Cafe Solo
59 The Broadway
Crouch End
N8 8DT (Map)
020 83478861
by Stephen Fry-Up
I had spent the first half of the previous evening at London’s cavernous Alexandra Palace, clad entirely in black and rhythmically shuffling along to moody old Interpol. Some time later, I found myself in somebody’s house somewhere near Wood Green, having passed a full 45 minutes sleep on a small rickety stool. I decided to beat a hasty retreat, and, feeling very much confused, but in an inexplicably joyful way, I wended my way upon foot and upon bus down to Crouch End.
There, I called on my ex-flat-mate, ‘The Toaster’, and we set out for his favourite Crouch eatery, Cafe Solo. During my Crouch days, I ate once at Solo’s and it was diabolical, but the Toaster was adamant that it had been but a blip and that Solo’s was back to its best. Now, the Toaster is a man who knows his food, so if he says something is good, then it most probably is. Nonetheless it was with some trepidation that I went (as Blake Pudding likes to term it) “off-piste”, and ordered hash-brown, black pudding, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, and beans. However I am pleased to report that every item was utterly delicious: the black pudding was rich and sticky, the eggs were flawless, and the hash-browns were crispy golden oniony heaven.
Solo’s is basically the perfect breakfast destination: it’s friendly, family run, and the service is great. It doesn’t wank on about food provenance, which, frankly, is hard enough to bear in the evening, let alone at breakfast. And yet it is far superior to any ‘greasy spoon’ that I have patronised hitherto. Quite simply, if you live anywhere near Crouch End, you should, like The Toaster, eat at Cafe Solo daily. And if not, well, I know of a lovely two bed flat for rent…
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Soup + Salad, Spitalfields
****THIS RESTAURANT HAS CLOSED DOWN BUT THE REVIEW IS STILL AMUSING IF YOU LIKE THAT KIND OF THING****
Soup + Salad
28 - 36 Brushfield St
Spitalfields E1 6AG (Map)
020 7377 5756
www.soupandsalad.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
What is soup? Is it a liquid food, or just a food that is neither solid nor gas (I refer you to a dense bowl of winter vegetable)? Is it a pioneering, post-sandwich lunchstuff, or a primitive mirror in which we see the dieting fads of a time (see the non stop forage-pots of the dark ages, bubbling with stoat meat and old turnips)? Most importantly, is it strictly to be placed in the starter-option/lunch-food Venn diagram, or does it have a place at the breakfast table? I ask because Soup and Salad have built one of those A-board street signs, to tell me about their breakfast menu, and I don’t want to think about breakfast falling into the ‘salad’ category.
I have been here before and I think their soups are insanely, cacklingly good – so I enter. The branding implies a world that is trying to dye itself green, but can’t afford enough dye. The A-board is failing: I am the only customer. In a stainless steel pot, framed by the lunch-soups, is the breakfast. But is it soup? Well yes – it’s porridge, soup of the morning. Organic, milky oats form a base (£1.50 - £2.50) and there are optional toppings like sultanas, golden syrup and strawberry jam (10p each). I get one with banana and a helping of brown sugar that is so generous it is bordering on psychotic. The result is hot, gooey and morally hearty. The onset of proper winter has been beating at my hands with a thin, serrated stick all week and this is a rousing defence. Soup and salad, I saloup you.
Soup + Salad
28 - 36 Brushfield St
Spitalfields E1 6AG (Map)
020 7377 5756
www.soupandsalad.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
What is soup? Is it a liquid food, or just a food that is neither solid nor gas (I refer you to a dense bowl of winter vegetable)? Is it a pioneering, post-sandwich lunchstuff, or a primitive mirror in which we see the dieting fads of a time (see the non stop forage-pots of the dark ages, bubbling with stoat meat and old turnips)? Most importantly, is it strictly to be placed in the starter-option/lunch-food Venn diagram, or does it have a place at the breakfast table? I ask because Soup and Salad have built one of those A-board street signs, to tell me about their breakfast menu, and I don’t want to think about breakfast falling into the ‘salad’ category.
