The Pavilion Café
Lakeside Pavilion
Victoria Park
Hackney
E9 5DU (Map)
by Moose Lee
One moment Elliot’s café was there – close to my flat, cheap, charmingly unpopular – and the next, like Kaiser Soze, it was gone.
There was no “We Have Moved To Victoria Park” sign. No “You Will Find Us If Only You Open Your Heart.” Nothing.
This is my fault, I thought.
I should have written a more passionate review. I should have pleaded: “Residents of London, tell everyone to stop frying: Elliot’s have won breakfast.”
But no, I didn’t say that. I said that it was good but they’d cooked the sausages the wrong way – butterfly’d – and that I would have liked two instead of one.
Typical. I destroy everything I love.
But I underestimated the LRB’s subtle network of fry-up sensitive noses. It was soon discovered that Elliot’s had not disappeared but had, in fact, moved to the pavilion in Vicky park. Cathy Latte was quickly on the case but, I’m pleased to report, got distracted by a chip shop. You snooze you lose.
Me and Ms Lee got on our bikes – we actually did exercise to reach our hallowed breakfast.
Nervously, I asked them why Elliot’s moved from the old location, expecting the answer: “Well, there was this damning review of our sausages…”
But no, apparently the previous location was just the wrong size, it was empty during the weekdays and then when it was busy, there wasn’t enough room.
Guilt alleviated, I ordered my old favourite: a veggie breakfast with extra sausage and bacon. By God, my faith in the power of journalism was restored because, all the stuff that used to be perfect remained perfect – thick dark bacon, lovely bread, crushed avocado, home-made beans – and the sausages, they were stunning, uncut, full of juicy goodness. And two of them!
But. One thing. I can’t help myself…
Must.
Make.
Negative.
Comments.
The prices have gone up and, although the view of the lake is lovely, the venue’s a bit… well… paviliony.
I’m sorry!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
The Hoxton Grille, Shoreditch
The Hoxton Grille
81 Great Eastern Street
Shoreditch
EC2A 3HU
020 7739 9111
www.grillerestaurants.com
Monday - Friday: 7.00am - 11.00am
Saturday & Sunday: 8.00am - 3.30pm
by Koffee Annan
I’m not normally one to be swayed by the allure of the January sales, which are a retailer's chance to clear the stockroom of the poor quality, unfashionable or downright ugly items that we consumers have refused to buy all year. So when a restaurant offers ‘The great winter sale’ with 50% off the food portion of the bill, diners must book with trepidation. I imagined a chef’s hand groping around the back of the fridge and dragging out some of "last season's" mushrooms or some bacon still in its Bejam packaging.
Having accepted a free night’s stay at the Hoxton Hotel and been disappointed with the lack of satellite channels (not one internationally dubbed episode of Columbo to found), I bounded through the industrial-style corridors of the third floor down to the public restaurant, picking up a free newspaper on the way.
I was seated and my full English arrived. The first thing I noticed was that the double egg was displayed atop a toasted slice of Sunblest quality bread. If Mrs Annan had not had the foresight to book in advance, entering us into the 50% off agreement, I would have been heartily disappointed, but I ploughed on regardless. The ‘regional’ sausages alarmed me (I’m not aware of an abattoir in or around EC2) but were tasty nonetheless, the Portobello mushroom was this season's and the tomato proved a decent enough palette cleanser. If I were paying the full price of £8 not including drinks, I may have muttered a few cheap digs under my breath on leaving, but with the discount I think it makes a rather fetching bargain.
Recommended, but for a limited period only.
81 Great Eastern Street
Shoreditch
EC2A 3HU
020 7739 9111
www.grillerestaurants.com
Monday - Friday: 7.00am - 11.00am
Saturday & Sunday: 8.00am - 3.30pm
by Koffee Annan
I’m not normally one to be swayed by the allure of the January sales, which are a retailer's chance to clear the stockroom of the poor quality, unfashionable or downright ugly items that we consumers have refused to buy all year. So when a restaurant offers ‘The great winter sale’ with 50% off the food portion of the bill, diners must book with trepidation. I imagined a chef’s hand groping around the back of the fridge and dragging out some of "last season's" mushrooms or some bacon still in its Bejam packaging.
