Flame Cafe Bistro
246 St Paul's Rd
Highbury
N1 2LJ
020 7354 1546
by Poppy Tartt
Several fasts were broken this morning. Petersen and Peterson and I, together again after months held apart by the Atlantic Ocean and the weight of our incompatible life choices, fell on each other like old friends reunited. (Which we were). We had expected Henry Pottinger, but he cried off, pleading a cookery course. A lucky escape for him, if you know how he feels about beans. No one, not even H. P., needs to spend Tuesday morning on their knees.
Flame is dark and hot and empty, like an unpopular brothel. (Though Peterson, still resisting the rebranding of the English summer, thought it chilly). We ordered tea. It was just the weak side of too strong, and the teabag was not in evidence. Thank god! The tea was good. Then the beans came. Petersen and Peterson (full English meaty and veggy, respectively) were strong. “It’s just like a caff breakfast!” Petersen said cheerfully. Brave in the face of mushrooms so wizened and oily they might have spent a lifetime tanning on the tackier beaches of southern Spain, she parted her pre-formed egg to show me the dusty yolk within. Peterson’s scrambled eggs had not been burnt and she was, as usual, disappointed. My ‘Flame Medi’ – garlic sausage, egg, halloumi, tomatoes and cucumber atop several slices of toast – was merciful, if not in any sense biblical.
Still, thank god I was saved from the monstrous beanslick polluting the plates of Petersen and Peterson. Thank god for halloumi! For halloumi I would kneel on a Tuesday. Yes, I thank Halloumi that where breakfasts are unpredictable three things at least are unchanging: the love between Petersen and Peterson and I; my fascination with their spectacular breasts; and Halloumi, mother of all cheeses – mother, perhaps, of us all.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Special Dispatch: Coast Cafe, Newquay
Coast Cafe
54 Fore Street
Newquay
Cornwall
TR7 1LW
01637 854 976
by Al Penn
The sport of surfing thrums with an undertone of sublime mystery. Its ideal participant is a winsome, yet monosyllabic loner; blonde of hair and blue of eye, he stares into the middle distance, head cocked attentively, all senses alert to the possibility of a killer wave. This quest for perfection is among the loftiest of all endeavours. It's a straightforward metaphor for more transparently spiritual pursuits. To ride the perfect wave is achieve Nirvana, or to enter Heaven. It is a death in the midst of life.
Pro surfers don't concern themselves with any of that, of course, or at least very few of them do. Like all successful sportsmen they're interested in ranking points, sponsorship deals and the acquisition of trophies rather than enlightenment. To further these worldly ends the very best that either hemisphere can offer are gathered at Fistral Beach, here in Newquay, for the Rip Curl Boardmasters Festival of Surf.
We park the car on a gravelly clifftop and head down towards the beach. We're hungry. The sea air and unwonted exercise will do that to you. And you'll go to bed early and wake up late and blame your aches and pains on the unfamiliar mattress rather than the sudden employment of ageing, forgotten muscles.
Coast is a small place. The décor is determinedly mid-Atlantic, as much Nantucket as Newquay; it's run and staffed by a co-operative of handsome, unhurried women who have a similarly washed-out yet comfy look about them. A baby is passed around amongst them as they take and prepare our order. It's almost like a parlour game for the Cornish genteel. So Coast is no greasy spoon. Oddly, there's no real odour of food in the place. The calm-eyed ladies seem to magic the fare up without getting their hands dirty. My wife challenges them with bacon and tomatoes. I plump for a discreet ham and cheese toastie.
The act of cooking snack food may lack the metaphysical resonance of surfing, but it too is all about maintaining equilibrium. And my hasty breakfast proves to be nicely balanced. The coffee is excellent, strong enough, and not too bitter. My toasted sandwich is perfect, crisp but not burnt, the cheese is fully molten yet net neither greasy nor inedibly hot. As a special, unexpected treat I get to finish my daughter's ice cream (she's an eccentric eater). Breakfast for two-and-a-half comes to exactly a tenner. “Neat,” I think.
