Gracelands
118 College Rd
Kensal Green
NW10
020 8964 9161
www.gracelandscafe.com
Breakfast served: Monday - Friday 8.30am - 4pm, Saturday 9am - 4pm, Sunday 9.30am - 3pm
by Armand Croissant
Toddlers engage in vituperative yells. Flustered parents who work in the media ignore them. The noise! It is not the best place for a hangover. Everything is bright. So bright! I don’t want to buy t-shirts made by locals. I don’t want to use blue plastic mugs. I don’t want to come to a massage session. Where would you lie down? On the tables? I don't think I want to be pummelled by any of the six-foot-tall muscular staff. And why do you have to queue to order when all any sensible breakfaster wants to do is sit down and guzzle water until the food comes? Your correspondent is tempted to leave. And yet… is that elegant memoirist Lady Liza Campbell in the corner, deep in conversation with up and coming novelist Philip Womack? Is that gremlin-like journo-cum-playwright Toby Young besieged by small creatures that appear to be his children? Is that actress Tamsin Greig looking bohemian and graceful in the corner? Have I stumbled into the Groucho of Kensal Rise?
What could it be that these people find here? The service is chaotic – but at least friendly. My food is hawked round several tables and I have mentally murdered several munchkins before it arrives - but what a pleasure when it does. Eggs are runny of yolk and crispy of edge; the toast is little slivers of buttered perfection; the bacon clumped with a glueyness of baked beans is like a remnant from some medieval feast – primal and hearty. It almost goes without saying that the almond croissant is fluffy, light, creamy and sprightly like a young boulevardier taking his first walk on a spring morning in Paris, arm-in-arm with a flighty young filly who won’t go further than a kiss.
One can forgive the wait. And the toddlers - they’ll grow up soon. The food’s worth it. I'll bide my time.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Leo's Café and Restaurant, Dalston
Leo's Café and Restaurant
12 Stoke Newington Road
Dalston
N16
020 7254 5952
by Megan Bacon
There is no middle ground at Leo's. Everyone is either happy or sad, insane or fashionable, young or old. We choose to feed our hangovers at this no-frills Dalston greasy spoon because it shares its name with Leo Johnson, one of our favourite characters in Twin Peaks. You know, the one who beat his waitress wife with a soap-in-a-sock. (Hopefully no such thing occurs in the backrooms of Leo's: the staff are so lovely that it must mask some inner darkness.)
We sit ourselves at a table by the window, in a prime location to be tutted over by Leo's very own Statler and Waldorf (from ‘The Muppets’), two old grumpy hecklers who point and bitch in the direction of anyone who walks through the door. In one corner, a lone man cackles over his mad breakfast of plain toast and Coke. A group of suited young men eat chicken and rice, whispering suspiciously to each other. Two semi-famous indie band members wolf down their food with some bird off the telly, who talks loudly about celebrities she has met.
By the time our food arrives, our heads are practically spinning. The coffee is more like a coffee-flavoured milkshake, three-quarters milk, the rest sugar. Delicious. The Set Meal 1 has everything. There’s a perfectly gloopy fried egg, basic beans, subtle tomatoes, a sausage that tastes a bit cheap, but in a good way - but the star is the bacon: tender but crispy and dreamily salty. Suddenly, the sun shines through the window, as bright and yellow as an egg yolk. The telly bird has left. Even Statler and Waldorf flash me a smile. Leo's breakfast won't win any prizes, but surely this is what happiness is all about.
12 Stoke Newington Road
Dalston
N16
020 7254 5952
by Megan Bacon
There is no middle ground at Leo's. Everyone is either happy or sad, insane or fashionable, young or old. We choose to feed our hangovers at this no-frills Dalston greasy spoon because it shares its name with Leo Johnson, one of our favourite characters in Twin Peaks. You know, the one who beat his waitress wife with a soap-in-a-sock. (Hopefully no such thing occurs in the backrooms of Leo's: the staff are so lovely that it must mask some inner darkness.)
We sit ourselves at a table by the window, in a prime location to be tutted over by Leo's very own Statler and Waldorf (from ‘The Muppets’), two old grumpy hecklers who point and bitch in the direction of anyone who walks through the door. In one corner, a lone man cackles over his mad breakfast of plain toast and Coke. A group of suited young men eat chicken and rice, whispering suspiciously to each other. Two semi-famous indie band members wolf down their food with some bird off the telly, who talks loudly about celebrities she has met.
