Belle Epoque
37 Newington Green
Newington Green
N16
by Phil English
The average LRB correspondent strikes me as a stout and wholesome figure, the kind of chap or gal who starts the day with a breakfast that would sustain a Victorian infantryman on the march to Balaclava, Cawnpore or Rorke's Drift. The tendency on these pages is towards the more gut- and hangover-busting medleys of egg and porker; a menu policy to which, as my name suggests, I generally lend my full support.
The breakfast at Belle Epoque was not, however, your usual LRB plateful. The Victorian infantryman might have been able to teach a Frenchman a thing or two about bayoneting but, as is invariably the case, the French lead the field in starting the day with finesse.
In my humble opinion the fact that there is only one breakfast option available here speaks volumes for Gallic style and (justified) self-confidence. I would undoubtedly have erred and chosen something more robust had it been available. But, there was only "Le breakfast basket" - and it was an absolute triumph. Four slices of lightly toasted rustic-yet-refined French bread accompanied by delicious Beurre D'Isigny and Bonne Maman strawberry jam were ample for a Tuesday morning. There was also a generous measure of freshly squeezed orange juice and a large cappuccino soaring with cocoa-dusted foam. All this for £4.25 which, I think you'll agree, is an absolute steal in this city of two quid mochas and innocent smoothies.
The venue is a delight as well - light and spacious and airy, with a garden for brighter, less February-ish days. As you would expect there are also pastries and cakes; and you can even buy some quintessential French iron rations, such as asparagus in a jar and tinned cassoulet. There's French music on the stereo and the language itself being spoken by staff and customers. Frankly, who needs the Eurostar?
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
Mad Bishop & Bear, Paddington
Mad Bishop & Bear
Upper Concourse
Paddington Station
Praed St
Paddington
W2
by Egon Toast
First Great Western's insincere apologies bounce around the great shed, eventually mithering off into the vaulted ceiling. Left with half an hour to kill, my stomach suggests making friends with something warm. So up the escalators, past the mid-morning sushi trolls, into the eyrie. The Mad Bishop and Bear delivers West Country ales before you've even left west London, as well as traditional pubbe fayre, doubtlessly trucked in from a packing shed somewhere under the Westway. The all-dayer it is, then.
The plate is discus-ed onto the table. I look up: the waitress is already back by the bar. There will be no decent English mustard today.
To the dissection of the victuals. Dissection. Victuals. Do I mean entrails? God man, you're eating sausage, think of something else. The bacon, yes, that's safer. Oh no, wait. It's a floppy sheet of pig-fabric that tastes of margarine. No good either. Where else to seek succour? The beans, already coalescing, send roots down into the plate. This isn't going well.
Done 'over-easy', the egg's yolk wobbles beneath its albumen film. What does that remind me of? Oh god. My egg's got a cataract. More or less undeterred, I prise a piece of toast from under the carnage and poke at the hidden golden centre. The yolk emerges, warm and gloopy, clinging to the toast for comfort. Some joy at last!
The sausage isn’t so bad really is it? Let's have another try. Is that a hint of sage? Marjoram? It's a good thing, whatever it is. Ah, soggy tomato half, how can I have forsaken you? Good work, lad! Here we go! I'm almost sated, good heavens. Twenty minutes have passed – my train's in, and on time as well! How's about that then? Hooray!
Sometimes, enjoying the small things in life turns you into a complete idiot.
Upper Concourse
Paddington Station
Praed St
Paddington
W2
by Egon Toast
First Great Western's insincere apologies bounce around the great shed, eventually mithering off into the vaulted ceiling. Left with half an hour to kill, my stomach suggests making friends with something warm. So up the escalators, past the mid-morning sushi trolls, into the eyrie. The Mad Bishop and Bear delivers West Country ales before you've even left west London, as well as traditional pubbe fayre, doubtlessly trucked in from a packing shed somewhere under the Westway. The all-dayer it is, then.
The plate is discus-ed onto the table. I look up: the waitress is already back by the bar. There will be no decent English mustard today.