Having accepted a free night’s stay at the Hoxton Hotel and been disappointed with the lack of satellite channels (not one internationally dubbed episode of Columbo to found), I bounded through the industrial-style corridors of the third floor down to the public restaurant, picking up a free newspaper on the way.
I was seated and my full English arrived. The first thing I noticed was that the double egg was displayed atop a toasted slice of Sunblest quality bread. If Mrs Annan had not had the foresight to book in advance, entering us into the 50% off agreement, I would have been heartily disappointed, but I ploughed on regardless. The ‘regional’ sausages alarmed me (I’m not aware of an abattoir in or around EC2) but were tasty nonetheless, the Portobello mushroom was this season's and the tomato proved a decent enough palette cleanser. If I were paying the full price of £8 not including drinks, I may have muttered a few cheap digs under my breath on leaving, but with the discount I think it makes a rather fetching bargain.
Recommended, but for a limited period only.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Special Dispatch: Chateau Marmont and The Standard, Hollywood, California
Chateau Marmont
8221 Sunset Boulevard
Hollywood, CA 90046
USA
+1 323 656 1010
www.chateaumarmont.com
The Standard Hollywood
8300 Sunset Boulevard
Hollywood, CA 90069
USA
+1 323 650 9090
www.standardhotel.com
by Des Ayuno
“M,” I say. “Darling.”
“Darling?”
“Eggs Benedict and a pot of Earl Grey.”
He relays the order to the waiter on his other side, who must have heard me with perfect clarity. “Certainly, sir.” Without so much as a thank-you, we turn back to T magazine’s impressive new website, which we are browsing on matching 17” MacBooks. Through sunglasses (his, Helmut Lang; mine, Prada). Indoors. In December. But such behaviour is practically a condition of entry, for we are in the lounge of the Chateau Marmont. “Darling. Natalie Portman. Dreadful make-up.” “Darling!”
Slowly, the too-small table in front of us fills with linen-wrapped silverware, Perrier, butter in white pots, complimentary jars of preserves (four kinds) and honey (two kinds). Tea arrives after half an hour and the waiter apologetically offers sourdough in place of an unavailable “English muffin” base. An agonising 45 minutes after ordering, an enormous plate is waved in my direction; with no space on the table, I perch it on my knees. “M. Ketchup.” “Darling. Yes. Er, excuse me, yes, you…we’ll have some ketchup.” A pause. “Certainly, sir.”
The service may be Euro-lazy, but the staff respond to our imperious behaviour with gratifyingly obsequiousness. Each time they pass we order more, each dish a sumptuous study worthy of Fantin-Latour. Strawberries, plums and pineapple are sliced paper-thin and fanned out in an elaborate arrangement. (At $18, though, the fruit plate had better have been a work of bloody art.) Coffee is espresso-strength but served, irritatingly, in soup tureens. And the eggs…darling, the eggs! They’re organic, enormous and beautifully, gently poached; bright orange yolk mixing with a delicate, almost unnecessary Hollandaise. I’d forgotten the wonder of chewy, savoury American sourdough. Ham is thick, succulent and faintly charred with grill marks. Sauté potatoes – both the normal sort and some fashionable purply-black ones – are chewy and crispy and redolent of rosemary. A salad of exotic leaves is dressed delicately with lemon, chiming with the Hollandaise in gentle harmony. After polishing it all off, I can barely move and recline on the sofa, internet-surfing, people-watching and gently digesting, for what seems like forever.
The next morning, sadly, it’s back to the real world – i.e., the hotel I am actually staying in, which, though owned by the same permatanned millionaire, is several steps down the wrought-iron spiral staircase of luxury. I breakfast in sunglasses again, while B is in a louchely unfastened terry robe and swimming trunks. We are excused, though, for it is 27° and aggressively bright and we are eating poolside.
Today the waiters are in shorts and offer a laminated menu. I tell B wistfully about yesterday’s leather-bound parchment pages. We both order the set breakfast, which nevertheless offers an impressive number of options for the bread and meat elements. I tell B wistfully about yesterday’s ham and sourdough. His choice of a bagel over toast strikes me as both stupid and inappropriate, and he eats it piled with cream cheese and jam. I tell him wistfully about yesterday’s nicer, posher jams, and he is by now gratifyingly irritated.