By the time our food arrives, our heads are practically spinning. The coffee is more like a coffee-flavoured milkshake, three-quarters milk, the rest sugar. Delicious. The Set Meal 1 has everything. There’s a perfectly gloopy fried egg, basic beans, subtle tomatoes, a sausage that tastes a bit cheap, but in a good way - but the star is the bacon: tender but crispy and dreamily salty. Suddenly, the sun shines through the window, as bright and yellow as an egg yolk. The telly bird has left. Even Statler and Waldorf flash me a smile. Leo's breakfast won't win any prizes, but surely this is what happiness is all about.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
La Vie en Rose, Hackney
La Vie en Rose
2 Broadway Market
Hackney
E8
08710 751 155
by Des Ayuno
I was sharpening my teeth in anticipation of a visit to La Vie en Rose. Despite being able to tap into its free wireless from my bedroom, I’d never been, disgusted by both its history and the pest-control vans parked outside last January. Still, its reputation for moral and culinary decay promised an entertainingly spiteful review.
My dining companion, probably the only local who admits to liking the place, managed just a few bites of her toast. I plumped for the full (“House”) breakfast, which tasted like a well-intentioned but confused maman’s desperately cobbled-together meal for her hungover British exchange-student guest. Scrambled eggs were the highlight of the visit, equal parts egg and double cream, cooked in their own weight in butter. Toast made of cheap sliced white and brown, tolerable mushrooms, a solitary sausage and vile bacon rounded off England’s Sunday morning five-a-side. Playing from right to left for la France were a nice-ish rosemary-infused ratatouille and a sort of ploughman’s via the Languedoc: nasty, warm cheddar, two kinds of jamon, both horrid, and a spoonful of onion confit. Requested tomato ketchup was brought promptly, but with a raised eyebrow.
At £8 including a nice strong tea, it wasn’t terrible value. Professional service was dispensed by sufficiently handsome garçons. But though my money and time were sacrificed purely to warn you away, dear reader, I still felt like crying when I handed over the cash. There were queues out the door all day, as there always are. Each credit card-receipt signature they collect may as well be added to an ever-lengthening statement reading, “I hereby endorse your mercenary, shameless and and allegedly illegal ‘management’ of council property and related ‘Make Poor People History’ campaign”, and posted to Jules Pipe. We can only hope the local kids firebomb the place.
2 Broadway Market
Hackney
E8
08710 751 155
by Des Ayuno
I was sharpening my teeth in anticipation of a visit to La Vie en Rose. Despite being able to tap into its free wireless from my bedroom, I’d never been, disgusted by both its history and the pest-control vans parked outside last January. Still, its reputation for moral and culinary decay promised an entertainingly spiteful review.
My dining companion, probably the only local who admits to liking the place, managed just a few bites of her toast. I plumped for the full (“House”) breakfast, which tasted like a well-intentioned but confused maman’s desperately cobbled-together meal for her hungover British exchange-student guest. Scrambled eggs were the highlight of the visit, equal parts egg and double cream, cooked in their own weight in butter. Toast made of cheap sliced white and brown, tolerable mushrooms, a solitary sausage and vile bacon rounded off England’s Sunday morning five-a-side. Playing from right to left for la France were a nice-ish rosemary-infused ratatouille and a sort of ploughman’s via the Languedoc: nasty, warm cheddar, two kinds of jamon, both horrid, and a spoonful of onion confit. Requested tomato ketchup was brought promptly, but with a raised eyebrow.
At £8 including a nice strong tea, it wasn’t terrible value. Professional service was dispensed by sufficiently handsome garçons. But though my money and time were sacrificed purely to warn you away, dear reader, I still felt like crying when I handed over the cash. There were queues out the door all day, as there always are. Each credit card-receipt signature they collect may as well be added to an ever-lengthening statement reading, “I hereby endorse your mercenary, shameless and and allegedly illegal ‘management’ of council property and related ‘Make Poor People History’ campaign”, and posted to Jules Pipe. We can only hope the local kids firebomb the place.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Café Express, King's Cross
Café Express
139 King's Cross Rd
King's Cross
WC1X
020 7278 1535
by Mabel Syrup
Oh the anger! The rage! The long deep plunge of disappointment on discovering my favourite haven of breakfast is dark and apologetic on a Friday morning. Konstam, how could you let me down so? My fingers and toes are crossed that your refurbishment will not destroy your much loved atmosphere.