To the dissection of the victuals. Dissection. Victuals. Do I mean entrails? God man, you're eating sausage, think of something else. The bacon, yes, that's safer. Oh no, wait. It's a floppy sheet of pig-fabric that tastes of margarine. No good either. Where else to seek succour? The beans, already coalescing, send roots down into the plate. This isn't going well.
Done 'over-easy', the egg's yolk wobbles beneath its albumen film. What does that remind me of? Oh god. My egg's got a cataract. More or less undeterred, I prise a piece of toast from under the carnage and poke at the hidden golden centre. The yolk emerges, warm and gloopy, clinging to the toast for comfort. Some joy at last!
The sausage isn’t so bad really is it? Let's have another try. Is that a hint of sage? Marjoram? It's a good thing, whatever it is. Ah, soggy tomato half, how can I have forsaken you? Good work, lad! Here we go! I'm almost sated, good heavens. Twenty minutes have passed – my train's in, and on time as well! How's about that then? Hooray!
Sometimes, enjoying the small things in life turns you into a complete idiot.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Est Presso, Stansted Airport
Est Presso
International Departure Lounge
Stansted Airport
Essex
CM24
01279 681 400
by Des Ayuno
It was 6am at Stansted. With sunrise over an hour away, I determined to force my body into functionality. Once through security, the faint memory of a competently toasted bagel sent me clockwise, past Est Est Est, past the inevitable Wetherspoons, past the four bright-eyed, optimistic waiters of the Caviar House Seafood Bar, until somehow I arrived blearily back where I’d started. Round and round the miserable hamster-wheel of a terminal I dragged myself until outside Pret it hit me. That lonely source of edible airport food was at Luton. Never had World of Whiskies’ neon sign beckoned me so temptingly. With a sigh, I slunk into Frankie & Benny’s. The menu offered bagels. The heated glass case displayed what looked like roadkill sandwiched inside something whose very existence was an insult to Jews everywhere.
On to Est Presso next door. Not being a Sun reader, I don’t hold with puns before breakfast, but in desperation ordered a proper cappucino – easy on the milk, an unnecessary request in less sophisticated gaffs than this supposedly Italian chain – and an apricot danish. The youngster manning the coffee machine handed them over with a shit-eating grin. The weight of the paper cup instantly betrayed the presence of at least half a pint of sick-makingly lukewarm milk. The espresso could have been dishwater for all I could taste of it. The danish may have been acceptable had it not been served at fridge temperature. I could only take comfort in the fact that in order to attend a single brief meeting, I would pass through Bergamo airport twice in the next 15 hours, where anyone who served coffee like that would be sentenced to a state execution, if not stabbed to death with plastic spoons first by a mob of mortally offended Milanesi.
International Departure Lounge
Stansted Airport
Essex
CM24
01279 681 400
by Des Ayuno
It was 6am at Stansted. With sunrise over an hour away, I determined to force my body into functionality. Once through security, the faint memory of a competently toasted bagel sent me clockwise, past Est Est Est, past the inevitable Wetherspoons, past the four bright-eyed, optimistic waiters of the Caviar House Seafood Bar, until somehow I arrived blearily back where I’d started. Round and round the miserable hamster-wheel of a terminal I dragged myself until outside Pret it hit me. That lonely source of edible airport food was at Luton. Never had World of Whiskies’ neon sign beckoned me so temptingly. With a sigh, I slunk into Frankie & Benny’s. The menu offered bagels. The heated glass case displayed what looked like roadkill sandwiched inside something whose very existence was an insult to Jews everywhere.
On to Est Presso next door. Not being a Sun reader, I don’t hold with puns before breakfast, but in desperation ordered a proper cappucino – easy on the milk, an unnecessary request in less sophisticated gaffs than this supposedly Italian chain – and an apricot danish. The youngster manning the coffee machine handed them over with a shit-eating grin. The weight of the paper cup instantly betrayed the presence of at least half a pint of sick-makingly lukewarm milk. The espresso could have been dishwater for all I could taste of it. The danish may have been acceptable had it not been served at fridge temperature. I could only take comfort in the fact that in order to attend a single brief meeting, I would pass through Bergamo airport twice in the next 15 hours, where anyone who served coffee like that would be sentenced to a state execution, if not stabbed to death with plastic spoons first by a mob of mortally offended Milanesi.
