Flâneur, Clerkenwell

***FLANEUR HAS NOW CLOSED (BUT THE REVIEW IS STILL ENTERTAINING)***

Flâneur
41 Farringdon Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 3JB
020 7404 4422
www.flaneur.com

by Phil English

Before I move on to describing a truly marvellous breakfast, I would like to address you on the unholy trinity of syphillis, buggery and condoms. As an amateur observer of socio-linguistic developments, as well as a professional breakfaster, I am interested in the way we attribute certain activities and objects to other nations. Thus, when they were engaged in squalidly trying to knock each other's heads off in the sixteenth century, the French took to referring to the pox as "Le mal italien" and the Italians said rightbackatcha, bringers of the "French disease". Similarly, the French accuse my countryfolk of "le vice anglais" and we counter that another postal strike would be welcome if you were expecting a letter from a Frenchman.

Which brings me to the subject of French toast. Presumably this is an Americanism. In England we call it eggy bread. Which is accurate and uninspired, but not offensive. Perhaps this xeno-specific appelation is a homage to pain-perdu, but I think that it's probably more along the lines of the dubious monikers above. As in, "Hey Hank, check out this toast; it's all eggy and shit. Those French dudes, man. They suck!" In these times of renaming the potato chip for reasons of geo-political outrage, I shall henceforth be terming the dish Freedom Toast. Vive La France.

I and my colleague Padraig Oates, who for the record did not order an Irish coffee, had an absolutely sumptuous breakfast at Flaneur. Oddly, though, for an overtly Gallic joint, they refer to the above dish by its American name. Still, it came rich and crispy with delicious smoked bacon and maple syrup. Mr Oates had neutral, United Nations, toast with bacon and scrambled eggs. Plus freshly squeezed orange juice, a nice pot of tea and a cup of good coffee, all for a very reasonable sum, which currently escapes me. But, where were you guys? There was no-one there. This place is serving breakfast and it's doing it now. Go.

Kings Café, Finchley

Kings Café
8 Hendon Lane
Finchley
N3 1TR
020 8346 1778

by Nelson Griddle

Up in the supremely Jewish neighbourhood of Finchley, a plateful of bacon, black pudding and other porky delights might seem an odd way to start the day. Sometimes, though, a cream cheese bagel just won’t cut it, and it was in this spirit that I went to check out the traif at Kings Café one foggy October morning.

First impressions heralded the classic greasy spoon experience. There was a chilled display cabinet full of Coke cans, a fruit machine, an England flag and proudly framed basic food hygiene certificates. Yet after a quick perusal of the big yellow menu over the counter, I began to wonder whether the staff (a team of efficient young Turkish men in yellow pique polo shirts) had really got to grips with the basics of our National Breakfast. Take Set Breakfast No 1, for example, which turns out to be liver, bubble, onions, mushrooms and beans. Set Breakfast No 3, even more alarmingly, is bubble, onions, tomato, mushrooms and – wait for it – spaghetti.

Such outlandishness was enough to prompt me off-menu, plumping for the high-protein option of egg, bacon, sausage and black pudding, plus toast and tea. I settled back, read a left-behind copy of yesterday’s Sun, and waited for the food to arrive.

When it came, my doubts were dispelled. Presentation rarely counts for terribly much in the world of the English Breakfast, but this ample portion, nestling there on a white oval plate had an undeniable visual impact. OK, it’s not nouvelle cuisine, but add a zig-zag of brown sauce and to my eye, this breakfast could have been a hot contender for food-as-art.

The meal scored high taste-wise, too. The egg was beautifully cooked, the bacon gratifyingly crisp, and although the black pudding was a trifle dry, as black pudding often tends to be, I was won over. And with no regrets about skipping the spaghetti.