But where to now? Many a time have I danced past the doors of the Café Express in anticipation of a Konstam, scoffing at those who didn’t know what they were missing. But now it is my turn to sample their wares and my companion and I slink into our chairs and peruse the extensive breakfast menu. The options are mainly all the same, differing only in number of eggs or rashers. We both plump for the Full English (two eggs, two rashers, toast and marmalade, juice and tea or coffee for £4.80).
This is a normal caff, done up with what might have appeared to those who chose it as classy, but ended up soulless, the equivalent of what happens to a well-loved old man’s pub given the ‘gastro’ treatment. Except the food is the same as it always was: proper caff food. The eggs are cooked perfectly and drip off my chin in a very unprofessional manner as we get through our agenda. The bacon's not crispy as is my preference but cooked on both sides and the right amount of salty. The toast is made of sliced, bagged bread and the marmalade is the individual packet stuff that tastes of washing up liquid.
Should you be in a similar situation, I would suggest walking up towards Farringdon rather than staying here. That’s not to say it was bad, it just wasn’t special. Unless you count the smell downstairs in the toilets that smacked of poor – or rather no – aeration. That was special.
139 King's Cross Rd
King's Cross
WC1X
020 7278 1535
by Mabel Syrup
Oh the anger! The rage! The long deep plunge of disappointment on discovering my favourite haven of breakfast is dark and apologetic on a Friday morning. Konstam, how could you let me down so? My fingers and toes are crossed that your refurbishment will not destroy your much loved atmosphere.
But where to now? Many a time have I danced past the doors of the Café Express in anticipation of a Konstam, scoffing at those who didn’t know what they were missing. But now it is my turn to sample their wares and my companion and I slink into our chairs and peruse the extensive breakfast menu. The options are mainly all the same, differing only in number of eggs or rashers. We both plump for the Full English (two eggs, two rashers, toast and marmalade, juice and tea or coffee for £4.80).
This is a normal caff, done up with what might have appeared to those who chose it as classy, but ended up soulless, the equivalent of what happens to a well-loved old man’s pub given the ‘gastro’ treatment. Except the food is the same as it always was: proper caff food. The eggs are cooked perfectly and drip off my chin in a very unprofessional manner as we get through our agenda. The bacon's not crispy as is my preference but cooked on both sides and the right amount of salty. The toast is made of sliced, bagged bread and the marmalade is the individual packet stuff that tastes of washing up liquid.
Should you be in a similar situation, I would suggest walking up towards Farringdon rather than staying here. That’s not to say it was bad, it just wasn’t special. Unless you count the smell downstairs in the toilets that smacked of poor – or rather no – aeration. That was special.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Special Dispatch: Woolverton House Hotel, Woolverton
Woolverton House Hotel
Woolverton (near Bath)
BA2 7QS
01373 830 415
by Des Ayuno
It wasn’t the most enjoyable of country escapes. A work trip with the new assistant necessitated more hesitant, inane chat and awkward silences in two days than one hopes to have to endure in a year. On day two, sitting in painful, high-backed chairs in the otherwise deserted hotel conservatory, we pondered a short menu that nevertheless seemed to lack the hearty, traditional option we craved. I asked the nervy waitress and she pointed tremblingly to the bottom: “Eggs on Toast with…” followed by a list of extras, in five-point type. “We thought no one will want everything, will they?” she quavered. I shrugged and asked for, yes, everything. Times two.
Slowly the table filled up with teapots, plates, cups and saucers, all made of china that felt like scratching a blackboard. Too-little red and brown came in fussy ramekins on serviette-lined plates with their own tiny spoons, as did communal, lukewarm beans. The food was generous enough in quantity but bafflingly variable in quality. Tomatoes were pink and raw, but fried eggs were perfection, simultaneously crispy-edged and golden-gooey-centred, and mushrooms wonderfully woodsy and rich, as though prepared by the gentle hand of Carluccio himself. Hard bacon tasted of sad-faced piggies in confined spaces but knobbly, herby sausages suggested a fine local source. Blinded by heaps of white china and too-bright lights, we prodded in silence. Then suddenly the toast made its red carpet-worthy appearance – piping-hot doorstop wedges both white and brown, enough to feed an army and swathed magnificently in metres of white linen. The butter was revealed to be unsalted and the atmosphere became nearly festive. We relaxed, poured some more tea and read snippets aloud from the complimentary Telegraph, laughing with a crisp, clear morning jollity that so often eludes one back in London.