Friday, February 16, 2007
The Wolseley, Mayfair
The Wolseley
160 Piccadilly
Mayfair
W1J
www.thewolseley.com
by Saul T. Rasher
There may be other places more romantic, there may be superior venues for calming a crapular corpus, and others lighter on the pocket-book. But for a breakfast to ease the soul and engender sentiments of gentility and a deep sense of Englishness, no venue trumps The Wolseley.
The mise en scene is – if one may associate such sentiments with mornings – seductive. Stout masculine marble is softened by feminine Art Deco arabesques on the stairways and bannisters, so that diners are eased into an elegant cast of mind. The room tinkles as much with genteel Mayfair tittering as silver-on-china.
What of the victuals? Imperial teas include a pungent gunpowdery Lapsong. Coffee comes in smooth-plunging cafetieres or thimbles of espresso with a perfect cap of crema. Mint tea is made with mint, orange juice with oranges. All in all, all is as it ought to be.
As for food, croissants, crumpets, black puddings, omelettes and - O, horror! - waffles jostle for attention. Superlative porridge is served correctly in a wide, cooling bowl with sugar, brown as it ought to be (the unrefined version being so much more refined).
Best are the eggs: they have a way with ova here. Scrambled, they are angelic in lightness, with an egginess indubitably organic. The ne plus ultra, though, is the eggs benedict. Never, surely, have yolks oozed so pleasingly, the goo spreading like sunshine over the ham and soft bread. Rarely has the buttery tang of hollandaise so tingled the tongue. Your scribe recommends two eggs – with this dish, an oeuf is never enough.
In the wrong hands breakfast can be – as you will have doubtless learned - a flippant affair, the day’s amuse bouche. Not here. Here they know that breakfast is the most important repast, not just nutritionally, but more importantly, aesthetically. Do go.
160 Piccadilly
Mayfair
W1J
www.thewolseley.com
by Saul T. Rasher
There may be other places more romantic, there may be superior venues for calming a crapular corpus, and others lighter on the pocket-book. But for a breakfast to ease the soul and engender sentiments of gentility and a deep sense of Englishness, no venue trumps The Wolseley.
The mise en scene is – if one may associate such sentiments with mornings – seductive. Stout masculine marble is softened by feminine Art Deco arabesques on the stairways and bannisters, so that diners are eased into an elegant cast of mind. The room tinkles as much with genteel Mayfair tittering as silver-on-china.
What of the victuals? Imperial teas include a pungent gunpowdery Lapsong. Coffee comes in smooth-plunging cafetieres or thimbles of espresso with a perfect cap of crema. Mint tea is made with mint, orange juice with oranges. All in all, all is as it ought to be.
As for food, croissants, crumpets, black puddings, omelettes and - O, horror! - waffles jostle for attention. Superlative porridge is served correctly in a wide, cooling bowl with sugar, brown as it ought to be (the unrefined version being so much more refined).
Best are the eggs: they have a way with ova here. Scrambled, they are angelic in lightness, with an egginess indubitably organic. The ne plus ultra, though, is the eggs benedict. Never, surely, have yolks oozed so pleasingly, the goo spreading like sunshine over the ham and soft bread. Rarely has the buttery tang of hollandaise so tingled the tongue. Your scribe recommends two eggs – with this dish, an oeuf is never enough.
In the wrong hands breakfast can be – as you will have doubtless learned - a flippant affair, the day’s amuse bouche. Not here. Here they know that breakfast is the most important repast, not just nutritionally, but more importantly, aesthetically. Do go.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Corner Deli, Hackney
Corner Deli
121 - 123 Mare St
Hackney
E8
020 8986 9325
by Blake Pudding
“Ahh the present continuous, most annoying of all newly fashionable tenses,” I mused at notorious East London charlatan Samuel J. Fouracre whilst we awaited our breakfast. At the Corner Deli they do not merely use organic produce but, according to their menu, are using it the whole time. It is as if they are saying “oh look at me using organic produce, how big’s your carbon footprint, mine’s tiny.” It reminds me of those people who say that they are loving your shoes. It is more about their loving than your shoes. It smacks of self-importance.
