Giraffe, Spitalfields
Giraffe
1 Crispin Place
Spitalfields
E1
0203 116 2000
www.giraffe.net
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.
1 Crispin Place
Spitalfields
E1
0203 116 2000
www.giraffe.net
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.
posted by London Review of Breakfasts |
6:31 PM |
11 Comments:
'mawkish, misguided and disingenuously naive' - ha, i can't think of a better description of this place. I used to live in the neighbourhood and recall one particular waiter wholly symbolic of above qualities. I wonder if he is still serving? Mawkish manner, misguided wearing of childish button pins on his apron and disingenuously naive taking of orders? "You wan't a cappuccino?" "Mmmm" "WOW!"
Comeon, they do a good cappuccino. They're one of the few place s where staff are taught to foam the milk properly, and not just deliver a milky coffee with bubbles on top.
Restaurant, though? Not really.
welllll... giraffe has its uses! perfect place for an easy meeting with friends for brunch. something for everyone and if all else fails, they serve alcohol.
Even if we give the author the benefit of the doubt I would still suggest that the only thing worse than a meal at Giraffe would be to stumble across this page and read the tripe he has attempted to pass off as a review. Potentially the worst and most pretentious review I have read in a long time. A recommendation: stick to drinking.
Upon reading this review, my opinion of Giraffe is unchanged - but i couldn't help thinking...MY GOD YOU ARE A TW@T.
Funny isn't it. You wait ages for a rude comment, then two come along at once.
I really don't think it is pretentious. Does that mean I'm pretentious?
I will go muddle that over for a while.
I think you two big anonymouses are big anonymous meanheads.
Love Miss anonymous
I'd rather be a mean head than a pretentious tw@t.
The author clearly has grand delusions of being a professional writer. To be honest he is more likely to make money by painting his ar$e red, printing it on paper and selling framed copies. Next time he feels the need to review somewhere - just don’t.
Siggie, I wish your ex-lovers would stop leaving vitriol on the site.
This is meant to be culinary forum, not a place for the broken-hearted to air their grievances.
I suppose it comes down to what people really want from a 'culinary forum'. If an objective dining experience is the aim then this review has failed. If, however, the reader wants an incite into each prospective authors sexual conquests and depressive musings then...well done. After all, it is only natural for the author to want to entertain his audience. In this case it seems the conclusion was already written before the author even sat down at the table….irrespective of how disingenuous the ‘disingenuous waiter’ mawkishly muttered: “you wanna cappuccino?’
Blake, alas you're right, 'Anonymous' is an ex, but please, don't be too hard on her - if you'd witnessed the heartbreakingly desperate and precatory mewing that met my informing her that it was over, you'd understand. However, I must take issue with her obsession with my being 'pretentious' - especially given that while making love she'd beg me to read to her excerpts from Paul Valery's La soirée avec monsieur Teste, plead with me to address her as 'Rosebud', and even, very occasionally, ask me if I wouldn't mind sticking a Frasier DVD on.
Post a Comment
<< Home