On the beach, minutes later, and on flat water, Brazilian maestro Pedro Henrique surfs a miraculous 9.70 straight at us, finishing up no more than twenty yards away. It's the best ride of the week. “Also neat,” I say. The wife nods, staring calmly out to sea.
54 Fore Street
Newquay
Cornwall
TR7 1LW
01637 854 976
by Al Penn
The sport of surfing thrums with an undertone of sublime mystery. Its ideal participant is a winsome, yet monosyllabic loner; blonde of hair and blue of eye, he stares into the middle distance, head cocked attentively, all senses alert to the possibility of a killer wave. This quest for perfection is among the loftiest of all endeavours. It's a straightforward metaphor for more transparently spiritual pursuits. To ride the perfect wave is achieve Nirvana, or to enter Heaven. It is a death in the midst of life.
Pro surfers don't concern themselves with any of that, of course, or at least very few of them do. Like all successful sportsmen they're interested in ranking points, sponsorship deals and the acquisition of trophies rather than enlightenment. To further these worldly ends the very best that either hemisphere can offer are gathered at Fistral Beach, here in Newquay, for the Rip Curl Boardmasters Festival of Surf.
We park the car on a gravelly clifftop and head down towards the beach. We're hungry. The sea air and unwonted exercise will do that to you. And you'll go to bed early and wake up late and blame your aches and pains on the unfamiliar mattress rather than the sudden employment of ageing, forgotten muscles.
Coast is a small place. The décor is determinedly mid-Atlantic, as much Nantucket as Newquay; it's run and staffed by a co-operative of handsome, unhurried women who have a similarly washed-out yet comfy look about them. A baby is passed around amongst them as they take and prepare our order. It's almost like a parlour game for the Cornish genteel. So Coast is no greasy spoon. Oddly, there's no real odour of food in the place. The calm-eyed ladies seem to magic the fare up without getting their hands dirty. My wife challenges them with bacon and tomatoes. I plump for a discreet ham and cheese toastie.
The act of cooking snack food may lack the metaphysical resonance of surfing, but it too is all about maintaining equilibrium. And my hasty breakfast proves to be nicely balanced. The coffee is excellent, strong enough, and not too bitter. My toasted sandwich is perfect, crisp but not burnt, the cheese is fully molten yet net neither greasy nor inedibly hot. As a special, unexpected treat I get to finish my daughter's ice cream (she's an eccentric eater). Breakfast for two-and-a-half comes to exactly a tenner. “Neat,” I think.
On the beach, minutes later, and on flat water, Brazilian maestro Pedro Henrique surfs a miraculous 9.70 straight at us, finishing up no more than twenty yards away. It's the best ride of the week. “Also neat,” I say. The wife nods, staring calmly out to sea.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Franklins, East Dulwich
Franklins
157 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8299 9598
(Full breakfast menu served Saturdays only, from 10am - 4pm)
by Herby Banger and Tina Beans
Whispers in the shadows, rumours and seductive hearsay were all pointing to one thing. Franklins, the best restaurant in Dulwich, and some say South East London, also dabbled in cooking breakfasts. And what an experience it was meant to be: the teller told all with the sideways grin and twinkling eyes of someone who had struck breakfast gold.
So last Saturday we arrived at Franklins, took a seat in the beautifully light surroundings of their restaurant section, and ordered two Full English cooked breakfasts. We sat back to wait, already aware that this could be breakfast history in the making.
Our lattes arrived first, veritable goblets of fine hot coffee that soothed the soul, as we watched with pleasure the gentlemen chefs made visible by the open wall to the kitchen. Inside they busied themselves like ants; carefully constructing our food, each one knowing perfectly what was required of the other. No fuss, no speaking, just judgment, care and expertise.