I knew we had made a mistake when I saw that the window was crammed with dull packets trumpeting their organic origin. My full breakfast, when it finally arrived, was not impressive: a tomato warmed rather than grilled; two eggs, cooked on the bottom, not on the top, two slices of toast made from cardboard bread, one tiny piece of not very tasty bacon and one small sausage that tasted of rancid leeks and repeated on me all day. There were mushrooms too. Sam went off-piste with poached eggs and two of those loathsome sausages. Was this stuff organic? I don’t care. Was it expensive? Of course. Was it delicious? No, it was fucking awful. This place is a classic example of the cynical café, run with no sense of largesse or hospitality, hiding its dreadfulness behind an organic fig leaf. We were not loving this place.
121 - 123 Mare St
Hackney
E8
020 8986 9325
by Blake Pudding
“Ahh the present continuous, most annoying of all newly fashionable tenses,” I mused at notorious East London charlatan Samuel J. Fouracre whilst we awaited our breakfast. At the Corner Deli they do not merely use organic produce but, according to their menu, are using it the whole time. It is as if they are saying “oh look at me using organic produce, how big’s your carbon footprint, mine’s tiny.” It reminds me of those people who say that they are loving your shoes. It is more about their loving than your shoes. It smacks of self-importance.
I knew we had made a mistake when I saw that the window was crammed with dull packets trumpeting their organic origin. My full breakfast, when it finally arrived, was not impressive: a tomato warmed rather than grilled; two eggs, cooked on the bottom, not on the top, two slices of toast made from cardboard bread, one tiny piece of not very tasty bacon and one small sausage that tasted of rancid leeks and repeated on me all day. There were mushrooms too. Sam went off-piste with poached eggs and two of those loathsome sausages. Was this stuff organic? I don’t care. Was it expensive? Of course. Was it delicious? No, it was fucking awful. This place is a classic example of the cynical café, run with no sense of largesse or hospitality, hiding its dreadfulness behind an organic fig leaf. We were not loving this place.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Special Dispatch: Bar Gagarin, East Berlin
Bar Gagarin
Knaackstr. 22/24
10405 Berlin
442 88 07
by Brad Wurst
In the intellectually demanding East Berlin district of Prenzlauerberg sits the Bar Gagarin, nestled like a discarded soviet space helmet between an aged water tower and cracked paving. Stuffed to the gills with kitschy propaganda art, this slightly bogus breakfast joint serves as an adequate meeting place for Lady Heinz Bohnen and her distant relative, Susi the beekeeper. I chaperone, as I am wont to do.
Confronted by menus dogmatically dedicated to showing the face of a dead cosmonaut on every single page, the three of us work out our orders. I am reminded of Camp David, the giddy and promiscuous hairdresser back in Ireland who would eagerly and gleefully gather this sort of colourful drabness around him as though he were wrapping himself in a glitzy bathrobe.
Scrambled eggs for me and Susi then, and a Russian dessert for the Lady. Politicised parents, with dogs and children (both leashed) surround us, invading our table with their loud chatter. They mix babies and Bakunin, and deny the outdatedness of their camel-hair coats. Almost twenty years after the fall, they still come to eat Russian food and bathe in happily unhappy nostalgia. A woman outside has a blanket brought to her, so she can sip her radioactive carrot smoothie in the cold and enjoy the dilapidated view.
Top marks on the hot chocolate, though one mark down for the condescension of the waiter, addressing me in English. Do I look English? Perhaps. Instead of answering him, I point at the menu and ruminate absently on the word 'Eier'. I am hungry.
The eggs are damp and spongy, and the bacon fried solid, but it suits my mood of cultivated depression. The ladies chatter, I do not care. Outside, a child smacks his sister across her head, and she laughs. I wish I was young enough to smack the waiter.
I steal bites from the Russian dessert, a quarky delight that outshines my unhappy egg dish. But I stand by my policy of avoiding culinary adventures for breakfast.
The food is disappointing, and so the customers are happy. All is as it should be in Prenzlauerberg.