He needn’t be, though. It’s a fine breakfast and service is snappy. I am given four enormous pieces of sourdough as well as potatoes, though they call them “home fries” here, that are virtually identical to yesterday’s. (I don’t tell B this.) Eggs are, again, huge and expertly poached. The sausages look British supermarket-standard but taste distinctively American, being fattier and flavoured with rosemary instead of sage, which is discomfiting. Still, with the ubiquitous side salad, decent tea (or coffee) and fresh juice (five choices) for $12, it feels like a bargain. We are delighted by the waiter’s affectionate exclamation of, “Oh, you guys!” when we ask for ketchup. “We should, you know, move here,” we murmur coyly. I have lived in the hellhole that is LA, and should know better, but that’s just the kind of place the Standard is.
8221 Sunset Boulevard
Hollywood, CA 90046
USA
+1 323 656 1010
www.chateaumarmont.com
The Standard Hollywood
8300 Sunset Boulevard
Hollywood, CA 90069
USA
+1 323 650 9090
www.standardhotel.com
by Des Ayuno
“M,” I say. “Darling.”
“Darling?”
“Eggs Benedict and a pot of Earl Grey.”
He relays the order to the waiter on his other side, who must have heard me with perfect clarity. “Certainly, sir.” Without so much as a thank-you, we turn back to T magazine’s impressive new website, which we are browsing on matching 17” MacBooks. Through sunglasses (his, Helmut Lang; mine, Prada). Indoors. In December. But such behaviour is practically a condition of entry, for we are in the lounge of the Chateau Marmont. “Darling. Natalie Portman. Dreadful make-up.” “Darling!”
Slowly, the too-small table in front of us fills with linen-wrapped silverware, Perrier, butter in white pots, complimentary jars of preserves (four kinds) and honey (two kinds). Tea arrives after half an hour and the waiter apologetically offers sourdough in place of an unavailable “English muffin” base. An agonising 45 minutes after ordering, an enormous plate is waved in my direction; with no space on the table, I perch it on my knees. “M. Ketchup.” “Darling. Yes. Er, excuse me, yes, you…we’ll have some ketchup.” A pause. “Certainly, sir.”
The service may be Euro-lazy, but the staff respond to our imperious behaviour with gratifyingly obsequiousness. Each time they pass we order more, each dish a sumptuous study worthy of Fantin-Latour. Strawberries, plums and pineapple are sliced paper-thin and fanned out in an elaborate arrangement. (At $18, though, the fruit plate had better have been a work of bloody art.) Coffee is espresso-strength but served, irritatingly, in soup tureens. And the eggs…darling, the eggs! They’re organic, enormous and beautifully, gently poached; bright orange yolk mixing with a delicate, almost unnecessary Hollandaise. I’d forgotten the wonder of chewy, savoury American sourdough. Ham is thick, succulent and faintly charred with grill marks. Sauté potatoes – both the normal sort and some fashionable purply-black ones – are chewy and crispy and redolent of rosemary. A salad of exotic leaves is dressed delicately with lemon, chiming with the Hollandaise in gentle harmony. After polishing it all off, I can barely move and recline on the sofa, internet-surfing, people-watching and gently digesting, for what seems like forever.
The next morning, sadly, it’s back to the real world – i.e., the hotel I am actually staying in, which, though owned by the same permatanned millionaire, is several steps down the wrought-iron spiral staircase of luxury. I breakfast in sunglasses again, while B is in a louchely unfastened terry robe and swimming trunks. We are excused, though, for it is 27° and aggressively bright and we are eating poolside.
Today the waiters are in shorts and offer a laminated menu. I tell B wistfully about yesterday’s leather-bound parchment pages. We both order the set breakfast, which nevertheless offers an impressive number of options for the bread and meat elements. I tell B wistfully about yesterday’s ham and sourdough. His choice of a bagel over toast strikes me as both stupid and inappropriate, and he eats it piled with cream cheese and jam. I tell him wistfully about yesterday’s nicer, posher jams, and he is by now gratifyingly irritated.
