The Lime Cafe
Grand Parade
Green Lanes
Harringay
N21
020 8809 4665
by Heidi Sausage
Being a veteran of Harringay's famous Cafe Lemon (I was Morcilla's mysterious dining companion), I decided to boldly go and sample the delights of the next door establishment, which has recently changed its name to The Lime Cafe, from its previous, more Italian-sounding appellation Mambocino. On first glance, it appeared as if the decor had also been completely altered, but no, the sublime fountain was still there, featuring a mermaid accompanied by dolphins and fish in variegated tones of blue and pink, and the magnificent glass dolphin sculpture had merely been moved to the top of the fridge. The nautical theme was continued with anchors and other ship parts hanging from the walls, although alas no sea shanties were to be heard, only the ubiquitous sound of Turkish pop music.
Having just spent two hours in the doctor's waiting room, I was in the mood to have my taste buds tingled, so I ordered the vegetarian set breakfast number 1, accompanied by a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. The coffee was first to arrive, and was, I am pleased to say, not instant. The orange juice was indeed freshly squeezed, and, whilst the toast was slightly on the dry side, the tomato and mushrooms were done to perfection, and the beans were not touching the (single) egg. The bubble and squeak was a bright green colour (presumably to match the waiting staff's shirts) due to the inclusion of marrowfat peas in the mix, and they rounded off this epicurean delight in a satisfying way.
Pleasantly full, I left a tip and went in search of more citrus-themed restaurants, but have so far been unsuccessful in my search.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Special Dispatch: The Penz, Innsbruck
The Penz
Adolf Pichler Platz 3
6020 Innsbruck
Austria
+43 05 12 57 56 57
www.thepenz.com
by Des Ayuno
The fön was in town, and so was I. The fön, a clammy, warm spring wind, is never far from the conversation of Austrians. It is said to send locals slightly mad – mood swings, sudden outbursts of anger or tears of frustration – an ideal time, then, for a business trip.
I rose early to fortify myself for the day ahead. A nervy woman in the glass-encased lift held her hand theatrically to her breast and sighed, “Aah, die Panorama!” as we ascended to the twelfth floor. The snowy Alps seemed metres away. I turned to the breakfast room, where full-height glass windows framed the peaks to even more dramatic effect, and whispered, “Aah, die Frühstück…” Monstrous platters of grapefruit, pineapple and strawberry squared up to the sorts of knobbly, prickly or hairy neon exotica normally seen in pictures of Vietnamese market stalls. I stopped at plate 35, not because I’d lost count but because the nervy woman was staring. The Continental contingent was as bountiful – no less than 11 kinds of breads jostled for space with perhaps 20 platters of sliced meats and cheeses, smoked fish, jams and jellies, butters and margarines, mustards, yoghurts, compotes, baskets of small pastries and dry cereals in a double row of glinting glass cylinders.
I’d ignored the “English” section, lest shrivelled sausages and flabby fried eggs shattered this dream. But upon tucking into picture-perfect plates one (fruit) and two (cakes, breads and cheeses), I had to choke back a hot tear of disappointment. Absolutely everything was several degrees too cold and tasted faintly of plastic. The fault of the fün it may have been, but despite the best efforts of Austria’s finest, I’ve never been so pleased to walk into a meeting room and see a paper plateful of cheap iced doughnuts.
Adolf Pichler Platz 3
6020 Innsbruck
Austria
+43 05 12 57 56 57
www.thepenz.com
by Des Ayuno
The fön was in town, and so was I. The fön, a clammy, warm spring wind, is never far from the conversation of Austrians. It is said to send locals slightly mad – mood swings, sudden outbursts of anger or tears of frustration – an ideal time, then, for a business trip.
I rose early to fortify myself for the day ahead. A nervy woman in the glass-encased lift held her hand theatrically to her breast and sighed, “Aah, die Panorama!” as we ascended to the twelfth floor. The snowy Alps seemed metres away. I turned to the breakfast room, where full-height glass windows framed the peaks to even more dramatic effect, and whispered, “Aah, die Frühstück…” Monstrous platters of grapefruit, pineapple and strawberry squared up to the sorts of knobbly, prickly or hairy neon exotica normally seen in pictures of Vietnamese market stalls. I stopped at plate 35, not because I’d lost count but because the nervy woman was staring. The Continental contingent was as bountiful – no less than 11 kinds of breads jostled for space with perhaps 20 platters of sliced meats and cheeses, smoked fish, jams and jellies, butters and margarines, mustards, yoghurts, compotes, baskets of small pastries and dry cereals in a double row of glinting glass cylinders.
