***ELLIOT'S HAS NOW MOVED TO THE PAVILION IN VICTORIA PARK. SEE COMMENTS BELOW***
Elliot's Cafe
146 Bethnal Green Road
Bethnal Green
E2
020 7613 1691
by Moose Lee
Elliot’s Cafe looks like it has been decorated – simultaneously – by a pirate, a GCSE art teacher and a parole officer. They play Radio 1 from an Eighties ghetto blaster despite the fact that pioneering record label Acid Jazz has its headquarters in the basement. Plus, the front door doesn’t close properly.
The breakfast menu is similarly mixed up. There’s no Gut Buster, no Trucker’s Ruin, no Stuff-Me-‘Til-My-Eyes-Close Full English. There are three fry-up options: one features bacon but no sausage, the other has sausage but no bacon and the other is – whisper it – vegetarian.
As a man of great, almost supernatural insight, I was quick to pick out the best attributes of each and mould an entirely new vision: a vegetarian breakfast, with extra bacon and extra sausage. I know, I know: what could the vegetarian breakfast bring to the party? The answer is simple. It’s the missing link that no-one knew was missing: crushed avocado. Both a palette cleanser and a fatty, creamy, almost-condiment that goes with everything.
And while we’re breaking taboos, some of the fry-up old guard still claim that only Mr. Heinz should have the right to bake beans. First off, I would like to point out that Heinz does not actually rhyme with beans. Secondly, Elliot’s home-made alternative tasted wonderful. The tomato sauce even glowed – a la Senor Heinz – in the style of sodium light pollution. Add to this chopped field mushrooms that squeaked satisfyingly against my teeth, condiments in glass bottles and plentiful rashers of dark, thick bacon, all was well on the Bethnal Green Road.
The only major let down was the sausage (singular!) – it had been cut down the middle and had lost its precious juices. A small price to pay for other revelations: expect local manual labourers to be sporting creamy smooth skin. Praise be – avocadoes for all!
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
The Eclipse, Lower Clapton
The Eclipse
57 Elderfield Rd
Lower Clapton
E5
020 8986 1591
by Hashley Brown
Olympics are looming and the East-End gentrifies quicker by the day. Old Street has become a permanent School Disco, and even the Dolphin now charges in. That nice place to go for breakfast is rapidly disappearing down Stratford way and well let's face it, that's just not very nice either now is it.
Succour though is on hand in the gentle bosom of the Eclipse. Nestled just off Murder Mile (which is growing significantly less murderous too it seems) this Clapton pub underwent not the Lock Tavern/ Legion style uber-gastro-rave refurb, but the normal type where they make the place seem a bit lighter and maybe buy some new plants. A gorgeously wood clad pub then, with rickety furniture, that's full of locals - and they'll sell you a breakfast on the weekend for less than a fiver. Well cooked greasy spoon is the order of the day, and without the taint of deep fat fryer lingering over everything, so a bonus for mushroom eaters. Add piles of buttery toast, tea that comes in pots, lots of papers and the occasional spot of scrabble, and breakfast soon turns into a thoroughly pleasant afternoon. A genuinely local pub replete with big-eared old men, this has yet to become the over-crowded style fest that the George is teetering on the brink of. Enjoy it while it lasts…
57 Elderfield Rd
Lower Clapton
E5
020 8986 1591
by Hashley Brown
Olympics are looming and the East-End gentrifies quicker by the day. Old Street has become a permanent School Disco, and even the Dolphin now charges in. That nice place to go for breakfast is rapidly disappearing down Stratford way and well let's face it, that's just not very nice either now is it.
Succour though is on hand in the gentle bosom of the Eclipse. Nestled just off Murder Mile (which is growing significantly less murderous too it seems) this Clapton pub underwent not the Lock Tavern/ Legion style uber-gastro-rave refurb, but the normal type where they make the place seem a bit lighter and maybe buy some new plants. A gorgeously wood clad pub then, with rickety furniture, that's full of locals - and they'll sell you a breakfast on the weekend for less than a fiver. Well cooked greasy spoon is the order of the day, and without the taint of deep fat fryer lingering over everything, so a bonus for mushroom eaters. Add piles of buttery toast, tea that comes in pots, lots of papers and the occasional spot of scrabble, and breakfast soon turns into a thoroughly pleasant afternoon. A genuinely local pub replete with big-eared old men, this has yet to become the over-crowded style fest that the George is teetering on the brink of. Enjoy it while it lasts…
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Diner, Shoreditch
The Diner
128 Curtain Road
Shoreditch
EC2A
020 7729 4452
by Blake Pudding
A diner isn’t just a place or a style of food but a reflection of national character. A diner should be generous, friendly and brash; the food may not be that good but there will be lots of it and it can be served any way you want.