He needn’t be, though. It’s a fine breakfast and service is snappy. I am given four enormous pieces of sourdough as well as potatoes, though they call them “home fries” here, that are virtually identical to yesterday’s. (I don’t tell B this.) Eggs are, again, huge and expertly poached. The sausages look British supermarket-standard but taste distinctively American, being fattier and flavoured with rosemary instead of sage, which is discomfiting. Still, with the ubiquitous side salad, decent tea (or coffee) and fresh juice (five choices) for $12, it feels like a bargain. We are delighted by the waiter’s affectionate exclamation of, “Oh, you guys!” when we ask for ketchup. “We should, you know, move here,” we murmur coyly. I have lived in the hellhole that is LA, and should know better, but that’s just the kind of place the Standard is.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Garden Cafe & Restaurant, South Hampstead
Garden Cafe & Restaurant
3 Goldhurst Terrace
South Hampstead
NW6 3HX (Map)
020 7328 2295
by Goldie Quorn and Veggie Kray
Her: So there’s not actually a garden here. Just a patio and 80’s mint green walls.
Him: Oh don’t be so down on the place. It’s perfectly pleasant.
Her: If a little soulless.
Him: We’ve got choice of a ‘Vegetarian Breakfast’ or…. a panini. But the breakfast does come with chips…
Her: Well that’s something.
Him: ….and eggs and tomatoes and beans and mushrooms and toast AND hash browns.
Her: Potato-tastic. But where’s the centre piece? How hard is it to add a veggie sausage to that? Bloody palming us off with the meat-eaters fillers again.
Him: I think it sounds nice.
Her: Should do at £6.95.
Him: Look, they’ve even sprinkled herbs on the tomatoes!
Her: The toast is margarine-juicy. And my eggs are runny. (Pause) Chips are nice though.
Him: Can you even taste them under all that ketchup?
Her: Just about, although it’s not Heinz. Too much vinegar.
Him: You seem to be coping.
Her: God, I’m totally beaten.
Him: See? What more could you want from a breakfast?
Her: A veggie sausage or two?
3 Goldhurst Terrace
South Hampstead
NW6 3HX (Map)
020 7328 2295
by Goldie Quorn and Veggie Kray
Her: So there’s not actually a garden here. Just a patio and 80’s mint green walls.
Him: Oh don’t be so down on the place. It’s perfectly pleasant.
Her: If a little soulless.
Him: We’ve got choice of a ‘Vegetarian Breakfast’ or…. a panini. But the breakfast does come with chips…
Her: Well that’s something.
Him: ….and eggs and tomatoes and beans and mushrooms and toast AND hash browns.
Her: Potato-tastic. But where’s the centre piece? How hard is it to add a veggie sausage to that? Bloody palming us off with the meat-eaters fillers again.
Him: I think it sounds nice.
Her: Should do at £6.95.
Him: Look, they’ve even sprinkled herbs on the tomatoes!
Her: The toast is margarine-juicy. And my eggs are runny. (Pause) Chips are nice though.
Him: Can you even taste them under all that ketchup?
Her: Just about, although it’s not Heinz. Too much vinegar.
Him: You seem to be coping.
Her: God, I’m totally beaten.
Him: See? What more could you want from a breakfast?
Her: A veggie sausage or two?
Friday, January 18, 2008
Lakeland Café, Brent Cross
Lakeland Café
Brent South Retail Park
Tilling Road
Brent Cross
London
NW2 1LU (Map)
0208 830 8123
www.lakeland.co.uk
Open 9.30am - 7pm weekdays, 9.30am - 6pm on Saturday and 11am - 4pm on Sunday
by Nelson Griddle
It doesn’t get much more rock-and-roll than this. 11am on a crisp Sunday morning in January, and here I am at Brent South retail park to have breakfast in a kitchenware shop. Ignoring the lures of tomato peelers, tile-grouting whiteners and padded trouser hangers, my companion and I make our way to the spacious 3rd floor café.
There’s no waitress service, so having perused the menu, I go up to the counter to order. The service is efficient if not effusive, and if there’s anything unsatisfactory about our meal, we are invited to leave a written comment on a little card for somebody called “Yvonne”, who claims to be the Café Manager and assures us that she will do her very best to deal with any niggles we have.
Yvonne, are you ready? Niggle One is the tea. Maybe the water was not properly boiling when it was made, or maybe the tea itself is of poor quality. Either way, watch out, Yvonne, because this flavourless brew is hardly the stuff to fortify the mind and revive the spirit ahead of a long day shopping for sink tidies.