I’d ignored the “English” section, lest shrivelled sausages and flabby fried eggs shattered this dream. But upon tucking into picture-perfect plates one (fruit) and two (cakes, breads and cheeses), I had to choke back a hot tear of disappointment. Absolutely everything was several degrees too cold and tasted faintly of plastic. The fault of the fün it may have been, but despite the best efforts of Austria’s finest, I’ve never been so pleased to walk into a meeting room and see a paper plateful of cheap iced doughnuts.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Climpson & Sons, Hackney
Climpson & Sons
67 Broadway Market
Hackney
E8
020 7812 9829
www.climpsonandsons.com
by Moose Lee
The tyranny of choice: Saturday morning on Broadway Market offers a vertiginous selection of gourmand-baiting breakfast options. Luckily, M and I had already picked our destination: Climpson & Sons – one of the few unreviewed cafes on this strip of bourgeois indulgence. To get to the café, however, we had to resist a myriad of siren-strength temptation. Donning blindfolds and bunging our nostrils, we crept past gallettes, hog roasts and patisseries. Navigating by texture and sound alone, we followed the espresso machine's wail until our hands met with sanded wood.
Climpson's has a relaxed, beach-hut feel, with tables lining the pavement. The breakfast menu is not going to slay any hangovers but it is great for those self-righteous mornings when you get up early with almost no unexplained bruises. On the manager's recommendation, I went for the spicy breakfast beans with mint and lemon: black eye, kidney and butter beans mixed in herby tomato sauce on an enormous slice of toast, plus a refreshing splodge of crème fraiche. It was very good.
We were a little miffed to see that M's mackerel did not come whole: it had been torn into pieces for convenience. Thankfully, I can confirm that, even in bits, the fish tasted fantastic and was very well matched by mild horseradish and crunchy granary toast. With more than a hint of food-envy, I employed my lupine scavenging skills. On an unrelated note, M's only complaint was that her portion was too small.
Afterwards, we sat reading the paper and drinking cucumber-laden tap water for close to an hour without ordering anything. Eventually, we were asked whether we would like something more. I said: "No thanks, we're fine." The manager managed to hide his contempt admirably and for that, and other achievements, I applaud him.
67 Broadway Market
Hackney
E8
020 7812 9829
www.climpsonandsons.com
by Moose Lee
The tyranny of choice: Saturday morning on Broadway Market offers a vertiginous selection of gourmand-baiting breakfast options. Luckily, M and I had already picked our destination: Climpson & Sons – one of the few unreviewed cafes on this strip of bourgeois indulgence. To get to the café, however, we had to resist a myriad of siren-strength temptation. Donning blindfolds and bunging our nostrils, we crept past gallettes, hog roasts and patisseries. Navigating by texture and sound alone, we followed the espresso machine's wail until our hands met with sanded wood.
Climpson's has a relaxed, beach-hut feel, with tables lining the pavement. The breakfast menu is not going to slay any hangovers but it is great for those self-righteous mornings when you get up early with almost no unexplained bruises. On the manager's recommendation, I went for the spicy breakfast beans with mint and lemon: black eye, kidney and butter beans mixed in herby tomato sauce on an enormous slice of toast, plus a refreshing splodge of crème fraiche. It was very good.
We were a little miffed to see that M's mackerel did not come whole: it had been torn into pieces for convenience. Thankfully, I can confirm that, even in bits, the fish tasted fantastic and was very well matched by mild horseradish and crunchy granary toast. With more than a hint of food-envy, I employed my lupine scavenging skills. On an unrelated note, M's only complaint was that her portion was too small.
Afterwards, we sat reading the paper and drinking cucumber-laden tap water for close to an hour without ordering anything. Eventually, we were asked whether we would like something more. I said: "No thanks, we're fine." The manager managed to hide his contempt admirably and for that, and other achievements, I applaud him.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Baker & Spice, Chelsea
Baker & Spice
47 Denyer Street
Chelsea
SW3
020 7589 4734
by Rhys Chris Peese
Eating out falls into two categories: meals that are familiar and comforting, and those that are aspirational. Pub grub? Familiar. Haute cuisine? Aspirational. Breakfast at Baker and Spice manages to be both.
This is how the other half breakfast. My local greasy spoon doesn’t charge ten quid for a plain omelette. Then again, my local greasy spoon doesn’t have an original Warhol print on the wall. Baker and Spice is the sort of place where you wish for one of those menus they give to women at Le Gavroche, which don’t have the prices on. Organic boiled eggs? Three fifty. Freshly squeezed organic blood orange juice? Four fifty. Organic smoked salmon omelette? Twenty nicker.