I was hungover with a couple of advertising types, Marie Voss and Tom Dean. As their stock in trade is the ersatz, I thought where better to take them than an imitation American diner in Shoreditch. This place was almost exactly what you would expect from a trendy diner. The food was good, probably better than you would get in most diners in New York. My corn beef hash was delicious and the bacon I had on the side was some of the finest I have ever tasted. The coffee was bad, which struck a note of authenticity, but they had to be reminded about free refills. Tom and Marie both had eggs, hash browns and bacon, all excellent.
I don’t suppose I need to say that the service was atrocious. It felt as if there had been a death amongst the staff and we were intruding on their grieving. All this could have been made up for by the excellent food if we had not been so hungry on finishing it. Portions were, however, tiny. We headed across the road to soothe our still rumbling bellies with pints of ESB and those ludicrously strong salt and vinegar crisps that you can only get in Shoreditch. You wouldn’t have to do that in Albuquerque.
128 Curtain Road
Shoreditch
EC2A
020 7729 4452
by Blake Pudding
A diner isn’t just a place or a style of food but a reflection of national character. A diner should be generous, friendly and brash; the food may not be that good but there will be lots of it and it can be served any way you want.
I was hungover with a couple of advertising types, Marie Voss and Tom Dean. As their stock in trade is the ersatz, I thought where better to take them than an imitation American diner in Shoreditch. This place was almost exactly what you would expect from a trendy diner. The food was good, probably better than you would get in most diners in New York. My corn beef hash was delicious and the bacon I had on the side was some of the finest I have ever tasted. The coffee was bad, which struck a note of authenticity, but they had to be reminded about free refills. Tom and Marie both had eggs, hash browns and bacon, all excellent.
I don’t suppose I need to say that the service was atrocious. It felt as if there had been a death amongst the staff and we were intruding on their grieving. All this could have been made up for by the excellent food if we had not been so hungry on finishing it. Portions were, however, tiny. We headed across the road to soothe our still rumbling bellies with pints of ESB and those ludicrously strong salt and vinegar crisps that you can only get in Shoreditch. You wouldn’t have to do that in Albuquerque.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Le Pain Quotidien, South Bank
Le Pain Quotidien
Festival Walk
Belvedere Road
South Bank
SE1
0207 486 6154
www.lepainquotidien.com
by Orva Easy
After my last tragic brush with a French breakfast (you may remember that heartbreaking tale) I wasn’t holding out much hope for Le Pain Quotidien. They don’t serve sausages, for a start, and they are complete strangers to bacon. My loosely stitched up heart was still tender and a buttered croissant, however fluffy, wasn’t going to help the healing process. But I had little choice, stranded on the South Bank at 9 o’clock on a Monday morning, so I pulled myself together and shuffled in.
It looks nice enough, if a bit like an All Bar One - wood panels everywhere and half of the room is presided over by a magnificent old railway arch. The outer side is completely glass, though the vista of the neighbouring Royal Festival Hall is not particularly exciting, being mainly wall, but a gap at the far end affords a small view of the river and an interesting architectural snapshot. The service was rather less visible. Eventually, someone paying pointed me out, and I was hastily given a menu.
Pastries, 450-odd different breads, blah blah blah… my heart and my stomach were sinking when – what’s this? Organic soft-boiled egg (I like the fact that they specify that. Can I have it hard-boiled? No, you bloody can’t.) with fresh bread. Yes, please.
