls college thrusting their erect turrets into the blue of the blushing sky. That first speech of old Prof. Neuss returned to me. "Seuss", said he, pink of cheek, wide of eye, "I should like to prise apart the buttocks of your ignorance and roger you with my knob of knowledge". I was a shy milquetoast then! I attempted to convey my exuberance to My Lady with a similar metaphor; she kneed me in the balls.

Breakfast was, nonetheless, a happy affair. In the cavernous, contemporary space of the Quod Brasserie (venue of choice for hungry under-grads cadging a steak-frites off visiting parents), we enjoyed an upmarket English assembly. The blood pudding was nicely pungent; the mushrooms had thrived on the chargrill; so endearing were the bacon and sausage that I fancied Mr Gloucester Old Spot (whence they came) was a dear old friend. My Lady, who like the Hindoo forgoes meat, was in raptures over her tomatoes. The coffee was rich and the orange juice fresh. Breakfast here is dear, but like My Lady, worth it.

After an agreeable day of gentle study and bracing walks, we repaired to the Old Parsonage. I know, reader, that you tire of these "sub-literary" linking bits, so I shall cut to the quick. The breakfast menu is the same as at Quod, though the country hotel décor presents a mellow contrast: wood fire, oils, a stuffed pike &c, &c. The company, too differs: we shared the room with an antique mystery lady, who read the Financial Times with a magnifying glass. We enjoyed fresh berries and muesli from the Continental table before My Lady delved into creamy scrambled eggs and tomatoes, and I busied myself with robust poached eggs and Mr Old Spot's hind quarters.

I was most impressed, incidentally, with the "can do" spirit of the head waiter when I alarmed him with a request for Soya milk. On such application are Empires founded.

We took our breakfast no. 3 at Malmaison, a converted gaol in the grounds of the ancient Oxford Castle. All is shiny and sensual, comfortable and contemporary. The eggs benedict was a decadent treat, while service was professional and personable. However, more consistency in the Continental spread would have been appreciated. Rye bread: good. Preponderance of pineapple among the fresh fruit: bad. Tropical fruit is very discombobulating first thing, as I found out to my peril later in the day.

To be continued...

Broadway Cafe, Hackney

Broadway Cafe
58 Broadway Market
Hackney
E8
020 7684 1651

By Des Ayuno

The fact that your correspondent lives only metres from Broadway Cafe failed to make it a more appealing venue for a recent Saturday breakfast than bed (set menu: Berocca and extra-strength painkillers). Nevertheless, Joel the chef dragged me out, delivering a rousing speech about endurance and fortitude with the sincerity that only a man accustomed to 5am encounters with an industrial freezer-full of economy sausages could muster.

We’d long admired its window-dressing of neon starburst signs advertising over-apostrophed creations. A delicate tummy and suspicion of the quality of meat on offer (“Sausage Roll’s 70p”) left me with cowardly egg's and bean's on two toast's. But Joel’s bounteous plate contained virtually every breakfast item known to humanity, piled into a pyramid on an enormous foundation of bubble. Thick, smoky bacon, crispy-soft black pudding and tomatoes grilled to the point of collapse jostled for space with a pair of fried eggs blessed with yolks so pert and wobbly they could have starred in that Sun ad off the telly. With the exception of the long, skinny, orange Franken-sausages, each element was a model of its type. Plus, in a carbohydrate explosion, he got toast, white crusty bread, chips, hash browns and a fried slice.

The chef’s exacting standards were more than met. The super-strong tea alone made my visit worthwhile. The clientele included four paint-covered blokes with not much hair, a Dot Cotton-alike lighting a fag with a shaky hand, a quiet thirtysomething perusing his vinyl purchases, an organic vegetable-laden, Camper-shod young couple with baby, and us. We ignored our mild discomfort at being part of the latter, gentrifying party, rather than the former, local one, and ordered more tea. And after all the weather was ideal. We could not have had a more perfect day for breakfast if we had ordered it.