We can say that with confidence now, because these Rembrandts of the breakfast world, these craftsmen, produced simply the best breakfast we have had since forever. It was if all other breakfasts had been merely in black and white; Franklins, however, have discovered colour. Everything was unspeakably tasty. The grilled tomato did that rare thing of shedding off any vegetable confusion and proved itself as a delicate fruit, fragrant and succulent and exploding in your mouth. The homemade black pudding was a delight. The sausage was strong, and dense, as was the bacon that tasted as if the pig had slept under a duvet upon a cloud. Then the eggs, oh the eggs. Golden, moist, soft scrambled eggs that put all other attempts to shame. We have never tasted eggs this wonderful. All this and a mushroom and some fine toast for £7.
We swoon for this breakfast.
157 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8299 9598
(Full breakfast menu served Saturdays only, from 10am - 4pm)
by Herby Banger and Tina Beans
Whispers in the shadows, rumours and seductive hearsay were all pointing to one thing. Franklins, the best restaurant in Dulwich, and some say South East London, also dabbled in cooking breakfasts. And what an experience it was meant to be: the teller told all with the sideways grin and twinkling eyes of someone who had struck breakfast gold.
So last Saturday we arrived at Franklins, took a seat in the beautifully light surroundings of their restaurant section, and ordered two Full English cooked breakfasts. We sat back to wait, already aware that this could be breakfast history in the making.
Our lattes arrived first, veritable goblets of fine hot coffee that soothed the soul, as we watched with pleasure the gentlemen chefs made visible by the open wall to the kitchen. Inside they busied themselves like ants; carefully constructing our food, each one knowing perfectly what was required of the other. No fuss, no speaking, just judgment, care and expertise.
We can say that with confidence now, because these Rembrandts of the breakfast world, these craftsmen, produced simply the best breakfast we have had since forever. It was if all other breakfasts had been merely in black and white; Franklins, however, have discovered colour. Everything was unspeakably tasty. The grilled tomato did that rare thing of shedding off any vegetable confusion and proved itself as a delicate fruit, fragrant and succulent and exploding in your mouth. The homemade black pudding was a delight. The sausage was strong, and dense, as was the bacon that tasted as if the pig had slept under a duvet upon a cloud. Then the eggs, oh the eggs. Golden, moist, soft scrambled eggs that put all other attempts to shame. We have never tasted eggs this wonderful. All this and a mushroom and some fine toast for £7.
We swoon for this breakfast.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Caramel Room, Knightsbridge
The Caramel Room
The Berkeley Hotel
Wilton Place
Knightsbridge
SW1X
020 7235 6000
www.berkeleyhoteluk.co.uk
by Alotta Waffle
The Caramel Room sounds like a part of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - down the corridor from Fudger's Library or alongside the Bubble Gum Bathroom perhaps. Actually, it's The Berkeley's breakfasting room and what it lacks in Oompa-Loompas, it makes up for in white-jacketed waiters whisking laden silver platters to tables of business types, American families and country aristocrats en route to Harrods.
Ever the fish out of water, I managed to bag a table last Saturday - stocking up on all the (proper) newspapers at the table beside the entrance. Whilst my companion selected a cholesterol-free egg white omelette with grilled vegetables from the a la carte menu, I walked around (and around... and around again) a buffet table that is surely every serious breakfaster's heaven. Bypassing the origami-like portions of smoked salmon (fishy breath before 11am is socially dubious), I began with delicately sliced papaya, perfectly proportioned pineapple and shot glasses full of plump-to-bursting blackberries. I rounded the corner and came across a contender for the best homemade muesli in town, (generous on the nuts without overdoing the raisins), then made the final turn towards the serried ranks of miniature pastries, tarts, croissants and doughnuts. It was Willy Wonka all over again.