Reader, I left in love, again. Such an egg! Rich, perfectly cooked with bright runny yolk and accompanied by carefully cut mini-soldiers in a variety of breads. The butter (white, but lightly salted) was just at the correct temperature for spreading, without sweating. My ‘side order’ of fragrant smoked salmon came covering a plate the size of my head with an enormous salad which I hadn’t asked for but presumably was introduced by way of garnish. The teapot didn’t drip. The chamomile tea was actually made from chamomile. Simple, but effective. Vive la France.
Festival Walk
Belvedere Road
South Bank
SE1
0207 486 6154
www.lepainquotidien.com
by Orva Easy
After my last tragic brush with a French breakfast (you may remember that heartbreaking tale) I wasn’t holding out much hope for Le Pain Quotidien. They don’t serve sausages, for a start, and they are complete strangers to bacon. My loosely stitched up heart was still tender and a buttered croissant, however fluffy, wasn’t going to help the healing process. But I had little choice, stranded on the South Bank at 9 o’clock on a Monday morning, so I pulled myself together and shuffled in.
It looks nice enough, if a bit like an All Bar One - wood panels everywhere and half of the room is presided over by a magnificent old railway arch. The outer side is completely glass, though the vista of the neighbouring Royal Festival Hall is not particularly exciting, being mainly wall, but a gap at the far end affords a small view of the river and an interesting architectural snapshot. The service was rather less visible. Eventually, someone paying pointed me out, and I was hastily given a menu.
Pastries, 450-odd different breads, blah blah blah… my heart and my stomach were sinking when – what’s this? Organic soft-boiled egg (I like the fact that they specify that. Can I have it hard-boiled? No, you bloody can’t.) with fresh bread. Yes, please.
Reader, I left in love, again. Such an egg! Rich, perfectly cooked with bright runny yolk and accompanied by carefully cut mini-soldiers in a variety of breads. The butter (white, but lightly salted) was just at the correct temperature for spreading, without sweating. My ‘side order’ of fragrant smoked salmon came covering a plate the size of my head with an enormous salad which I hadn’t asked for but presumably was introduced by way of garnish. The teapot didn’t drip. The chamomile tea was actually made from chamomile. Simple, but effective. Vive la France.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Med Kitchen, South Kensington
Med Kitchen
23-35 Gloucester Road
South Kensington
SW7
020 7589 1383
www.medkitchen.co.uk
Molly Coddle-Degg
is
Carrie Brownsauce
in
Breks and the City
In a modern city, in a modern world, should a girl have breakfast at supper time?
This was the dilemma facing me one evening at Med Kitchen, where I’d met my fabulous friend J to eat, drink and discuss men, shoes and existentialism.
Minimalist and chic, the restaurant was quietly busy. We were seated by a poker-faced model-turned-waitress of Eastern European extraction. Outside, Sloanes ranged their way up the Gloucester Road. We immediately turned to item one on the agenda: boys.
Looking over the menu, (oh the delights of restaurant cooking! As modern women, neither J or I can actually cook), my eye was drawn to the promise of Eggs Benedict, then – more temptingly – its smoked-salmony cousin, Eggs Royale, with a naughty portion of chips. But breakfast at dinner? Is that the done thing? Admittedly this was not a dish to compliment the bottle of rosé we’d ordered, but my breakfast-loving tastebuds were putting up a strong argument. Hmmm, what does Debretts have to say, I wondered.
“A successful Eggs Royale is like the perfect outfit, each element must work well alone – the toasted muffin, a Chanel suit; the smoked salmon, a Hermes scarf; the poached eggs, Manolo Blahniks; the Hollandaise sauce, Coco Mademoiselle; the chips, Asprey diamonds - but the whole must be beyond fabulous, and more than the sum of its parts.”
Well this one, it turned out, was more akin to Marks & Spencers. Perfunctory, a little bland, but ultimately reliable - at any time of day.
23-35 Gloucester Road
South Kensington
SW7
020 7589 1383
www.medkitchen.co.uk
Molly Coddle-Degg
is
Carrie Brownsauce
in
Breks and the City
In a modern city, in a modern world, should a girl have breakfast at supper time?
This was the dilemma facing me one evening at Med Kitchen, where I’d met my fabulous friend J to eat, drink and discuss men, shoes and existentialism.
