1 Crispin Place
0203 116 2000
by Dr Sigmund Fried
Due to the previous night's celebration of my passage into the wasteland of my thirties, a sunny Sunday afternoon found me wandering around Spitalfields with a hangover that felt as if someone had stolen my brain and replaced it with a sponge cake full of woodpeckers.
At 30, everything is the same; nothing has changed. The crossover into a new consumer survey demographic has not yielded the maturity that I was anticipating. Proof of this possibly interminable idiocy - that I fear I must now endure until I bugger off of this mortal coil - was having breakfast at Giraffe, an establishment that I have always believed to be the culinary equivalent of Paul Simon's Graceland: mawkish, misguided, and disingenuously naive. (Here's an 'about us' sampler from the website: "Back at the end of last century, Russel Joffe asked himself 'what animal has the biggest heart in the world?' and all of a sudden, Giraffe was born'". Seriously though, what a load of old toss.)
However, with Ed benedict in tow and a definite desire not be in the muculent, claustrophobic environs of the Sunday market proper, compounded by the very real possibility of passing out due to dehydration and hunger, Giraffe it was.
Despite it pushing 4 o'clock I decided to go for the 'Good Morning Brekkie!' (£5.50), simply because it was one of the first things on the menu and I was rapidly losing the ability to read. It was a catastrophic mistake. The scrambled eggs were an insipid, gelatinous lump; the bacon bland and brittle; the toast inexplicably unbuttered, and the baked beans algid.
My esteemed editor assures me that he has had a satisfactory breakfast at Giraffe on more than one occasion, so I guess the joke's on me. What an old twat.