That said, the food is nearly as impressive as the prices. My pain au chocolat was glazed to a fine crunch, and was blessed with a generous wodge of rich chocolate, rather than the more familiar pair of emaciated chocolate worms that one usually finds in England. The cappuccino was the finest I’ve ever had: a robust coffee, plenty of foam, a mountain of really dark cocoa. Again, quite unlike the usual mimsiness that I’m used to. Even if my companion’s scrambled eggs were a bit too well-beaten, they were perfectly cooked with some really fresh herbs and flavoursome mushrooms.
But then there was the porridge. The texture was exactly the right meeting of bite and gloop. However, it needed to be cooked with salt, or sugar, or both, to take the edge of its natural blandness. And serving it with blueberries offended my Scots ancestry: fresh fruit and Scottish cuisine make awkward bedfellows.
Levels of pregnancy and parenthood are high in Baker and Spice, but levels of bacon are low: the cooked breakfast is only available at the weekend and eggs, pancakes and pastries are the order of the day. They wear their ethical credentials on their orange sleeves, adding ecological comfort to the well-cooked, comforting food. But one can’t help feeling that at these prices, they could be aspiring just that little bit more.
47 Denyer Street
Chelsea
SW3
020 7589 4734
by Rhys Chris Peese
Eating out falls into two categories: meals that are familiar and comforting, and those that are aspirational. Pub grub? Familiar. Haute cuisine? Aspirational. Breakfast at Baker and Spice manages to be both.
This is how the other half breakfast. My local greasy spoon doesn’t charge ten quid for a plain omelette. Then again, my local greasy spoon doesn’t have an original Warhol print on the wall. Baker and Spice is the sort of place where you wish for one of those menus they give to women at Le Gavroche, which don’t have the prices on. Organic boiled eggs? Three fifty. Freshly squeezed organic blood orange juice? Four fifty. Organic smoked salmon omelette? Twenty nicker.
That said, the food is nearly as impressive as the prices. My pain au chocolat was glazed to a fine crunch, and was blessed with a generous wodge of rich chocolate, rather than the more familiar pair of emaciated chocolate worms that one usually finds in England. The cappuccino was the finest I’ve ever had: a robust coffee, plenty of foam, a mountain of really dark cocoa. Again, quite unlike the usual mimsiness that I’m used to. Even if my companion’s scrambled eggs were a bit too well-beaten, they were perfectly cooked with some really fresh herbs and flavoursome mushrooms.
But then there was the porridge. The texture was exactly the right meeting of bite and gloop. However, it needed to be cooked with salt, or sugar, or both, to take the edge of its natural blandness. And serving it with blueberries offended my Scots ancestry: fresh fruit and Scottish cuisine make awkward bedfellows.
Levels of pregnancy and parenthood are high in Baker and Spice, but levels of bacon are low: the cooked breakfast is only available at the weekend and eggs, pancakes and pastries are the order of the day. They wear their ethical credentials on their orange sleeves, adding ecological comfort to the well-cooked, comforting food. But one can’t help feeling that at these prices, they could be aspiring just that little bit more.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Special Dispatch: The Gastrodome, The Hay Festival
The Gastrodome
The Hay Festival 2007
Hay-on-Wye
Wales
by Blake Pudding
Do any regular readers of the LRB inwardly wince when they see a “special dispatch” review rather than an honest to God London one? I do. It just seems that they are rubbing in how often they go on holiday and to such unusual places: Tokyo, Malawi, Hastings. I think in this era of environmental self-righteousness such reviews should be banned or at least carbon offset by planting extra trees.
Anyway, talking of self-righteousness I was at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival. The weather was ghastly and I had been rudely turned away from the Green Room by Gordon Brown’s heavies. There was only one place left to go - the Gastrodome.
Amongst the general backslapping, preaching-to-the-converted smugness that surrounds Hay, this place really took the proverbial organic biscuit. Eggs were from rare breed hens and came in different colours, bread was left-leaning and the cheese was of the kind used to sabotage fox hunts in the days when such things were allowed. It was also delicious. Trying eggs this good made me realise how little flavour supermarket eggs, even free-range ones have. The only minuses were the insipid ethically produced coffee and the champagne which was organic, thin and green. As I sat there wondering how much this was going to cost, I realised that I had gate-crashed a publishers' party for Booker favourites Thomas Keneally and David Mitchell. My stomach full of delicious food and free champagne, my head full of literary conversations, I was ready to face the Welsh weather.
The Hay Festival 2007
Hay-on-Wye
Wales
by Blake Pudding
Do any regular readers of the LRB inwardly wince when they see a “special dispatch” review rather than an honest to God London one? I do. It just seems that they are rubbing in how often they go on holiday and to such unusual places: Tokyo, Malawi, Hastings. I think in this era of environmental self-righteousness such reviews should be banned or at least carbon offset by planting extra trees.