Niggle Two is the food. Now, call me hidebound and stuck-in-the-mud, but when I go half way round the North Circular in search of a good breakfast, I expect the offerings to be meaty and substantial. Yet Lakeland spurns such breakfast staples as bacon, sausage, black pudding and beans. The dishes here are mostly egg-based, and, dare one say it, a trifle ladylike. And although there’s nothing actually wrong with my dish of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and dill, there’s nothing tremendously right about it either. Anodyne more or less sums it up. My companion’s Eggs Florentine are better, featuring a nice Hollandaise sauce and some well-chosen ham, and I’m told the pain perdu is a highlight.
Yet who am I to diss the breakfasts at Lakeland, when at last I’ve found the thing my life has been lacking all these years: a dedicated stainless steel asparagus kettle!
Brent South Retail Park
Tilling Road
Brent Cross
London
NW2 1LU (Map)
0208 830 8123
www.lakeland.co.uk
Open 9.30am - 7pm weekdays, 9.30am - 6pm on Saturday and 11am - 4pm on Sunday
by Nelson Griddle
It doesn’t get much more rock-and-roll than this. 11am on a crisp Sunday morning in January, and here I am at Brent South retail park to have breakfast in a kitchenware shop. Ignoring the lures of tomato peelers, tile-grouting whiteners and padded trouser hangers, my companion and I make our way to the spacious 3rd floor café.
There’s no waitress service, so having perused the menu, I go up to the counter to order. The service is efficient if not effusive, and if there’s anything unsatisfactory about our meal, we are invited to leave a written comment on a little card for somebody called “Yvonne”, who claims to be the Café Manager and assures us that she will do her very best to deal with any niggles we have.
Yvonne, are you ready? Niggle One is the tea. Maybe the water was not properly boiling when it was made, or maybe the tea itself is of poor quality. Either way, watch out, Yvonne, because this flavourless brew is hardly the stuff to fortify the mind and revive the spirit ahead of a long day shopping for sink tidies.
Niggle Two is the food. Now, call me hidebound and stuck-in-the-mud, but when I go half way round the North Circular in search of a good breakfast, I expect the offerings to be meaty and substantial. Yet Lakeland spurns such breakfast staples as bacon, sausage, black pudding and beans. The dishes here are mostly egg-based, and, dare one say it, a trifle ladylike. And although there’s nothing actually wrong with my dish of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and dill, there’s nothing tremendously right about it either. Anodyne more or less sums it up. My companion’s Eggs Florentine are better, featuring a nice Hollandaise sauce and some well-chosen ham, and I’m told the pain perdu is a highlight.
Yet who am I to diss the breakfasts at Lakeland, when at last I’ve found the thing my life has been lacking all these years: a dedicated stainless steel asparagus kettle!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Breakfasts and Beds: Yalbury Park, Dorchester
Yalbury Park
Frome Whitfield Farm
Dorchester
Dorset
DT2 7SE
01305 250336
by Poppy Tartt
Limber with anticipation of Monkey World, Susan and I could have taken the worst of breakfasts on the chin and set off running, we thought, so Mrs Bamlet’s home-cooked fare was much more than we dreamed of asking for. Much more than one of us, having a difficult weekend abdominally, should have asked for altogether. In all our exuberance we had no idea what hours of pain, in Monkey World’s darkening, emptying cafeteria, awaited that one, what hours of helpless witnessing, the other.
We’d awoken that morning beneath Mrs Bamlet’s floral coverlets. I sprang from my bed for the first time in literally years. This day was to hold the most perfect combination a day could possibly hold: breakfast, the English countryside, and monkeys.
Breakfast was served in a dining room whose Englishness throbbed within me like an unborn twin I’d unknowingly carried since birth. The wood was dark and polished; the tablecloth white, soon tea-stained (sincerest apologies, Mrs Bamlet). Crockery and silverware populated a dresser charmingly. The meal opened with tinned grapefruit, which was startling (especially post-toothpaste), but ultimately highly regarded. The real breakfast followed: sausages, bacon, eggs and grilled tomato presented on creamy-white plates with a lip relief. There was plentiful toast both white and brown. Oh! Is there any action more refined than the spooning of marmalade from a crystal bowl? Throughout the meal Mrs Bamlet and a second voice conversed below stairs about game.