Knaackstr. 22/24
10405 Berlin
442 88 07
by Brad Wurst
In the intellectually demanding East Berlin district of Prenzlauerberg sits the Bar Gagarin, nestled like a discarded soviet space helmet between an aged water tower and cracked paving. Stuffed to the gills with kitschy propaganda art, this slightly bogus breakfast joint serves as an adequate meeting place for Lady Heinz Bohnen and her distant relative, Susi the beekeeper. I chaperone, as I am wont to do.
Confronted by menus dogmatically dedicated to showing the face of a dead cosmonaut on every single page, the three of us work out our orders. I am reminded of Camp David, the giddy and promiscuous hairdresser back in Ireland who would eagerly and gleefully gather this sort of colourful drabness around him as though he were wrapping himself in a glitzy bathrobe.
Scrambled eggs for me and Susi then, and a Russian dessert for the Lady. Politicised parents, with dogs and children (both leashed) surround us, invading our table with their loud chatter. They mix babies and Bakunin, and deny the outdatedness of their camel-hair coats. Almost twenty years after the fall, they still come to eat Russian food and bathe in happily unhappy nostalgia. A woman outside has a blanket brought to her, so she can sip her radioactive carrot smoothie in the cold and enjoy the dilapidated view.
Top marks on the hot chocolate, though one mark down for the condescension of the waiter, addressing me in English. Do I look English? Perhaps. Instead of answering him, I point at the menu and ruminate absently on the word 'Eier'. I am hungry.
The eggs are damp and spongy, and the bacon fried solid, but it suits my mood of cultivated depression. The ladies chatter, I do not care. Outside, a child smacks his sister across her head, and she laughs. I wish I was young enough to smack the waiter.
I steal bites from the Russian dessert, a quarky delight that outshines my unhappy egg dish. But I stand by my policy of avoiding culinary adventures for breakfast.
The food is disappointing, and so the customers are happy. All is as it should be in Prenzlauerberg.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Paul, Covent Garden
Paul
29 Bedford Street
Covent Garden
WC2
020 7836 5321
www.paul.fr
by Orva Easy
(Best read accompanied by the gravelly strains of Edith Piaf.)
A sad tale this, a tale of woe, woe at human folly and seduction, in a moment of weakness, by a few rural paintings and a shiny boulangerie.
I thought Paul a handsome place as I awaited my companion. I noted with pleasure the way the high ceiling slightly amplified the clink of coffee cups and polite murmuring of the largely elderly customers. A table was adorned with gorgeously glazed croissants and pains au chocolat. I nibbled one. It was delicious.
Oh, it’s almost too much to bear. Bon courage, Orva. Wipe away that tear.
After some time sipping my rapidly cooling tea it became clear to me that my companion was not, in fact, about to materialise through the splendid glass doors. There was nothing for it but swallow my pride and eat. And at least the French know about two things, I thought – love is one and eggs is the other.
Oh. God.
The dismay that accompanied my eggs Benedict to the table is indescribable. The toast, which should have been superb in this famous bakery was tasteless, tiny and undercooked. The ham was weird little pink circles curled up at the edges, in no way reminiscent of pig. The hollandaise sauce was bile-coloured. But the final straw, mes amies, was the eggs. I listlessly raised my knife and sliced through the white surface… and nothing poured out. The yolk sat, rock hard, like the soul of my absent companion. I utter this sentence with pain: had McDonalds attempted an approximation at eggs Benedict, they could not have done a more treacherous job.
But I rallied, mes chères, as I recalled the words of the great Piaf: Je ne regrette rien. My heart and my spirit may have been broken but the LRB continues to snatch innocent breakfasters from the jaws of crushing disappointment. It has not been in vain (breaks down).
29 Bedford Street
Covent Garden
WC2
020 7836 5321
www.paul.fr
by Orva Easy
(Best read accompanied by the gravelly strains of Edith Piaf.)
A sad tale this, a tale of woe, woe at human folly and seduction, in a moment of weakness, by a few rural paintings and a shiny boulangerie.
I thought Paul a handsome place as I awaited my companion. I noted with pleasure the way the high ceiling slightly amplified the clink of coffee cups and polite murmuring of the largely elderly customers. A table was adorned with gorgeously glazed croissants and pains au chocolat. I nibbled one. It was delicious.