Woolverton (near Bath)
BA2 7QS
01373 830 415
by Des Ayuno
It wasn’t the most enjoyable of country escapes. A work trip with the new assistant necessitated more hesitant, inane chat and awkward silences in two days than one hopes to have to endure in a year. On day two, sitting in painful, high-backed chairs in the otherwise deserted hotel conservatory, we pondered a short menu that nevertheless seemed to lack the hearty, traditional option we craved. I asked the nervy waitress and she pointed tremblingly to the bottom: “Eggs on Toast with…” followed by a list of extras, in five-point type. “We thought no one will want everything, will they?” she quavered. I shrugged and asked for, yes, everything. Times two.
Slowly the table filled up with teapots, plates, cups and saucers, all made of china that felt like scratching a blackboard. Too-little red and brown came in fussy ramekins on serviette-lined plates with their own tiny spoons, as did communal, lukewarm beans. The food was generous enough in quantity but bafflingly variable in quality. Tomatoes were pink and raw, but fried eggs were perfection, simultaneously crispy-edged and golden-gooey-centred, and mushrooms wonderfully woodsy and rich, as though prepared by the gentle hand of Carluccio himself. Hard bacon tasted of sad-faced piggies in confined spaces but knobbly, herby sausages suggested a fine local source. Blinded by heaps of white china and too-bright lights, we prodded in silence. Then suddenly the toast made its red carpet-worthy appearance – piping-hot doorstop wedges both white and brown, enough to feed an army and swathed magnificently in metres of white linen. The butter was revealed to be unsalted and the atmosphere became nearly festive. We relaxed, poured some more tea and read snippets aloud from the complimentary Telegraph, laughing with a crisp, clear morning jollity that so often eludes one back in London.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
La Fromagerie, Marylebone
La Fromagerie
2 - 4 Moxon St
Marylebone
W1U
020 7935 0341
www.lafromagerie.co.uk
by Armand Croissant
Feed me, O muse of breakfasts, with your nutritious inspiration. I do not mind that your sisters, who do not like you because you can eat anything and still fit into your toga and attract knowing glances from Apollo, are ignoring me.
Sing of cheese and fish, and other items not strange to the well-tended breakfast table. Sing of the dense, ripe, rich smells that pile up in the abundance of La Fromagerie, on a quiet weekday morning in Marylebone. Black-clad acolytes, silent, smiling, flit around a long, low table made from a sacred oak. Initiates, well-dressed ladies, bohemians, sit around it, murmuring of subjects unknown to lesser beings: they talk of yoga, of painting, and the three-forty five back to Berkshire.
A white pot of tea, a teabag peeping lasciviously from out of its lid, is placed before me; it tastes of the smoke of incense, refreshing, pious. We order the sacraments: I wonder, briefly, whether we will be offered the mysterious, vision inducing mushrooms of the Eleusinian mysteries. We are, instead, offered bread. I have gravadlax and poilane cheese – eating the thin, sexy slices mixed with the creamy, mystical lactate is an action close to ecstasy, the crispness of toast rounding it off prosaically but nicely. Dark-eyed Katerina has the Swiss Farmhouse breakfast – cured meats of distinction, apple, and a soft cheese, which I sample when she is not looking, and pronounce excellent.
Afterwards, we browse in the shop, and I am persuaded to buy a chunk of truffle brie – a cheese so delicious, so light, so exciting, that it is like constantly eating chocolate and not feeling sick. Too soon I have to leave, my song is over, and back in the bustling highways I thank the muse of breakfasts for such a haven.
2 - 4 Moxon St
Marylebone
W1U
020 7935 0341
www.lafromagerie.co.uk
by Armand Croissant
Feed me, O muse of breakfasts, with your nutritious inspiration. I do not mind that your sisters, who do not like you because you can eat anything and still fit into your toga and attract knowing glances from Apollo, are ignoring me.