If the sausages were a little narrow, and the bacon a little hard, we didn’t object; the yolks ran, mingling with the England of the mind, which is a lovely place. If only it weren’t for the realities of digestion, Mrs Bamlet, and of English weather systems, which conspired to twist our dreams into a soaking nightmare of wind-shredded ponchos and hot water bottles. And what became of the monkey, monkey, monkey . . .?
Frome Whitfield Farm
Dorchester
Dorset
DT2 7SE
01305 250336
by Poppy Tartt
Limber with anticipation of Monkey World, Susan and I could have taken the worst of breakfasts on the chin and set off running, we thought, so Mrs Bamlet’s home-cooked fare was much more than we dreamed of asking for. Much more than one of us, having a difficult weekend abdominally, should have asked for altogether. In all our exuberance we had no idea what hours of pain, in Monkey World’s darkening, emptying cafeteria, awaited that one, what hours of helpless witnessing, the other.
We’d awoken that morning beneath Mrs Bamlet’s floral coverlets. I sprang from my bed for the first time in literally years. This day was to hold the most perfect combination a day could possibly hold: breakfast, the English countryside, and monkeys.
Breakfast was served in a dining room whose Englishness throbbed within me like an unborn twin I’d unknowingly carried since birth. The wood was dark and polished; the tablecloth white, soon tea-stained (sincerest apologies, Mrs Bamlet). Crockery and silverware populated a dresser charmingly. The meal opened with tinned grapefruit, which was startling (especially post-toothpaste), but ultimately highly regarded. The real breakfast followed: sausages, bacon, eggs and grilled tomato presented on creamy-white plates with a lip relief. There was plentiful toast both white and brown. Oh! Is there any action more refined than the spooning of marmalade from a crystal bowl? Throughout the meal Mrs Bamlet and a second voice conversed below stairs about game.
If the sausages were a little narrow, and the bacon a little hard, we didn’t object; the yolks ran, mingling with the England of the mind, which is a lovely place. If only it weren’t for the realities of digestion, Mrs Bamlet, and of English weather systems, which conspired to twist our dreams into a soaking nightmare of wind-shredded ponchos and hot water bottles. And what became of the monkey, monkey, monkey . . .?
Monday, January 14, 2008
Café Diana, Notting Hill
Café Diana
5 Wellington Terrace
Bayswater Rd
Notting Hill
W2 4LW (Map)
020 7792 9606
By T. N. Toost
I was expecting a lot from Café Diana. After all, Matt at London-eating.co.uk wrote, “Me and my sister are both huge fans of Café Diana, We think it is simply the best café in London.”
Matt may not be the most trustworthy critic considering this plaudit was bestowed upon what might best be described as a themed chip shop-cum-café. The menu’s front contained nothing out of the ordinary. The back had two surprises – the “Diana Meals”, which were mostly variations on the kebabs-and-chips theme, and a window of disclaimers – no tap water, when it’s busy there’s a £7 minimum per customer, cash only, tip not included.
After we ordered, we had a look around. Soft-focus pictures of Diana papered the walls – Di in official portraits, Di jogging, Di in an Eagles jacket, Di with people who may have been the owners. Here I must confess that I consistently rank young Elizabeth as the most fuckable royal of all time, tied with Queen Noor (at any age). Diana competes with Elizabeth the Octogenarian. She might have been glamorous at the time, but even by 80s standards I didn’t find her attractive.
When the waitress (an early Christina Aguilera) delivered our food, I discovered that the vegetarian option – two fried eggs, tomatoes, beans, chips and coffee or tea – did not come with toast, so I had to order it separately. Diana’s memory lives on in mediocre eggs, above-average tomatoes, average beans, average chips, shitty coffee and slightly above average buttered toast. I began to think that I should take notes. It was only on the train an hour later that I realised that this was because it was so average – and therefore forgettable. To avoid offence, I shall refrain from comparisons with the café’s namesake.
5 Wellington Terrace
Bayswater Rd
Notting Hill
W2 4LW (Map)
020 7792 9606
By T. N. Toost
I was expecting a lot from Café Diana. After all, Matt at London-eating.co.uk wrote, “Me and my sister are both huge fans of Café Diana, We think it is simply the best café in London.”
Matt may not be the most trustworthy critic considering this plaudit was bestowed upon what might best be described as a themed chip shop-cum-café. The menu’s front contained nothing out of the ordinary. The back had two surprises – the “Diana Meals”, which were mostly variations on the kebabs-and-chips theme, and a window of disclaimers – no tap water, when it’s busy there’s a £7 minimum per customer, cash only, tip not included.
