Purple, Streatham

Purple
The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16
020 8677 2277

by Rhys Chris Peese

It may seem cavalier, on a website devoted to breakfasts, to reveal that I really don’t like eggs. Fried? No. Poached? Yuk. Boiled? Gah. In a bid to retain my reviewer’s credentials I’ll admit that scrambled can be palatable, especially with a bit of grated cheese and parsley. But that’s not good enough for Purple, tucked away on its sunless stretch of Streatham High Road. Instead, there’s a section on the menu entitled ‘Eggs Mania’, as if the liking of eggs were some kind of mental debility, available in varieties such as Benedict, or Florentine. However, they happily let me substitute peppers and asparagus from the vegetarian breakfast for the eggs on the full English, bringing joy to my heart, and less cholesterol to my arteries.

Mushrooms were the breakfast’s highlight; perfectly cooked with a rich flavour, and the sausage likewise. The grilled bacon was reasonable, although a second slice might have been nice, even for a £4.50 breakfast that included a small cup of thin coffee. The beans were hot, unlike the undercooked asparagus or the miserly quarter-tomato that had barely seen the grill.

My flatmate found herself at the sharp end of Purple’s frugality, though, when she ordered the Continental Breakfast. For £4.00 you get tea and fruit juice, but the accompanying croissant was small, burnt on the bottom, powdered mysteriously with icing sugar, ‘didn’t taste like a croissant’, and was served with margarine rather than butter: each of these an egregious offence to the French pastry.

Purple veers erratically between delightful success and awkward failure. It has aspirations beyond that of a greasy spoon, yet our wooden table was disconcertingly sticky. It has a friendly atmosphere, despite the jaunty, eponymous, colour scheme, punctuated with rubbish artworks. It’s this very inconsistency that keeps us going back, and half regretting it when we do.

Honest Food, Brixton

Honest Food
424 Coldharbour Lane
Brixton
SW9
0207 738 6161

by Eggmund Hillary

Perhaps it is a good sign that the blogs and online-user-review-pages for Honest Food are awash with strong differences of opinion. Or perhaps it’s just Brixton in general that sparks these debates. Is it part of the (often unwelcome) bourgeoisation / gentrification of the area or a welcome addition to the greasy spoons and sandwich shops of the area? Is it an over-priced, under-staffed veggie space that belongs in West London or a quiet little haven from the bustle of Coldharbour Lane?

After this morning’s hour long sitting, I would have to lump for the latter in both cases. OK, so the shelves are filled with delicacies that might not find much of a clientele in the area - pickled onion in thyme and pepper anyone? Or perhaps some organic Indian fish rub (blended in Yorkshire)? And the only newspaper being consumed was the Saturday Guardian. But all that aside, we at LRB are about the brekkie, so how was it?

Whilst the coffee certainly took longer to arrive than it should, I have to admit to not even noticing the delay. Something to do with the quiet, welcoming surroundings and the Kate Nash interview in the Guardian Guide. The breakfast followed soon after. It consisted of multi-seed toast (from a choice of four different kinds of bread) with melted butter, two fried eggs just the right side of runny, two large and tasty mushrooms, two crisp veggie sausages, fried tomatoes and a potato pancake. Quality ingredients all round, including coarse salt and black pepper, made this well worth the £5.95 price tag. With friendly service throughout and a healthily active community noticeboard for anyone looking for local yoga or pilates classes, Honest Food is a welcome addition to Brixton’s breakfast scene. You’ll just have to leave your Daily Telegraph at the door.

Whole Foods, Kensington

Whole Foods
The Barkers Building
63 - 97 Kensington High Street
Kensington
W8
0207 368 4500
www.wholefoodsmarket.com/UK/kensington/index.html

by H.P. Seuss

What the fuck is that SMELL?

Actually, smell doesn't capture it. It has the pervasiveness of a fug - but a fug is too low somehow, too damp. It has the dryness of an aroma - but then an aroma would imply that it's pleasant. It's not something you'd sniff for kicks.