Sing of cheese and fish, and other items not strange to the well-tended breakfast table. Sing of the dense, ripe, rich smells that pile up in the abundance of La Fromagerie, on a quiet weekday morning in Marylebone. Black-clad acolytes, silent, smiling, flit around a long, low table made from a sacred oak. Initiates, well-dressed ladies, bohemians, sit around it, murmuring of subjects unknown to lesser beings: they talk of yoga, of painting, and the three-forty five back to Berkshire.
A white pot of tea, a teabag peeping lasciviously from out of its lid, is placed before me; it tastes of the smoke of incense, refreshing, pious. We order the sacraments: I wonder, briefly, whether we will be offered the mysterious, vision inducing mushrooms of the Eleusinian mysteries. We are, instead, offered bread. I have gravadlax and poilane cheese – eating the thin, sexy slices mixed with the creamy, mystical lactate is an action close to ecstasy, the crispness of toast rounding it off prosaically but nicely. Dark-eyed Katerina has the Swiss Farmhouse breakfast – cured meats of distinction, apple, and a soft cheese, which I sample when she is not looking, and pronounce excellent.
Afterwards, we browse in the shop, and I am persuaded to buy a chunk of truffle brie – a cheese so delicious, so light, so exciting, that it is like constantly eating chocolate and not feeling sick. Too soon I have to leave, my song is over, and back in the bustling highways I thank the muse of breakfasts for such a haven.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Bermondsey Kitchen, Bermondsey
The Bermondsey Kitchen
194 Bermondsey Street
Bermondsey
SE1
020 7407 5719
www.bermondseykitchen.co.uk
by H. P. Seuss
All too occasionally, a breakfast achieves such brilliance it inspires the reviewer not only to dispense with his usual post-modernisms, but to change the way he thinks about breakfast itself. So, Anonymous, you curmudgeonly turd, here are 300 words trained not on my own "suffering pretentiousness", but on an epiphanic plate set before Malcolm Eggs and me one Sunday in SE1. No jokes here.
We appeared to have missed the 2pm breakfast cut-off at the open plan Bermondsey Kitchen. The maitre d', gesturing to hysterical tables and frantic chefs in the kitchen theatre, promised us a long, unfulfilling wait. It was only my considerable charm that convinced him to accommodate us at all. Two Set Breakfasts (£9.15 each) ordered themselves.
Our wait was reasonable. The poached egg arrived pert and robust - unimpeachably fresh. The bacon, all four streaks, combined that malty sweetness we enjoy in the American rasher with the mature saltiness of its English cousin. The sausage had tangy, umami qualities. The mushroom was charred and chewy, the tomato zesty, and both were - correctly - supporting players.
The BK's main innovation is wilted spinach, which blankets their fried new potatoes (which tasted baked). I never thought something green might make such a convincing case for election to the "Magic Nine" cabal of ingredients. But get this: when properly steamed, spinach fulfills all the roles of beans (lubrication, freshening) with a few advantages (insulating the potatoes, aiding digestion) and none of their drawbacks (swamping, teeming). Its Florentine sympathies with egg are well-documented. But who knew bacon would so like its company? A velvety treat.
The maitre d' should not do his colleagues down; even given the lunchtime rush, his colleagues achieved casual, magical, moreish perfection.
194 Bermondsey Street
Bermondsey
SE1
020 7407 5719
www.bermondseykitchen.co.uk
by H. P. Seuss
All too occasionally, a breakfast achieves such brilliance it inspires the reviewer not only to dispense with his usual post-modernisms, but to change the way he thinks about breakfast itself. So, Anonymous, you curmudgeonly turd, here are 300 words trained not on my own "suffering pretentiousness", but on an epiphanic plate set before Malcolm Eggs and me one Sunday in SE1. No jokes here.
We appeared to have missed the 2pm breakfast cut-off at the open plan Bermondsey Kitchen. The maitre d', gesturing to hysterical tables and frantic chefs in the kitchen theatre, promised us a long, unfulfilling wait. It was only my considerable charm that convinced him to accommodate us at all. Two Set Breakfasts (£9.15 each) ordered themselves.
Our wait was reasonable. The poached egg arrived pert and robust - unimpeachably fresh. The bacon, all four streaks, combined that malty sweetness we enjoy in the American rasher with the mature saltiness of its English cousin. The sausage had tangy, umami qualities. The mushroom was charred and chewy, the tomato zesty, and both were - correctly - supporting players.