After we ordered, we had a look around. Soft-focus pictures of Diana papered the walls – Di in official portraits, Di jogging, Di in an Eagles jacket, Di with people who may have been the owners. Here I must confess that I consistently rank young Elizabeth as the most fuckable royal of all time, tied with Queen Noor (at any age). Diana competes with Elizabeth the Octogenarian. She might have been glamorous at the time, but even by 80s standards I didn’t find her attractive.
When the waitress (an early Christina Aguilera) delivered our food, I discovered that the vegetarian option – two fried eggs, tomatoes, beans, chips and coffee or tea – did not come with toast, so I had to order it separately. Diana’s memory lives on in mediocre eggs, above-average tomatoes, average beans, average chips, shitty coffee and slightly above average buttered toast. I began to think that I should take notes. It was only on the train an hour later that I realised that this was because it was so average – and therefore forgettable. To avoid offence, I shall refrain from comparisons with the café’s namesake.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Fish House, Hackney
Fish House
126 -128 Lauriston Road
Hackney
E9 7LH (Map)
020 8533 3327
by Cathy Latte
I'm tugging his T-shirt. "We're going for a walk and we're going to that new café in the middle of Victoria Park, the one by the boating lake. I've been thinking about it all morning and that's what we're going to do."
"OK" - he looks at me through half open eye.
I’m feeling strong. I have purpose and now we’re but a few minutes away. I can even see the park. But wait, what is this? The nice, fancy fish and chip shop in Vicky village is doing breakfast. And oh, "hello!", the fryer’s looking on – I think he’s gesturing us come in. I look again at my companion and back at the fryer. He’s been joined by a friendly looking waitress. I look to my companion again, to the road. I think of the café by the duck pond. Its little outdoor chairs might be a little cold. The ducks might stray inappropriately close. Indecision strikes - the cold zips down my hastily donned not-quite-designed-for-winter sweater. The fryer smiles at us again.
I can't quite remember what happened next but somehow I’m sat ordering eggs royale and, for my non pescatarian companion, eggs florentine with an interesting mushroom and tomato accompaniment (recommended by the bouncy waitress). As we’re in an award-winning chippy we take some chips and peas too.
The tea’s hot but comes ‘bag in’ with no place to safely eject. However, this is my only complaint as breakfast is filling, fuming, fun and frivolous. The mushy peas and chips are greasy and dirty and heavenly all at once, and the eggs - buttery brilliance, though just pipped by yesterday’s Premises masterpiece.
As the door closes I shoot a glance at the cold menacing park. "I heard they don’t do poached eggs yet anyway," I say to my companion. Surely that’s reason alone.
126 -128 Lauriston Road
Hackney
E9 7LH (Map)
020 8533 3327
by Cathy Latte
I'm tugging his T-shirt. "We're going for a walk and we're going to that new café in the middle of Victoria Park, the one by the boating lake. I've been thinking about it all morning and that's what we're going to do."
"OK" - he looks at me through half open eye.
I’m feeling strong. I have purpose and now we’re but a few minutes away. I can even see the park. But wait, what is this? The nice, fancy fish and chip shop in Vicky village is doing breakfast. And oh, "hello!", the fryer’s looking on – I think he’s gesturing us come in. I look again at my companion and back at the fryer. He’s been joined by a friendly looking waitress. I look to my companion again, to the road. I think of the café by the duck pond. Its little outdoor chairs might be a little cold. The ducks might stray inappropriately close. Indecision strikes - the cold zips down my hastily donned not-quite-designed-for-winter sweater. The fryer smiles at us again.
I can't quite remember what happened next but somehow I’m sat ordering eggs royale and, for my non pescatarian companion, eggs florentine with an interesting mushroom and tomato accompaniment (recommended by the bouncy waitress). As we’re in an award-winning chippy we take some chips and peas too.
The tea’s hot but comes ‘bag in’ with no place to safely eject. However, this is my only complaint as breakfast is filling, fuming, fun and frivolous. The mushy peas and chips are greasy and dirty and heavenly all at once, and the eggs - buttery brilliance, though just pipped by yesterday’s Premises masterpiece.