Anyway, talking of self-righteousness I was at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival. The weather was ghastly and I had been rudely turned away from the Green Room by Gordon Brown’s heavies. There was only one place left to go - the Gastrodome.
Amongst the general backslapping, preaching-to-the-converted smugness that surrounds Hay, this place really took the proverbial organic biscuit. Eggs were from rare breed hens and came in different colours, bread was left-leaning and the cheese was of the kind used to sabotage fox hunts in the days when such things were allowed. It was also delicious. Trying eggs this good made me realise how little flavour supermarket eggs, even free-range ones have. The only minuses were the insipid ethically produced coffee and the champagne which was organic, thin and green. As I sat there wondering how much this was going to cost, I realised that I had gate-crashed a publishers' party for Booker favourites Thomas Keneally and David Mitchell. My stomach full of delicious food and free champagne, my head full of literary conversations, I was ready to face the Welsh weather.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Queens Wood Cafe, Highgate
Queens Wood Cafe
Queens Lodge
42 Muswell Hill Road
Highgate
N10
0208 444 2604
by Stephen Fry-Up
Having spent much of the weekend on the set of forthcoming box-office smash Ciao Bella, producing the kind of viscerally physical performance for which I am justly famed, I awoke on Monday morning with an ache in every joint and the sudden remembrance that I was unemployed. ‘Twas nonetheless a fine morning: cold, and crisp, and full of muted sun. My flat-mate, “The Toaster”, and I weaved our way through battalions of wholemeal pushchairs and past the organic twattisseries of London’s Crouch End. Our destination: Queens Wood.
Or rather: the Queens Wood Café, a daintily terraced cricket-pavilion thing nestled in the North-Westerly corner of the wood just off the Muswell Hill Road. Of breakfast options there were but five: a Veggie Breakfast, a Meat Breakfast, Eggs Bennie, Oatmeal, and Organic Swiss Muesli. I chose meat and The Toaster opted for the oatmeal. Tea came in nice thick white mugs inexplicably placed onto saucers. “Mugs and saucers?” I opined, “Whatever next?” The Toaster declined to comment.
Food arrived promptly: the Toaster’s Oatmeal came with dribbly honey and soft yoghurt. It was thick and squelchy, with the perfect balance of sweet goodness and salty bite. The honey-yoghurt-oatmeal ratio (so difficult to balance in these troubled times) was also spot on. My Meat Breakfast was small but good: yolks gooed beautifully and the bacon was strong and crisp. I also allowed myself a bottle of raspberry juice: it was thick and gloopy as healthy things tend to be and it didn’t quench my thirst. But it tasted nice and sweet and provided a pleasant counterpoint to a post-prandial snout.
Two minor concluding quibbles: my toast was a bit cold, and the butter came in throw-away sachets. If one is going free-range carbon-neutral, at least do proper frickin’ butter…
Queens Lodge
42 Muswell Hill Road
Highgate
N10
0208 444 2604
by Stephen Fry-Up
Having spent much of the weekend on the set of forthcoming box-office smash Ciao Bella, producing the kind of viscerally physical performance for which I am justly famed, I awoke on Monday morning with an ache in every joint and the sudden remembrance that I was unemployed. ‘Twas nonetheless a fine morning: cold, and crisp, and full of muted sun. My flat-mate, “The Toaster”, and I weaved our way through battalions of wholemeal pushchairs and past the organic twattisseries of London’s Crouch End. Our destination: Queens Wood.
Or rather: the Queens Wood Café, a daintily terraced cricket-pavilion thing nestled in the North-Westerly corner of the wood just off the Muswell Hill Road. Of breakfast options there were but five: a Veggie Breakfast, a Meat Breakfast, Eggs Bennie, Oatmeal, and Organic Swiss Muesli. I chose meat and The Toaster opted for the oatmeal. Tea came in nice thick white mugs inexplicably placed onto saucers. “Mugs and saucers?” I opined, “Whatever next?” The Toaster declined to comment.
Food arrived promptly: the Toaster’s Oatmeal came with dribbly honey and soft yoghurt. It was thick and squelchy, with the perfect balance of sweet goodness and salty bite. The honey-yoghurt-oatmeal ratio (so difficult to balance in these troubled times) was also spot on. My Meat Breakfast was small but good: yolks gooed beautifully and the bacon was strong and crisp. I also allowed myself a bottle of raspberry juice: it was thick and gloopy as healthy things tend to be and it didn’t quench my thirst. But it tasted nice and sweet and provided a pleasant counterpoint to a post-prandial snout.
Two minor concluding quibbles: my toast was a bit cold, and the butter came in throw-away sachets. If one is going free-range carbon-neutral, at least do proper frickin’ butter…
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