The BK's main innovation is wilted spinach, which blankets their fried new potatoes (which tasted baked). I never thought something green might make such a convincing case for election to the "Magic Nine" cabal of ingredients. But get this: when properly steamed, spinach fulfills all the roles of beans (lubrication, freshening) with a few advantages (insulating the potatoes, aiding digestion) and none of their drawbacks (swamping, teeming). Its Florentine sympathies with egg are well-documented. But who knew bacon would so like its company? A velvety treat.
The maitre d' should not do his colleagues down; even given the lunchtime rush, his colleagues achieved casual, magical, moreish perfection.
Friday, January 12, 2007
River Cafe, Fulham
River Cafe
1 Station Approach
Fulham (changed from Putney by popular demand)
SW6
by Blake Pudding
After years of denigrating South West London as a place populated by Henrys, Carolines or, worse still, Antipodeans, I have decided to embrace my inner Sloane. Perhaps it is my relationship with a young Putney lady or perhaps it is my advancing years but leafy, clean Putney is such a relief after “edgy” Whitechapel. I love being able to go out for a drink and not have people sneering at my shoes.
Alice suggested a trip to the famous River Café opposite Putney Bridge station (not to be confused with the Hammersmith restaurant that sells Italian peasant food to millionaire architects). Lovers of old cafes or just lovers in general will find much to admire here, including original tiling, mirrors, immaculate Formica and friendly bunch of Italians providing the service. One thing they won’t admire, however, is the food. I know this is a “classic caff”, so I am not expecting organic sausages or free range eggs, but when you order ham, egg and chips you expect a hearty piece of gammon, not that wafer thin stuff made from reformed pork product. I asked Alice what she thought of her sausage, she muttered that it looked “scary” and indeed it did. It looked like they had bought the worst sausage ever, deep-fried it twice, dropped it down the back of the fridge, fished it out a month later, reheated and then served it. It would be nice to assume that they were having an off day but food this bad suggests something rotten at the heart of this establishment.
1 Station Approach
Fulham (changed from Putney by popular demand)
SW6
by Blake Pudding
After years of denigrating South West London as a place populated by Henrys, Carolines or, worse still, Antipodeans, I have decided to embrace my inner Sloane. Perhaps it is my relationship with a young Putney lady or perhaps it is my advancing years but leafy, clean Putney is such a relief after “edgy” Whitechapel. I love being able to go out for a drink and not have people sneering at my shoes.
Alice suggested a trip to the famous River Café opposite Putney Bridge station (not to be confused with the Hammersmith restaurant that sells Italian peasant food to millionaire architects). Lovers of old cafes or just lovers in general will find much to admire here, including original tiling, mirrors, immaculate Formica and friendly bunch of Italians providing the service. One thing they won’t admire, however, is the food. I know this is a “classic caff”, so I am not expecting organic sausages or free range eggs, but when you order ham, egg and chips you expect a hearty piece of gammon, not that wafer thin stuff made from reformed pork product. I asked Alice what she thought of her sausage, she muttered that it looked “scary” and indeed it did. It looked like they had bought the worst sausage ever, deep-fried it twice, dropped it down the back of the fridge, fished it out a month later, reheated and then served it. It would be nice to assume that they were having an off day but food this bad suggests something rotten at the heart of this establishment.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Inflight Food Trolley, EasyJet
Inflight Food Trolley
EasyJet
From Barcelona to London Gatwick
www.easyjet.co.uk
by Mabel Syrup
I know what you’re thinking: who orders food of any kind on a low-budget airline? Please, allow me to explain. Having woken early and crept out of our apartment to let my sleeping friend lie I congratulated myself every step of the way as I found the metro unaided by map or man, struggled with the ticket barriers that would not let me through despite a freshly bought ticket, a situation masterfully overcome with a great deal of sign language (apparently I bought the wrong ticket, whatever). I proudly noted that I had arrived at Placa de Sants in good time, and was smiling serenely as I boarded the airport train from Platform 5. A very comfortable ride to end what had been a very thought provoking week in Barcelona. And what a beautiful view, I don’t remember the journey from the airport being so close to the coast.
No, hang on, it WASN’T. Don’t panic Mabel, you must just have been looking the wrong way. Snippets of overheard Catalonian conversation snuck around my brain for the next five minutes. Finally I got up the courage to question a friendly looking mother ‘Aeroport?’. The worried response I got back quickly confirmed my suspicions. ‘No, Valencia’. Oh God.