Back at the table, the "firm but not rubbery" omelette was devoured as I made my way through a third giant pot of vanilla tea. We left after a further hour of paper reading, me light-headed from gallons of this tea that was so moreishly sweet I was powerless to resist, my companion light-walleted from the £70 bill. Breakfasters here will need to have a budget considerably bigger than their appetite. Or alternatively just a love of Roald Dahl.
The Berkeley Hotel
Wilton Place
Knightsbridge
SW1X
020 7235 6000
www.berkeleyhoteluk.co.uk
by Alotta Waffle
The Caramel Room sounds like a part of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - down the corridor from Fudger's Library or alongside the Bubble Gum Bathroom perhaps. Actually, it's The Berkeley's breakfasting room and what it lacks in Oompa-Loompas, it makes up for in white-jacketed waiters whisking laden silver platters to tables of business types, American families and country aristocrats en route to Harrods.
Ever the fish out of water, I managed to bag a table last Saturday - stocking up on all the (proper) newspapers at the table beside the entrance. Whilst my companion selected a cholesterol-free egg white omelette with grilled vegetables from the a la carte menu, I walked around (and around... and around again) a buffet table that is surely every serious breakfaster's heaven. Bypassing the origami-like portions of smoked salmon (fishy breath before 11am is socially dubious), I began with delicately sliced papaya, perfectly proportioned pineapple and shot glasses full of plump-to-bursting blackberries. I rounded the corner and came across a contender for the best homemade muesli in town, (generous on the nuts without overdoing the raisins), then made the final turn towards the serried ranks of miniature pastries, tarts, croissants and doughnuts. It was Willy Wonka all over again.
Back at the table, the "firm but not rubbery" omelette was devoured as I made my way through a third giant pot of vanilla tea. We left after a further hour of paper reading, me light-headed from gallons of this tea that was so moreishly sweet I was powerless to resist, my companion light-walleted from the £70 bill. Breakfasters here will need to have a budget considerably bigger than their appetite. Or alternatively just a love of Roald Dahl.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Special Dispatch: Divalls, Brighton
Divalls
3 Terminus Road
Brighton BN1 3PD
01273 776 277
by Des Ayuno
****DIVALLS HAS NOW CLOSED****
Divalls, with the tattiest facade in Brighton and a wheels-akimbo wheelchair blocking the door, exuded the appeal of the depressingly familiar – like recognising faces in your local dole queue, or Kathy Burke in Nil by Mouth. The Scot, irritable and silent after an early morning rail replacement bus, on which Italian ladies in leopard-print Lycra screeched at each other over gangs of shrill 13-year-olds, snapped back to life, whispered “fantastic” and bounded inside.
Inside, every surface was covered in blistered veneer-effect laminate, except for the creepy flesh-coloured Formica tabletops. A toothless, aggressive OAP in a pinny took orders at the till, flanked by sepia photographs of an eye-rolling pug and a framed portrait of Arthur Lowe. The rest of the customers, mostly scraggly kids, drank tall glasses of milk and hid fags from the waitress, cos she knew their mums. Pale yellow, proudly non-free-range eggs and vinegary tinned mushrooms were more authentic set pieces than detractions from the star of the show – the bubble. It was churned out in an elaborate system that may yet entice Henry Ford to burst joyously out of his grave. Industrial quantities of mash and cabbage were packed into rows of giant Tupperware which shuffled slowly from kitchen-floor left to kitchen-floor right to griddle, where a giant cake of the stuff rested, the soft back edge replenished periodically from the tubs and, over the course of hours, nudged inexorably to the crispy front, there to be lopped off in six-inch squares and served. Even the Scot, not a bubble fan, was transfixed, as though regarding assembly-line production for the first time. I was entranced by its velvety soft, buttery centre and fine, crunchy surface. Truly, it is worth a trip to Brighton, life-shortening journey and all, for this delicacy alone.