I have been here before and I think their soups are insanely, cacklingly good – so I enter. The branding implies a world that is trying to dye itself green, but can’t afford enough dye. The A-board is failing: I am the only customer. In a stainless steel pot, framed by the lunch-soups, is the breakfast. But is it soup? Well yes – it’s porridge, soup of the morning. Organic, milky oats form a base (£1.50 - £2.50) and there are optional toppings like sultanas, golden syrup and strawberry jam (10p each). I get one with banana and a helping of brown sugar that is so generous it is bordering on psychotic. The result is hot, gooey and morally hearty. The onset of proper winter has been beating at my hands with a thin, serrated stick all week and this is a rousing defence. Soup and salad, I saloup you.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Euphorium Bakery, Islington
Euphorium Bakery
202 Upper St
Islington
N1 1RQ (Map)
020 7704 6905
www.euphoriumbakery.com
by Henrietta Crumpet
Darling, I will never forget that day, that breakfast. The smell of musk in your hair, so sensuous, so… manly. I wore deep red lipstick. You recalled your days as a gigolo in Paris.
I had a strawberry tart. Staring deep into your eyes I bit into the fruit. I got custard on my nose and you licked it off. How playful. How delicious. The strawberries were sweet and fresh, the pastry crumbled and melted in my mouth, the custard danced past my sumptuous lips. It was all a bit much for you was it not, my darling? When I partook of a second pastry (an exquisite pain raisin), and peeled off the layers, dipping them into my coffee and sucking the ends, you started to tremble and had to content yourself with an egg mayonnaise sandwich on thick brown bread.
It would have been an eggy, creamy delight, I think, if there had been any filling to delight in. But alas, a mere smear across the bread, a hint of a yolk and a whiff of white was all that was present. We wept. I craved a sympathetic glance from the staff. They were oblivious to our pain and announced that "that was how they made their sandwiches". How they let themselves down. How they let us down. The pastries so perfect. The sandwiches so disappointing. My fan dropped to the floor, you rose from your chair, nearly careering into one of the many mothers with babies as you hastened to exit.
"Pierre!" I shouted, "Don’t leave me! I will make you an egg sandwich wearing nothing but a silk negligee whilst I recite passages from Voltaire!"
But you were gone. My mascara ran down my cheeks. And all I had left was cake.
202 Upper St
Islington
N1 1RQ (Map)
020 7704 6905
www.euphoriumbakery.com
by Henrietta Crumpet
Darling, I will never forget that day, that breakfast. The smell of musk in your hair, so sensuous, so… manly. I wore deep red lipstick. You recalled your days as a gigolo in Paris.
I had a strawberry tart. Staring deep into your eyes I bit into the fruit. I got custard on my nose and you licked it off. How playful. How delicious. The strawberries were sweet and fresh, the pastry crumbled and melted in my mouth, the custard danced past my sumptuous lips. It was all a bit much for you was it not, my darling? When I partook of a second pastry (an exquisite pain raisin), and peeled off the layers, dipping them into my coffee and sucking the ends, you started to tremble and had to content yourself with an egg mayonnaise sandwich on thick brown bread.
It would have been an eggy, creamy delight, I think, if there had been any filling to delight in. But alas, a mere smear across the bread, a hint of a yolk and a whiff of white was all that was present. We wept. I craved a sympathetic glance from the staff. They were oblivious to our pain and announced that "that was how they made their sandwiches". How they let themselves down. How they let us down. The pastries so perfect. The sandwiches so disappointing. My fan dropped to the floor, you rose from your chair, nearly careering into one of the many mothers with babies as you hastened to exit.
"Pierre!" I shouted, "Don’t leave me! I will make you an egg sandwich wearing nothing but a silk negligee whilst I recite passages from Voltaire!"
But you were gone. My mascara ran down my cheeks. And all I had left was cake.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Special Dispatch: Darts Farm, Topsham, Exeter
Darts Farm
Topsham
Exeter
EX3 0QH
01392 878200
www.dartsfarm.co.uk
by Armand Croissant
I have over-indulged on port. Somehow, I do not know, I have ended up, driven in a battered Mercedes, in a curious place. I cannot remember how we got here. I am suspicious. There is no noise, apart from a gentle hum of conversation. I look around.
What brave new world is this? What sweet airs, what delights? I am Caliban – and also Miranda – bewitched by teetering piles of produce so fresh and clean it seems as if, Eden-like, it sprang from the ground without anything so vulgar as labour coming into the equation; and what is this? A café! But there is something wrong – nobody is jostling, or swearing; the waiters have their faces contorted into what I believe is called a ‘smile’. Our food arrives not, as is customary, twenty-seven minutes after we have sat down, but, even though the place is crammed, within three or four. O miraculous salmon, sliced pink and new, mating eternally with the creamy, succulent egg! O substantial toast, crackling nicely between my teeth, grainy and buttered! O sausage-sliced-in-half-lengthways, nestling between two snow-white slices of bread! O elegant teapot, oh abundant water, oh, oh, oh (as Molly Bloom would have it). Is this the future? What is going on? Am I dreaming? Have I been transported into outer space?