Four hours and some very expensive calls later I found myself in the airport with a new ticket, six hours to wait and a growling stomach. Breakfast appeared not to be an option and the pate and toast which usurped the last few cents I had was not sufficient to quell my misery. So there I was, suspended between the home of breakfasts and the home of paella, being offered a ‘Breakfast Panini’ for the best part of a five pound note. I know it was a mistake now and I knew it was a mistake then. But I did it. And I regret every tasteless soggy nondescript mouthful.
EasyJet
From Barcelona to London Gatwick
www.easyjet.co.uk
by Mabel Syrup
I know what you’re thinking: who orders food of any kind on a low-budget airline? Please, allow me to explain. Having woken early and crept out of our apartment to let my sleeping friend lie I congratulated myself every step of the way as I found the metro unaided by map or man, struggled with the ticket barriers that would not let me through despite a freshly bought ticket, a situation masterfully overcome with a great deal of sign language (apparently I bought the wrong ticket, whatever). I proudly noted that I had arrived at Placa de Sants in good time, and was smiling serenely as I boarded the airport train from Platform 5. A very comfortable ride to end what had been a very thought provoking week in Barcelona. And what a beautiful view, I don’t remember the journey from the airport being so close to the coast.
No, hang on, it WASN’T. Don’t panic Mabel, you must just have been looking the wrong way. Snippets of overheard Catalonian conversation snuck around my brain for the next five minutes. Finally I got up the courage to question a friendly looking mother ‘Aeroport?’. The worried response I got back quickly confirmed my suspicions. ‘No, Valencia’. Oh God.
Four hours and some very expensive calls later I found myself in the airport with a new ticket, six hours to wait and a growling stomach. Breakfast appeared not to be an option and the pate and toast which usurped the last few cents I had was not sufficient to quell my misery. So there I was, suspended between the home of breakfasts and the home of paella, being offered a ‘Breakfast Panini’ for the best part of a five pound note. I know it was a mistake now and I knew it was a mistake then. But I did it. And I regret every tasteless soggy nondescript mouthful.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Balans, Soho
Balans
60 Old Compton St
Soho
W1D
020 7439 2183
by Cathy Latte
Shaftsbury Avenue is flooded in brilliant sunlight and framed with a cobalt-blue sky. A girl's ponytail skims my cheek. I nuzzle down into my thick wool scarf and smile, as this is the kind of morning you don’t get where I’m from.
I find James on the kerb. He's fizzing with excitement because he's leaving for Japan tomorrow and doesn’t know if he’ll come back. He’s full of stories about temples and shrines, forests and sushi - I’m so bloody jealous. We’re off to Balans for his farewell breakfast.
My eggs benedict arrives, glowing amber and piping hot. I feel about five, and have to repress a desire to plunge my fat fingers into their fleshy heggispheres to make sunshine finger paintings. They look so much fun, like big yellow happy lumps, it’s a shame to just eat them. James has an interesting approach to his toppling pancake tower, like that of a Jenga master. Apparently it tastes divine. The succulent fruit, dusted with icing, is goo-ed onto the pancakes with rich sticky maple syrup.
We're loving Balans and it’s only made better by the service. Our waitress strikes the perfect balance of sparkly charm and eye catchability and she never, ever outstays her welcome. A little gripe (and purely my own deep-rooted issue, a hangover of a misspent youth), but I have a thing about black tabletops - and Balans have black marble ones. They remind me of that black ash furniture you get in adolescent boys bedrooms. I could almost smell the Blue Stratos hair mousse. But you know what? Even that kind of works.
I don’t know if James will come back to London. I hope he will. But me, I’ll be back in Balans as there are another 23 (23!) breakfast options to try.
60 Old Compton St
Soho
W1D
020 7439 2183
by Cathy Latte
Shaftsbury Avenue is flooded in brilliant sunlight and framed with a cobalt-blue sky. A girl's ponytail skims my cheek. I nuzzle down into my thick wool scarf and smile, as this is the kind of morning you don’t get where I’m from.
I find James on the kerb. He's fizzing with excitement because he's leaving for Japan tomorrow and doesn’t know if he’ll come back. He’s full of stories about temples and shrines, forests and sushi - I’m so bloody jealous. We’re off to Balans for his farewell breakfast.