3 Terminus Road
Brighton BN1 3PD
01273 776 277
by Des Ayuno
****DIVALLS HAS NOW CLOSED****
Divalls, with the tattiest facade in Brighton and a wheels-akimbo wheelchair blocking the door, exuded the appeal of the depressingly familiar – like recognising faces in your local dole queue, or Kathy Burke in Nil by Mouth. The Scot, irritable and silent after an early morning rail replacement bus, on which Italian ladies in leopard-print Lycra screeched at each other over gangs of shrill 13-year-olds, snapped back to life, whispered “fantastic” and bounded inside.
Inside, every surface was covered in blistered veneer-effect laminate, except for the creepy flesh-coloured Formica tabletops. A toothless, aggressive OAP in a pinny took orders at the till, flanked by sepia photographs of an eye-rolling pug and a framed portrait of Arthur Lowe. The rest of the customers, mostly scraggly kids, drank tall glasses of milk and hid fags from the waitress, cos she knew their mums. Pale yellow, proudly non-free-range eggs and vinegary tinned mushrooms were more authentic set pieces than detractions from the star of the show – the bubble. It was churned out in an elaborate system that may yet entice Henry Ford to burst joyously out of his grave. Industrial quantities of mash and cabbage were packed into rows of giant Tupperware which shuffled slowly from kitchen-floor left to kitchen-floor right to griddle, where a giant cake of the stuff rested, the soft back edge replenished periodically from the tubs and, over the course of hours, nudged inexorably to the crispy front, there to be lopped off in six-inch squares and served. Even the Scot, not a bubble fan, was transfixed, as though regarding assembly-line production for the first time. I was entranced by its velvety soft, buttery centre and fine, crunchy surface. Truly, it is worth a trip to Brighton, life-shortening journey and all, for this delicacy alone.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Butler's Wharf Chop House, Bermondsey
Butler's Wharf Chop House
36e Shad Thames
Bermondsey
SE1
020 7403 3403
www.chophouse.co.uk
by H.P. Seuss
We grow weary of elaborate introductions about the "suffering pretentiousness of the author", or at least my nemesis Anonymous does. So these days we stick to the facts, and imagine our Web 2.0-empowered friend's approval at our precision with the truth - something he presumably finds and admires elsewhere in this blogosphere.
So, to the facts: Butler's Wharf Chop House is charmingly located in an attractive wharf next to Tower Bridge. Malcolm Eggs and I pootled along to sample the new breakfast menu and bask in the picture-postcard setting one sunny morning before we had given up on this summer as a damp squib.
Said menu is reassuringly English, with the modern adornments you would expect from an outpost of the Conran empire: kedgeree, benedict, outstanding fresh orange juice (bad fresh orange juice is one of the least documented of breakfast crimes, but like larceny, it can ruin your day). Prices are on the accessible side of expensive.
Malcolm Eggs and I, being creatures of habit, opted for two plates of full E. Here they are now: two ruddy sausages, rubbery bacon, poached eggs less amber than is my preference, charred mushrooms and aromatic tomatoes, all clamouring like shipwreck survivors on an oblong piece of toast. (I took this last quirk to be a nod back to our mediaeval culinary heritage, when bread served as plate). Quality, overall, is on the quotidian side of luxury.
But with the LRB's integgrity in mind, I must own up: this is the one and only time I or anyone else from the LRB has played the "influential blog" card and claimed the meal as complimentary. Before my Web 2.0-empowered friend cries foul, I must stress that the unnaturally attentive service and strange lack of satisfaction that comes from gaining for free what other must pay for not only gave me an insight into the mind of Victoria Beckham, but left me feeling a little awkward. I shall pay next time - and it will be pretty much worth it.
36e Shad Thames
Bermondsey
SE1
020 7403 3403
www.chophouse.co.uk
by H.P. Seuss
We grow weary of elaborate introductions about the "suffering pretentiousness of the author", or at least my nemesis Anonymous does. So these days we stick to the facts, and imagine our Web 2.0-empowered friend's approval at our precision with the truth - something he presumably finds and admires elsewhere in this blogosphere.