I ask a grizzled local. Thiz bain’t ‘eaven, he says. It be Devon.
Topsham
Exeter
EX3 0QH
01392 878200
www.dartsfarm.co.uk
by Armand Croissant
I have over-indulged on port. Somehow, I do not know, I have ended up, driven in a battered Mercedes, in a curious place. I cannot remember how we got here. I am suspicious. There is no noise, apart from a gentle hum of conversation. I look around.
What brave new world is this? What sweet airs, what delights? I am Caliban – and also Miranda – bewitched by teetering piles of produce so fresh and clean it seems as if, Eden-like, it sprang from the ground without anything so vulgar as labour coming into the equation; and what is this? A café! But there is something wrong – nobody is jostling, or swearing; the waiters have their faces contorted into what I believe is called a ‘smile’. Our food arrives not, as is customary, twenty-seven minutes after we have sat down, but, even though the place is crammed, within three or four. O miraculous salmon, sliced pink and new, mating eternally with the creamy, succulent egg! O substantial toast, crackling nicely between my teeth, grainy and buttered! O sausage-sliced-in-half-lengthways, nestling between two snow-white slices of bread! O elegant teapot, oh abundant water, oh, oh, oh (as Molly Bloom would have it). Is this the future? What is going on? Am I dreaming? Have I been transported into outer space?
I ask a grizzled local. Thiz bain’t ‘eaven, he says. It be Devon.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Le Pain Quotidien, St Pancras International
Le Pain Quotidien
Unit 4
St Pancras International
Somerstown
NW1 2QP (Map)
020 7486 6154
www.lepainquotidien.com
by Rhys Chris Peese
The hyperbole, bombast and flummery generated by the rerouting of Eurostar trains to St. Pancras might lead one to suspect that something interesting is going on there. Relax. It’s not. The main difference is that it’s now blighted with a surfeit of franchised retail outlets. Our continental cousins will now be welcomed to the UK with… some shops. And a big statue.
The only breakfast choice at present is Le Pain Quotidien, a Belgian chain priding itself on artisanal bread and communal tables. What they have reckoned without, however, is a tendency for those communal tables to unite the British into micro-communities of wry, near-affectionate xenophobia. “You’d have thought they’d do a full English,” muttered one malcontent as he surveyed the bread and pastry-heavy menu. Others were keen to concur, identifying the serving of boiled eggs with bread, rather than toast soldiers, as symptomatic of a creeping European malaise. Hackles were raised further by the lack of English breakfast tea, and the irritating fact that the ‘pot’ of coffee was identical in volume to the bowl from which it was intended to be drunk. And when the old dear next to me sent her tepid porridge back three times to be heated properly, saying, “Porridge should be hot! Or is it the French way?” our table was ready to brick up the Channel Tunnel altogether.
Still, we enjoyed our warm Belgian waffles and granola parfaits. The former was succulent, crumbly and not too sweet; the latter, a spectacular sundae, was replete with melon, blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, cashew nuts, pumpkin seeds, mint leaves and yoghurt. But the question remains: why provide a continental breakfast for passengers a couple of hours away from being able to get an authentic one abroad, and why welcome visitors to the UK with the cuisine that they’ve just travelled to escape from?
Unit 4
St Pancras International
Somerstown
NW1 2QP (Map)
020 7486 6154
www.lepainquotidien.com
by Rhys Chris Peese
The hyperbole, bombast and flummery generated by the rerouting of Eurostar trains to St. Pancras might lead one to suspect that something interesting is going on there. Relax. It’s not. The main difference is that it’s now blighted with a surfeit of franchised retail outlets. Our continental cousins will now be welcomed to the UK with… some shops. And a big statue.
The only breakfast choice at present is Le Pain Quotidien, a Belgian chain priding itself on artisanal bread and communal tables. What they have reckoned without, however, is a tendency for those communal tables to unite the British into micro-communities of wry, near-affectionate xenophobia. “You’d have thought they’d do a full English,” muttered one malcontent as he surveyed the bread and pastry-heavy menu. Others were keen to concur, identifying the serving of boiled eggs with bread, rather than toast soldiers, as symptomatic of a creeping European malaise. Hackles were raised further by the lack of English breakfast tea, and the irritating fact that the ‘pot’ of coffee was identical in volume to the bowl from which it was intended to be drunk. And when the old dear next to me sent her tepid porridge back three times to be heated properly, saying, “Porridge should be hot! Or is it the French way?” our table was ready to brick up the Channel Tunnel altogether.