Yeast is the predominant note, with sympathetic chords of wicker baskets, brioche and American things like popcorn and hire cars. There's a definite bouquet of straw, too; and with it the tang of manure and the surprisingly soft note of rotting flesh. The structure is redolent of emulsion paint. If it were a colour, it would be beige: the colour of Anya Hindmarsh's famous bags, of hemp rope for hanging, of barren earth, of David Cameron's soul.

It is the smell of Whole Foods, pumped through the basement food-hall, the ground floor "market" and the first floor "canteen", getting in your hair, your clothes, your credit card bills. It doesn't so much mask other smells as affix itself to them, flavouring them. It is the smell of our future as green consumers. And it's so revolting that the pornographic array of cheese, patisserie and pre-prepared salads for sale in Whole Foods will never be as appetising as they would be in any natural environment. It just doesn't feel organic in the way I understand it.

And frankly neither do any of the 26 varieties of killer tomatoes on sale, particularly the insipid orb that is part of my tepid, refectory-style "English Breakfast" on the first floor. The rest of this dry, fatty, Americanised assembly - grey-green scrambled eggs, semi-raw sausage, bacon jerky, white toast ("no brown available"! In the temple of choice!) - requires five separate squirts of ketchup to render it edible. It is pathetic.

In fact the whole enterprise - the insolently amiable staff, the idiotic queuing system, the instore art department you pass on the stairs - is so fake, cloying, hectoring and misguided, it makes your soul want to vomit. And I still can't get that fucking smell out of my nostrils.

Uplands Bar and Brasserie, East Dulwich

Uplands Bar and Brasserie
90 Crystal Palace Road
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 2662

by Herby Banger

This is a story of redemption; because today I have taken a risk, a gamble on a venue up until today banished and removed from the breakfasting dictionary of East Dulwich. It was at The Uplands Tavern that I witnessed our editor try and fail to eat what he still describes today as the worst breakfast he has ever had. This I might add was years ago now, well before the LRB, and in many respects this incident could be perceived by historians as one of the motivating factors behind the very inception of this project.

However, time is a great healer and in my case I was ready to give the place another chance. I’m glad I did, because I have just come back from one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in this area for a long time. East Dulwich is awash with greasy spoons, but since the Two Trees has shut there remain very few options for a finer cooked breakfast, with better ingredients, but we can etch The Uplands on to this list; well for now, anyway. Because this is the point: places change, chefs come and go, and people learn from their mistakes.

In 2007 you get a chunky plate of food for a reasonable £4.50, starring 2 thick and meaty quality sausages grilled delightfully. Two eggs accompany, well fried and (pls note editor!) cooked throughout. The bacon is well done, hot and snapping to attention. Grilled tomato, grilled mushroom, beans and a rack of toast make up the rest. Take into account a full selection of papers, airy light surroundings and the chance to order a pint if you choose, and I reckon you’ve found a good place to relax and enjoy breakfast at the weekend. As gambles go this one paid out.

Special Dispatch: The Antique Café, Chelsea, New York

The Antique Café
65 West 26th St
Chelsea
New York
+1 212-675-1663

by Cathy Latte

A free holiday with the Latte dynasty was always gonna be an interesting undertaking. All those idiosyncracies suddenly brought into sharp focus. Still, Central Park roams, bottles of rosé served up with the family stories you never knew existed, and the kind of silences you can only get away with when with those who you’ve known you all your life, made it all worthwhile. But I can’t lie; it was nice to get a day on my own.

It was a hot Saturday morning and I’d wandered out of the Chelsea flea market (Saturdays and Sundays, just off seventh and 26th) and was lured to this place. Shady canopies in the courtyard, wood panelled booths indoors.

The waiting staff seemed to glide around the tables with the ease of dancers. The women on the tables around me had good hair, great teeth and long lithe limbs - like they’d been stretched and sprayed with Clarins from an early age. I looked a bit scruffy for this place maybe, but no-one seemed to care.

I finally chose from the extensive brunch menu. A wide shouldered young gent floated a pretty perfect looking Eggs Bene in front of me. We exchanged smiles and he slid silently back off indoors. I like that. Not too over-familiar.