So, to the facts: Butler's Wharf Chop House is charmingly located in an attractive wharf next to Tower Bridge. Malcolm Eggs and I pootled along to sample the new breakfast menu and bask in the picture-postcard setting one sunny morning before we had given up on this summer as a damp squib.
Said menu is reassuringly English, with the modern adornments you would expect from an outpost of the Conran empire: kedgeree, benedict, outstanding fresh orange juice (bad fresh orange juice is one of the least documented of breakfast crimes, but like larceny, it can ruin your day). Prices are on the accessible side of expensive.
Malcolm Eggs and I, being creatures of habit, opted for two plates of full E. Here they are now: two ruddy sausages, rubbery bacon, poached eggs less amber than is my preference, charred mushrooms and aromatic tomatoes, all clamouring like shipwreck survivors on an oblong piece of toast. (I took this last quirk to be a nod back to our mediaeval culinary heritage, when bread served as plate). Quality, overall, is on the quotidian side of luxury.
But with the LRB's integgrity in mind, I must own up: this is the one and only time I or anyone else from the LRB has played the "influential blog" card and claimed the meal as complimentary. Before my Web 2.0-empowered friend cries foul, I must stress that the unnaturally attentive service and strange lack of satisfaction that comes from gaining for free what other must pay for not only gave me an insight into the mind of Victoria Beckham, but left me feeling a little awkward. I shall pay next time - and it will be pretty much worth it.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
My Tea Shop, London Bridge
My Tea Shop
23 Duke Street Hill
London Bridge
SE1
020 7407 1110
by Muffin Gaye
I’ve always believed that honesty is a symptom of confidence, and everything about My Tea Shop screams out like Cherie Blair: “I’ve got nothing to hide!”. Anywhere that serves OJ (no ice) straight out of a Sainsbury’s container in front of you deserves respect for its blatant lack of pretence. Through the open counter you can see a kitchen that looks like the backroom of a car park ticket booth, replete with crude steel benchtops and even cruder white cutting boards and even cruderererer other stuff. The friendly staff do nothing to cover this up. It’s hard to be dissatisfied with imperfection when it’s friendly.
Likewise, their counter menu, printed straight off the Excel preview screen, was informative and easy on the eyes of someone conditioned to Microsoft Office. It’s almost as if they’ve tapped into that part of the human mind that’s evolved to feel comfortable with 2 columns written in Times New Roman. Sitting down, I look outside to see a range of hyperaesthetic advertisements pass by on buses and T-Shirts, and wonder where we all went wrong with all the fancy lines and colours and so forth. My Tea Shop is more than a restaurant. It’s a deprogramming environment.
Within 5 minutes of ordering, 2 plates of chips, tomato (4 halves!), bacon, and egg steam forth onto the table. The bacon is crisp, the egg not too runny and not too hard, the chips fluffy and the tomato bountiful. It’s a manifestation of the kind of simple fantasy that occupies the mind when one is fantasising about something that is actually possible. That this reality cost 8 pounds for 2 people makes the Playstation 3 seem even more overpriced.
You can realise your dreams at My Tea Shop, just not ones that involve spinach. But they’ve all been put there by celebrity chefs and doctors you don’t trust anyway.
23 Duke Street Hill
London Bridge
SE1
020 7407 1110
by Muffin Gaye
I’ve always believed that honesty is a symptom of confidence, and everything about My Tea Shop screams out like Cherie Blair: “I’ve got nothing to hide!”. Anywhere that serves OJ (no ice) straight out of a Sainsbury’s container in front of you deserves respect for its blatant lack of pretence. Through the open counter you can see a kitchen that looks like the backroom of a car park ticket booth, replete with crude steel benchtops and even cruder white cutting boards and even cruderererer other stuff. The friendly staff do nothing to cover this up. It’s hard to be dissatisfied with imperfection when it’s friendly.