Still, we enjoyed our warm Belgian waffles and granola parfaits. The former was succulent, crumbly and not too sweet; the latter, a spectacular sundae, was replete with melon, blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, cashew nuts, pumpkin seeds, mint leaves and yoghurt. But the question remains: why provide a continental breakfast for passengers a couple of hours away from being able to get an authentic one abroad, and why welcome visitors to the UK with the cuisine that they’ve just travelled to escape from?
Monday, December 03, 2007
Special Dispatch: Sylvia's, New York
Sylvia’s
328 Lenox Avenue
New York, NY 10027
USA
(+1) (212) 996-0660
www.sylviassoulfood.com
by Megan Bacon
“Ladies and gentleman!” yells a waiter at the front of a steadily forming queue. “Prepare yourselves for the best breakfast of your lives!”
To be quite honest, I’m not really hungry. In fact, I’ve already had breakfast today, having woken up unreasonably early to fulfil my duties as a tourist. But for Sylvia’s, I’ll make an exception. Every Sunday, Sylvia Woods' 45-year-old Harlem establishment serves up a soul food ’n’ gospel breakfast to a mixture of New Yorkers, out-of-towners and foreign tourists.
I go for the full monty: fried chicken, scrambled eggs and grits – the latter which, like so much else in New York, I’ve only ever seen in the movies. Turns out, they’re damn fine – like a salty, buttery porridge. The chicken is a no-holds-barred full-fat delight, with gently crisped and seasoned skin, and the scrambled eggs are just right. A dab of Sylvia’s hot sauce and I’m ready to go – my non-hunger is immediately forgotten.
We move on to the dessert menu. (Dessert for breakfast! I truly have died and gone to heaven). Now this is where Sylvia’s really excels itself. The world famous Red Velvet cake is exactly as it sounds: a sandwich of bright red cake and velvety icing, while the banana pudding is nothing less than an orgasm on a plate. We finish off with bloody marys.
Did I mention that people are singing gospel songs throughout all of this? Well, they are – while shouting out where each table of diners is from (“Sweden’s in the house, y’all!”). Sylvia herself joins them for a boogie. But is this the best breakfast of my entire life? Well, the service is impeccable and friendly. The food is delicious, hangover-curing, filling and fattening. And by the time we leave, the whole restaurant has erupted into a party. If there’s a better breakfast on earth, I’d like to hear of it.
328 Lenox Avenue
New York, NY 10027
USA
(+1) (212) 996-0660
www.sylviassoulfood.com
by Megan Bacon
“Ladies and gentleman!” yells a waiter at the front of a steadily forming queue. “Prepare yourselves for the best breakfast of your lives!”
To be quite honest, I’m not really hungry. In fact, I’ve already had breakfast today, having woken up unreasonably early to fulfil my duties as a tourist. But for Sylvia’s, I’ll make an exception. Every Sunday, Sylvia Woods' 45-year-old Harlem establishment serves up a soul food ’n’ gospel breakfast to a mixture of New Yorkers, out-of-towners and foreign tourists.
I go for the full monty: fried chicken, scrambled eggs and grits – the latter which, like so much else in New York, I’ve only ever seen in the movies. Turns out, they’re damn fine – like a salty, buttery porridge. The chicken is a no-holds-barred full-fat delight, with gently crisped and seasoned skin, and the scrambled eggs are just right. A dab of Sylvia’s hot sauce and I’m ready to go – my non-hunger is immediately forgotten.
We move on to the dessert menu. (Dessert for breakfast! I truly have died and gone to heaven). Now this is where Sylvia’s really excels itself. The world famous Red Velvet cake is exactly as it sounds: a sandwich of bright red cake and velvety icing, while the banana pudding is nothing less than an orgasm on a plate. We finish off with bloody marys.
Did I mention that people are singing gospel songs throughout all of this? Well, they are – while shouting out where each table of diners is from (“Sweden’s in the house, y’all!”). Sylvia herself joins them for a boogie. But is this the best breakfast of my entire life? Well, the service is impeccable and friendly. The food is delicious, hangover-curing, filling and fattening. And by the time we leave, the whole restaurant has erupted into a party. If there’s a better breakfast on earth, I’d like to hear of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)