Minimalist and chic, the restaurant was quietly busy. We were seated by a poker-faced model-turned-waitress of Eastern European extraction. Outside, Sloanes ranged their way up the Gloucester Road. We immediately turned to item one on the agenda: boys.
Looking over the menu, (oh the delights of restaurant cooking! As modern women, neither J or I can actually cook), my eye was drawn to the promise of Eggs Benedict, then – more temptingly – its smoked-salmony cousin, Eggs Royale, with a naughty portion of chips. But breakfast at dinner? Is that the done thing? Admittedly this was not a dish to compliment the bottle of rosé we’d ordered, but my breakfast-loving tastebuds were putting up a strong argument. Hmmm, what does Debretts have to say, I wondered.
“A successful Eggs Royale is like the perfect outfit, each element must work well alone – the toasted muffin, a Chanel suit; the smoked salmon, a Hermes scarf; the poached eggs, Manolo Blahniks; the Hollandaise sauce, Coco Mademoiselle; the chips, Asprey diamonds - but the whole must be beyond fabulous, and more than the sum of its parts.”
Well this one, it turned out, was more akin to Marks & Spencers. Perfunctory, a little bland, but ultimately reliable - at any time of day.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Little Georgia, Hackney
Little Georgia
87 Goldsmiths Row
Hackney
E2
020 7739 8154
by Des Ayuno
The recent reopening of Little Georgia (a beloved Broadway Market institution that shut in 2005 in contentious circumstances) has been discussed in these parts with the same hushed excitement with which John no doubt watched Jesus do his stuff at the wedding in Cana. (According to D, actually, the Georgians believe God gave them such a lush and beautiful country as a reward for their superior vinification skills.) We headed down to its new premises on a chilly Thursday morning and were impressed with its stylish yet cozy interior, like a Farrow & Ball advert. Our orders were taken by a charming proprietress double act – the first as apple-cheeked and gingham-aproned as your gran, the second like a tall, elegant artist auntie. D went for pancakes. I read that the “Full Georgian” was only available at weekends and panicked, but was immediately reassured that something equally hearty and restorative could be rustled up.
Coffees were prompt and powerful. My enormous Partial Georgian featured rustic, yolk-heavy scrambled eggs, intense parsley-flecked beans that had probably been simmering in a cast-iron pot for weeks with various alliums and herbs, and dense, lumpy, hand-formed sausages that were no less succulent or delightful for their irregular appearance. Traditional English beans and sangers are apparently available for the meek. Mysterious and strident spices burst upon my palate like Mensheviks celebrating February 1917, and even the toast had a whiff of the open fire about it. D’s small, thick, butter-sodden pancakes looked coy on the plate but, with rich natural yoghurt, apple, banana, honey and cinnamon sugar, made for a luscious dish of which I availed myself shamelessly. Everything we ate was spirited, honest and generous, and for barely a tenner between us. Like the Cana wedding guests, we were infused with a warm glow, enjoying that rare combination of spiritual and physical satiety.
87 Goldsmiths Row
Hackney
E2
020 7739 8154
by Des Ayuno
The recent reopening of Little Georgia (a beloved Broadway Market institution that shut in 2005 in contentious circumstances) has been discussed in these parts with the same hushed excitement with which John no doubt watched Jesus do his stuff at the wedding in Cana. (According to D, actually, the Georgians believe God gave them such a lush and beautiful country as a reward for their superior vinification skills.) We headed down to its new premises on a chilly Thursday morning and were impressed with its stylish yet cozy interior, like a Farrow & Ball advert. Our orders were taken by a charming proprietress double act – the first as apple-cheeked and gingham-aproned as your gran, the second like a tall, elegant artist auntie. D went for pancakes. I read that the “Full Georgian” was only available at weekends and panicked, but was immediately reassured that something equally hearty and restorative could be rustled up.