Likewise, their counter menu, printed straight off the Excel preview screen, was informative and easy on the eyes of someone conditioned to Microsoft Office. It’s almost as if they’ve tapped into that part of the human mind that’s evolved to feel comfortable with 2 columns written in Times New Roman. Sitting down, I look outside to see a range of hyperaesthetic advertisements pass by on buses and T-Shirts, and wonder where we all went wrong with all the fancy lines and colours and so forth. My Tea Shop is more than a restaurant. It’s a deprogramming environment.
Within 5 minutes of ordering, 2 plates of chips, tomato (4 halves!), bacon, and egg steam forth onto the table. The bacon is crisp, the egg not too runny and not too hard, the chips fluffy and the tomato bountiful. It’s a manifestation of the kind of simple fantasy that occupies the mind when one is fantasising about something that is actually possible. That this reality cost 8 pounds for 2 people makes the Playstation 3 seem even more overpriced.
You can realise your dreams at My Tea Shop, just not ones that involve spinach. But they’ve all been put there by celebrity chefs and doctors you don’t trust anyway.
Monday, August 06, 2007
The Grocery, Shoreditch
The Grocery
54-56 Kingsland Road
Shoreditch
E2
020 7729 6855
www.thegroceryshop.co.uk
by Des Ayuno
I wanted to hate the Grocery, an earnest supplier of organic puy lentils and 18 varieties of tofu metres from the edge of the UK’s poorest borough. But I knew I had to give its café a fair chance. The kitchen was set up by the magnificent Elaine, ex of Smallfish. Elaine once told me of a customer who complained that his breakfast was “dry” and demanded beans to remedy this problem. She frog-marched him out. Such conviction demands admiration.
M, J and I racked up late one Sunday and settled at beautiful, solid oak, country-kitchen tables. For at least half an hour we waited, without even tea to wet parched throats, though the surprise appearance of a bedraggled-looking Kevin Rowland cheered us no end. (He didn’t eat; just browsed the papers quietly.) By the time he ambled out, our food arrived. The lone waitress, already sitting down with her own lunch, handed over the brown sauce with a growl; the requested red never appeared.
As is the fashion these days, a tower of full-English ingredients was buttressed by toast and topped with a poached egg. With the exception of a very dry sausage (come on, Elaine!) all was juicily, flavourfully moreish – in fact, I nearly demanded more tomato than the miserly half offered. But it was the toast about which I still dream. Savoury sourdough, easily an inch thick, it was drenched in olive oil and transported us all to some sun-kissed Tuscan hillside. On a scale from “For god’s sake burn it down” to “I’m in heaven”, the toast trumped the dreadful service to secure the café a rating of “More please and thank you”. But when the waitress sprayed eco-disinfectant on the table, and my arm, the team that meets in the caffs headed home.
54-56 Kingsland Road
Shoreditch
E2
020 7729 6855
www.thegroceryshop.co.uk
by Des Ayuno
I wanted to hate the Grocery, an earnest supplier of organic puy lentils and 18 varieties of tofu metres from the edge of the UK’s poorest borough. But I knew I had to give its café a fair chance. The kitchen was set up by the magnificent Elaine, ex of Smallfish. Elaine once told me of a customer who complained that his breakfast was “dry” and demanded beans to remedy this problem. She frog-marched him out. Such conviction demands admiration.
M, J and I racked up late one Sunday and settled at beautiful, solid oak, country-kitchen tables. For at least half an hour we waited, without even tea to wet parched throats, though the surprise appearance of a bedraggled-looking Kevin Rowland cheered us no end. (He didn’t eat; just browsed the papers quietly.) By the time he ambled out, our food arrived. The lone waitress, already sitting down with her own lunch, handed over the brown sauce with a growl; the requested red never appeared.