Oh, it’s almost too much to bear. Bon courage, Orva. Wipe away that tear.
After some time sipping my rapidly cooling tea it became clear to me that my companion was not, in fact, about to materialise through the splendid glass doors. There was nothing for it but swallow my pride and eat. And at least the French know about two things, I thought – love is one and eggs is the other.
Oh. God.
The dismay that accompanied my eggs Benedict to the table is indescribable. The toast, which should have been superb in this famous bakery was tasteless, tiny and undercooked. The ham was weird little pink circles curled up at the edges, in no way reminiscent of pig. The hollandaise sauce was bile-coloured. But the final straw, mes amies, was the eggs. I listlessly raised my knife and sliced through the white surface… and nothing poured out. The yolk sat, rock hard, like the soul of my absent companion. I utter this sentence with pain: had McDonalds attempted an approximation at eggs Benedict, they could not have done a more treacherous job.
But I rallied, mes chères, as I recalled the words of the great Piaf: Je ne regrette rien. My heart and my spirit may have been broken but the LRB continues to snatch innocent breakfasters from the jaws of crushing disappointment. It has not been in vain (breaks down).
Monday, February 05, 2007
The Garrison, Bermondsey
The Garrison
99 Bermondsey St
Bermondsey
SE1
by Pam au Chocolat
It was a bit like a mass blind date. A friend flying in from Copenhagen for a few hours had assembled a group of international intellectuals, plus me, for breakfast, but as his plane was delayed, we self-assembled, managed to recognise each other and went on without him.
The Garrison was the perfect venue for such company; a pub with a decadent style to its lime-washed furniture, chandeliers and high ledges. The breakfast menu is headed up with ‘Full & Proper Breakfast’, continuing with Eggs Benedict, French Toast with Bacon and Maple Syrup and other substantials, while a ‘Pastries & Light Meals’ section includes Bacon Butties and Boiled Eggs & Soldiers. We chose mainly from the substantial end, although a Dane succumbed to a guilt-free fruit salad.
Elegantly presented, my Full & Proper comprised a large slice of toast upon which rested a couple of bacon rashers and two fine fried eggs flopping over the edge, plus a Portobello mushroom, grilled tomato, fine herby banger cooked properly and, unusually, baked beans in their own separate small bowl, presumably to avoid the swamping effect of which LRB correspondents so often complain. (Myself, I like a mass of beans on the plate; but I can understand the contrary view). The only complaint might have been that I would have appreciated more toast; I could have ordered separately, but in such refined company the fear of appearing an uncouth pig restrained me. My companions’ Eggs Benedict - two lasciviously plump eggs - and French Toast were equally delicious.
We lingered until we were replaced by a lunch party. The intellects were sated and the bill was a tenner a head, excellent for the quality of ingredients and the confidence of cooking. Outside, Sunday was sunny; our friend arrived from the airport too late for the joys of breakfast - though just in time for a pre-lunch drink.
99 Bermondsey St
Bermondsey
SE1
by Pam au Chocolat
It was a bit like a mass blind date. A friend flying in from Copenhagen for a few hours had assembled a group of international intellectuals, plus me, for breakfast, but as his plane was delayed, we self-assembled, managed to recognise each other and went on without him.
The Garrison was the perfect venue for such company; a pub with a decadent style to its lime-washed furniture, chandeliers and high ledges. The breakfast menu is headed up with ‘Full & Proper Breakfast’, continuing with Eggs Benedict, French Toast with Bacon and Maple Syrup and other substantials, while a ‘Pastries & Light Meals’ section includes Bacon Butties and Boiled Eggs & Soldiers. We chose mainly from the substantial end, although a Dane succumbed to a guilt-free fruit salad.