My eggs benedict arrives, glowing amber and piping hot. I feel about five, and have to repress a desire to plunge my fat fingers into their fleshy heggispheres to make sunshine finger paintings. They look so much fun, like big yellow happy lumps, it’s a shame to just eat them. James has an interesting approach to his toppling pancake tower, like that of a Jenga master. Apparently it tastes divine. The succulent fruit, dusted with icing, is goo-ed onto the pancakes with rich sticky maple syrup.
We're loving Balans and it’s only made better by the service. Our waitress strikes the perfect balance of sparkly charm and eye catchability and she never, ever outstays her welcome. A little gripe (and purely my own deep-rooted issue, a hangover of a misspent youth), but I have a thing about black tabletops - and Balans have black marble ones. They remind me of that black ash furniture you get in adolescent boys bedrooms. I could almost smell the Blue Stratos hair mousse. But you know what? Even that kind of works.
I don’t know if James will come back to London. I hope he will. But me, I’ll be back in Balans as there are another 23 (23!) breakfast options to try.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Special Dispatch: Fire Bar and Bistro, Mawgan Porth, Newquay, Cornwall
Fire Bar and Bistro
Mawgan Porth
Newquay
TR8 4BA
01637 860 372
by Eggmund Hillary
If ever a breakfast was in need of being ‘comfort food’, this was it. After a six-hour drive from deepest Brixton to the heart of Cornwall, we arrived just before sunset at a beach with perfect waves breaking, one after the glorious other. We opted to set up camp, have a leisurely dinner and rent our surf boards the next morning. However, the morning sea which confronted us bore an uncanny resemblance to a sheet of glass, a pancake, or a Belgian landscape: no ripple, no movement, no hope.
Thank heavens for the Fire Café. The friendly welcome, delicatessen-filled shelves and bright red and orange interior lightened our mood. We ordered two full English breakfasts (one veggie, one meatie) and settled down on their wooden-board terrace with delicious lattes plus Saturday papers. A large sign read ‘To whoever broke a glass bottle in the car park, you clearly have no children, and no morals’. As signs go, it made a change from our usual ‘Firearms incident outside McDonalds. Can you help? Call the Police on…’.
A waiter came out to check that we had ordered. Seeing my girlfriend he did a double take. He was in love, clearly. Totally smitten. Though not with her - it was her bright yellow VANS cap he was after. For the first of four times in all he placed his foot up high on our table to show off his “Cornish tartan’ VANS trainers.
The breakfast? Absolutely delicious. Eggs cooked to perfection, hash browns just the right side of crispy, wholesome buttered brown toast and veggie sausages that for once didn’t taste of peas and carrots that had been pre-masticated by a herd of cows. With a platter as comforting as this, even a lack of waves and the repetitive presence of a foot on the table were no distraction whatsoever.
Mawgan Porth
Newquay
TR8 4BA
01637 860 372
by Eggmund Hillary
If ever a breakfast was in need of being ‘comfort food’, this was it. After a six-hour drive from deepest Brixton to the heart of Cornwall, we arrived just before sunset at a beach with perfect waves breaking, one after the glorious other. We opted to set up camp, have a leisurely dinner and rent our surf boards the next morning. However, the morning sea which confronted us bore an uncanny resemblance to a sheet of glass, a pancake, or a Belgian landscape: no ripple, no movement, no hope.
Thank heavens for the Fire Café. The friendly welcome, delicatessen-filled shelves and bright red and orange interior lightened our mood. We ordered two full English breakfasts (one veggie, one meatie) and settled down on their wooden-board terrace with delicious lattes plus Saturday papers. A large sign read ‘To whoever broke a glass bottle in the car park, you clearly have no children, and no morals’. As signs go, it made a change from our usual ‘Firearms incident outside McDonalds. Can you help? Call the Police on…’.
A waiter came out to check that we had ordered. Seeing my girlfriend he did a double take. He was in love, clearly. Totally smitten. Though not with her - it was her bright yellow VANS cap he was after. For the first of four times in all he placed his foot up high on our table to show off his “Cornish tartan’ VANS trainers.
The breakfast? Absolutely delicious. Eggs cooked to perfection, hash browns just the right side of crispy, wholesome buttered brown toast and veggie sausages that for once didn’t taste of peas and carrots that had been pre-masticated by a herd of cows. With a platter as comforting as this, even a lack of waves and the repetitive presence of a foot on the table were no distraction whatsoever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)