As is the fashion these days, a tower of full-English ingredients was buttressed by toast and topped with a poached egg. With the exception of a very dry sausage (come on, Elaine!) all was juicily, flavourfully moreish – in fact, I nearly demanded more tomato than the miserly half offered. But it was the toast about which I still dream. Savoury sourdough, easily an inch thick, it was drenched in olive oil and transported us all to some sun-kissed Tuscan hillside. On a scale from “For god’s sake burn it down” to “I’m in heaven”, the toast trumped the dreadful service to secure the café a rating of “More please and thank you”. But when the waitress sprayed eco-disinfectant on the table, and my arm, the team that meets in the caffs headed home.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Special Dispatch: Kimchi, Seoul, Korea
Kimchi
Everywhere
Seoul
Korea
by Hashley Brown
The heart and soul of Korea lie in the perfect confluence of chilli, garlic and cabbage. The heart and soul of Korea then sits in a pot for yonks until it is the smelliest heart and soul you would ever have the fortune to wake up next to, even after a particularly unfortunate date. And this was how each of my days in my borrowed home of Seoul began - she wasn't pretty but by god did she taste good.
I talk not of my girlfriend, her sister or indeed her mother, with whom I had the pleasure of residing, but of kimchi. It stinks, it's hot, and it's delicious for breakfast.
The pedants amongst you dear readers, will no doubt inform me that actually this humble dish of fermented vegetables need not always use chilli nor even cabbage, indeed that the folk of Hamgyeongdo season theirs with fresh fish and oysters, and that to be frank I should probably get my self off to the Kimchi museum. But, throughout my short stay in Korea it was this fragrant, if potent combination of flavours that, like a good espresso kicked me roughly into each day.
The combinations were varied: kim-bap, a kind of kimchi based sushi roll; kimchi-chigae, a potent kimchi based soup; kimchi-jaen, yup, kimchi based pancakes, all featured. But for my money it was the simple start of a bowl of rice, some roasted seaweed and a plate of kimchi that relieved me of the night's stupor and threw down the gauntlet to any who dared come close to my new found kimchi-based aroma.
The best thing though, as potent as I now was, everyone else smelled bad too.
A link to the Kimchi Museum
Buy kimchi in London at:
Centre Point Food Store
20-21 St Giles High Street WC2
or
Hanna Supermarket
41 Store Street WC1E 7QF
or online at: www.skmart.co.uk
Everywhere
Seoul
Korea
by Hashley Brown
The heart and soul of Korea lie in the perfect confluence of chilli, garlic and cabbage. The heart and soul of Korea then sits in a pot for yonks until it is the smelliest heart and soul you would ever have the fortune to wake up next to, even after a particularly unfortunate date. And this was how each of my days in my borrowed home of Seoul began - she wasn't pretty but by god did she taste good.
I talk not of my girlfriend, her sister or indeed her mother, with whom I had the pleasure of residing, but of kimchi. It stinks, it's hot, and it's delicious for breakfast.
The pedants amongst you dear readers, will no doubt inform me that actually this humble dish of fermented vegetables need not always use chilli nor even cabbage, indeed that the folk of Hamgyeongdo season theirs with fresh fish and oysters, and that to be frank I should probably get my self off to the Kimchi museum. But, throughout my short stay in Korea it was this fragrant, if potent combination of flavours that, like a good espresso kicked me roughly into each day.
The combinations were varied: kim-bap, a kind of kimchi based sushi roll; kimchi-chigae, a potent kimchi based soup; kimchi-jaen, yup, kimchi based pancakes, all featured. But for my money it was the simple start of a bowl of rice, some roasted seaweed and a plate of kimchi that relieved me of the night's stupor and threw down the gauntlet to any who dared come close to my new found kimchi-based aroma.
The best thing though, as potent as I now was, everyone else smelled bad too.
A link to the Kimchi Museum
Buy kimchi in London at:
Centre Point Food Store
20-21 St Giles High Street WC2
or
Hanna Supermarket
41 Store Street WC1E 7QF
or online at: www.skmart.co.uk
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