Elegantly presented, my Full & Proper comprised a large slice of toast upon which rested a couple of bacon rashers and two fine fried eggs flopping over the edge, plus a Portobello mushroom, grilled tomato, fine herby banger cooked properly and, unusually, baked beans in their own separate small bowl, presumably to avoid the swamping effect of which LRB correspondents so often complain. (Myself, I like a mass of beans on the plate; but I can understand the contrary view). The only complaint might have been that I would have appreciated more toast; I could have ordered separately, but in such refined company the fear of appearing an uncouth pig restrained me. My companions’ Eggs Benedict - two lasciviously plump eggs - and French Toast were equally delicious.
We lingered until we were replaced by a lunch party. The intellects were sated and the bill was a tenner a head, excellent for the quality of ingredients and the confidence of cooking. Outside, Sunday was sunny; our friend arrived from the airport too late for the joys of breakfast - though just in time for a pre-lunch drink.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Grove Cafe, Highbury
Grove Cafe
226 St Pauls Rd
Highbury
N1
020 7704 8885
by Poppy Tartt
Dear Marmaduke Rosenbaum and I have known The Grove, but not its breakfasts. We were not prepared for our tea, pale as a pretend virgin’s post-nuptial bed sheets. Perhaps the dissembling bride thought she could wing it with the tampon defence, but we felt quite the cheated husbands then, and were having none of it. (Well, actually we were; we were hungover and weak. We drank the tea down disappointedly and pretended we believed it had ridden horses as a child.) Our Mediterranean breakfasts arrived. There were eggs, a garlic sausage, halloumi and salad. All entirely enjoyable, apart from Marmy’s eggs, which were a bit jismy. He ate them with his eyes closed. Toast was served in a basket lined with gingham. “How rustic!” we cried. We sat in the window. Many people walked past who amused and delighted us. On the windowsill close by my elbow, a bronze plate balanced on a vase filled with layers of multi-coloured lentils, offering its last croissant to passers-by. It was unusual. On a dado rail further unusual things were balanced; perhaps it had something to do with fashion. Retro condiments spell hip! Sometimes. Up there were three packets of Fortt’s Original Bath Oliver Biscuits. Their white packaging had yellowed like a smoker’s ceiling. “I like that this place is a little bit scummy,” Marmaduke said reassuringly.
At the meal’s end we looked more closely at the bread basket. It had one missing handle, as if it had been rescued from a skip. Its jaunty lining was covered with a plastic film that reminded one unromantically of a nappy cover. The film was greasy and sandy with breadcrumbs and other matter far exceeding the waste our own toast could have produced. The basket was disgusting. ‘Don’t look,’ urged Marmy.
Weak tea and poor hygiene spells no tip.
226 St Pauls Rd
Highbury
N1
020 7704 8885
by Poppy Tartt
Dear Marmaduke Rosenbaum and I have known The Grove, but not its breakfasts. We were not prepared for our tea, pale as a pretend virgin’s post-nuptial bed sheets. Perhaps the dissembling bride thought she could wing it with the tampon defence, but we felt quite the cheated husbands then, and were having none of it. (Well, actually we were; we were hungover and weak. We drank the tea down disappointedly and pretended we believed it had ridden horses as a child.) Our Mediterranean breakfasts arrived. There were eggs, a garlic sausage, halloumi and salad. All entirely enjoyable, apart from Marmy’s eggs, which were a bit jismy. He ate them with his eyes closed. Toast was served in a basket lined with gingham. “How rustic!” we cried. We sat in the window. Many people walked past who amused and delighted us. On the windowsill close by my elbow, a bronze plate balanced on a vase filled with layers of multi-coloured lentils, offering its last croissant to passers-by. It was unusual. On a dado rail further unusual things were balanced; perhaps it had something to do with fashion. Retro condiments spell hip! Sometimes. Up there were three packets of Fortt’s Original Bath Oliver Biscuits. Their white packaging had yellowed like a smoker’s ceiling. “I like that this place is a little bit scummy,” Marmaduke said reassuringly.
At the meal’s end we looked more closely at the bread basket. It had one missing handle, as if it had been rescued from a skip. Its jaunty lining was covered with a plastic film that reminded one unromantically of a nappy cover. The film was greasy and sandy with breadcrumbs and other matter far exceeding the waste our own toast could have produced. The basket was disgusting. ‘Don’t look,’ urged Marmy.
Weak tea and poor hygiene spells no tip.
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