My brunch satisfied in every conceivable sense. Piping hot gooey eggs soaked into the warm blini bed. Thick Canadian bacon hit with waves of smokiness. Rich roast potatoes alternated between sweet and savoury punches, and the fresh leafy salad hit a craving for veg I’d not managed to ditch all week. And the latte – damn, New Yorkers know coffee.

A few hours later I got back to the room. My brother was watching telly. “Pass the remote will you sis?” Dutifully I did. We sat and watched trash TV, and didn’t speak for an hour. Some things never change, no matter where you are.

Rivington Grill, Shoreditch

Rivington Grill
28-30 Rivington Street
Shoreditch
EC2A
020 7729 7053
www.rivingtongrill.co.uk

by Des Ayuno

D was taking me out for a proper treat, over my protestations. “I think we need a bit of swank,” he said, but also directed me to the website, to show he’d not be forced to extend his overdraft in swank’s pursuit. Under a discreet Caprice Holdings header, it read like a Waitrose ad – Peter Gott’s bacon, Dereensillagh smoked salmon – and shared the same queasily attractive mix of aspirational luxury and corporate ruthlessness.

Come Friday morning, its spacious, linen-bedecked tables, glinting glassware and long wooden bar set a vaguely Parisian tone – as, regrettably, did the service. Winsome dark-haired waitresses ignored us completely and flirted with the only other customer, a besuited gentleman accessorised with the FT Wealth Quarterly. When they finally arrived, D’s kippers were enormous, sumptuous and utterly worth the wait. My Full English, though in its visual perfection could have illustrated Jamie’s Lovely Jubbly Best Breakfast Ever recipe, was mostly comprised of disappointing near misses. Mr Gott’s bacon tasted of very little, as did a juicy-looking sausage. A giant portion of field mushrooms and mean half tomato were caked in black pepper whose coarse texture was presumably meant to signify freshly ground but whose dusty taste indicated otherwise. Thankfully, the gloriously runny fried egg swam in puddles of delicious yellow grease and the black pudding was a crumbly, crispy joy.

I suppose I have no right to demand finely tuned culinary perfection from an Ivy outpost. And I’m sure that, on a Saturday morning, full of chatter, clinking silverware and the kind of people who aspire to a membership of Shoreditch House, the atmosphere approaches convivial. But for a posh joint whose USP is impeccable service, it’s just a bit crap. Go to the Wolseley instead.

The Breakfast Club, Islington

The Breakfast Club
31 Camden Passage
Islington
N1
020 7226 5454

by Rhys Chris Peese

Ah, the 1980s. Mass unemployment; the poll tax; the crippling of the NHS… there’s just so much to be nostalgic about. And of course John Hughes’ 1985 paean to high school conformity, The Breakfast Club. Sharing the film’s name, Islington’s branch of the Soho all-day eatery chooses to celebrate some of the more grating corners of that decade on a cork board decorated with retro vinyl: Wham, Paul Young, Madonna… and Ernie, The Fastest Milkman In The West. Surely that charted in 1971? Let’s not quibble over details.

Perhaps having heeded Poppy Tartt’s difficulties at the Soho branch, the ‘Full Monty’ breakfast takes pride of place at the head of the cartoon-themed menu. My expectations of plenitude were whetted by the oversized cup of tea, but even I, a seasoned eater of large breakfasts, was impressed by what seven quid gets you in N1.

This was the twelve inch remix of an English breakfast. The pork and leek sausages were a succulent delight, the beans a steaming orange ocean, the toast sturdy to the point of intransigence. These accompanied a mountain of hash browns, and no bland pre-formed patties, neither: this was a big old pile of fried potatoes and onions, positively rustic in the roughness of their cut. Clearly the kitchen staff enjoy cooking. But apparently they enjoy cooking some things a bit too much: the mushrooms and the bacon were overdone, and while both had an admirable richness of flavour, this was at the expense of almost any moisture.

The Breakfast Club also offers smoothies, porridge, eggs Benedict, wooden floors, mismatched furniture and internet access, although if I return it’ll be for the All American: a massive helping of eggs, pancakes, bacon and maple syrup. Because if the 1980s taught us anything, it was that ‘greed is good’.