Coffees were prompt and powerful. My enormous Partial Georgian featured rustic, yolk-heavy scrambled eggs, intense parsley-flecked beans that had probably been simmering in a cast-iron pot for weeks with various alliums and herbs, and dense, lumpy, hand-formed sausages that were no less succulent or delightful for their irregular appearance. Traditional English beans and sangers are apparently available for the meek. Mysterious and strident spices burst upon my palate like Mensheviks celebrating February 1917, and even the toast had a whiff of the open fire about it. D’s small, thick, butter-sodden pancakes looked coy on the plate but, with rich natural yoghurt, apple, banana, honey and cinnamon sugar, made for a luscious dish of which I availed myself shamelessly. Everything we ate was spirited, honest and generous, and for barely a tenner between us. Like the Cana wedding guests, we were infused with a warm glow, enjoying that rare combination of spiritual and physical satiety.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Meals, Bloomsbury
Meals
First Floor
Heals Department Store
196 Tottenham Court Road
Bloomsbury
W1T
020 7636 1666
www.heals.co.uk/stry/healcafe
by H.P. Seuss
I was destined for greater things.
Had mother submitted to the boisterous attentions of the gang of raping mallards that patrolled our coop, I might have grown into one of them. I might have been fertilised a she-duck and swooped and swum as she did.
Alas, I was born nor he nor she, a shell of my own potential, eunuch and hermaphrodite, plopped by menstrual mother onto the straw of a Suffolk farm. But even in my unfertilised state, I was a god among eggs: sexless, it is true, but strong. And you can't spell hermaphrodite without Aphrodite. I was born for love.
I might have been subsumed into a Béarnaise, adorned a kedgeree. Not to be. Yoinked from the straw, dropped into a grey tray, we were bundled into a truck bound for London by a burly Lett. Not all of us survived the trip. A divot on the A14 made an impromptu omelet of three of us. I was among the five dozen unloaded on the Tottenham Court Road. Our ovacide had just begun.
Do not think we were deaf to the hiss of our siblings as they left the metaphorical fire of the fridge for the very literal frying pan. Do not think we didn't notice the lack of bacon in that shiny kitchen. My turn came one Sunday morning. Tap! Tap! Sploosh! I lurched into the fat and turned quite white. Two minutes later, I was flipped onto a revolting round patty of corned beef hash, my beautiful yolk ladelled with a concoction known as "H.P. Gravy".
Oh, I saw the handsome journalist raise an eyebrow when the waitress set me before him in that pink doll's house of a dining room. Sloshing in his mouth, I sensed his thoughts: "lovely egg; pity it has been so pretentiously massacred." In the pit of his stomach we became one. Through the ouija board of his prose I communicate now. The glass zooms about the table. It spells: A-V-O-I-D. Or was that A an O?
First Floor
Heals Department Store
196 Tottenham Court Road
Bloomsbury
W1T
020 7636 1666
www.heals.co.uk/stry/healcafe
by H.P. Seuss
I was destined for greater things.
Had mother submitted to the boisterous attentions of the gang of raping mallards that patrolled our coop, I might have grown into one of them. I might have been fertilised a she-duck and swooped and swum as she did.
Alas, I was born nor he nor she, a shell of my own potential, eunuch and hermaphrodite, plopped by menstrual mother onto the straw of a Suffolk farm. But even in my unfertilised state, I was a god among eggs: sexless, it is true, but strong. And you can't spell hermaphrodite without Aphrodite. I was born for love.
I might have been subsumed into a Béarnaise, adorned a kedgeree. Not to be. Yoinked from the straw, dropped into a grey tray, we were bundled into a truck bound for London by a burly Lett. Not all of us survived the trip. A divot on the A14 made an impromptu omelet of three of us. I was among the five dozen unloaded on the Tottenham Court Road. Our ovacide had just begun.
Do not think we were deaf to the hiss of our siblings as they left the metaphorical fire of the fridge for the very literal frying pan. Do not think we didn't notice the lack of bacon in that shiny kitchen. My turn came one Sunday morning. Tap! Tap! Sploosh! I lurched into the fat and turned quite white. Two minutes later, I was flipped onto a revolting round patty of corned beef hash, my beautiful yolk ladelled with a concoction known as "H.P. Gravy".
Oh, I saw the handsome journalist raise an eyebrow when the waitress set me before him in that pink doll's house of a dining room. Sloshing in his mouth, I sensed his thoughts: "lovely egg; pity it has been so pretentiously massacred." In the pit of his stomach we became one. Through the ouija board of his prose I communicate now. The glass zooms about the table. It spells: A-V-O-I-D. Or was that A an O?
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