As the door closes I shoot a glance at the cold menacing park. "I heard they don’t do poached eggs yet anyway," I say to my companion. Surely that’s reason alone.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Special Dispatch: Hotel Montana, Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Hotel Montana
Rue Frank Cardozo
Petionville
6119 Port-au-Prince
Haiti
(509) 229-40.00
www.htmontana.com
Breakfast served daily 6am – 10.30am
by Nelson Griddle
Port-au-Prince, capital of the tiny Caribbean republic of Haiti, is a rough old town.
It might be a few decades now since Papa Doc terrorized the land with machete-wielding thugs and voodoo curses, but the Foreign Office still advises British Citizens against all but essential travel here, and only the UN troops patrolling the streets with machine-guns stop the place descending into chaos.
Not that you’d know it in Hotel Montana. Here amid the overhead fans, lazily-swaying palms and the trickle of a chi-chi waterfall, there’s a sense of isolated privilege you could cut with a butter knife.
But I know what you’re thinking: never mind the security situation or the sense of grotesque inequality, what are the breakfasts like?
Well, the two words “breakfast buffet” might cause your heart of sink, but the groaning boards at Montana include such tropical delights as mango, pineapple, melon and some top-notch grapefruit juice, plus a phalanx of fragrant croissants.
I order scrambled eggs with bacon – both perfect, albeit pointlessly embellished with a slice of tomato and sprig of parsley. And there’s an unaccustomed sight for those who’ve been breakfasting in England for too long: ashtrays on the tables. Yes, you might not be able to walk the streets in safety in Port-au-Prince, but you can enjoy an after-breakfast cigarette. I’ll leave it to HM Government to advise on which is the more dangerous option.
The drawbacks? Well, the coffee is a bit on the cool side, and, for this hardened caffeine addict at least, in perpetually short supply.
And then there’s the guilt. The bill comes to $8.80 – less than a fiver in these days of the plummeting greenback, but to most of the people trying to scrape a living in Port-au-Prince’s slums, it stacks up to more than a week’s wages.
And there was me feeling hard done by, only getting two cups of coffee with my breakfast.
Rue Frank Cardozo
Petionville
6119 Port-au-Prince
Haiti
(509) 229-40.00
www.htmontana.com
Breakfast served daily 6am – 10.30am
by Nelson Griddle
Port-au-Prince, capital of the tiny Caribbean republic of Haiti, is a rough old town.
It might be a few decades now since Papa Doc terrorized the land with machete-wielding thugs and voodoo curses, but the Foreign Office still advises British Citizens against all but essential travel here, and only the UN troops patrolling the streets with machine-guns stop the place descending into chaos.
Not that you’d know it in Hotel Montana. Here amid the overhead fans, lazily-swaying palms and the trickle of a chi-chi waterfall, there’s a sense of isolated privilege you could cut with a butter knife.
But I know what you’re thinking: never mind the security situation or the sense of grotesque inequality, what are the breakfasts like?
Well, the two words “breakfast buffet” might cause your heart of sink, but the groaning boards at Montana include such tropical delights as mango, pineapple, melon and some top-notch grapefruit juice, plus a phalanx of fragrant croissants.
I order scrambled eggs with bacon – both perfect, albeit pointlessly embellished with a slice of tomato and sprig of parsley. And there’s an unaccustomed sight for those who’ve been breakfasting in England for too long: ashtrays on the tables. Yes, you might not be able to walk the streets in safety in Port-au-Prince, but you can enjoy an after-breakfast cigarette. I’ll leave it to HM Government to advise on which is the more dangerous option.
The drawbacks? Well, the coffee is a bit on the cool side, and, for this hardened caffeine addict at least, in perpetually short supply.
And then there’s the guilt. The bill comes to $8.80 – less than a fiver in these days of the plummeting greenback, but to most of the people trying to scrape a living in Port-au-Prince’s slums, it stacks up to more than a week’s wages.
And there was me feeling hard done by, only getting two cups of coffee with my breakfast.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Rose's, Brondesbury
Rose’s
243 Kilburn High Road
Brondesbury
NW6 7JN (Map)
020 7328 0421
by Goldie Quorn and Veggie Kray
Berlin visitors: Is this it?
Her: Ur, yeah. Although I don’t know why it’s got a cargo net on the ceiling. That’s not usual for a greasy spoon.
Berlin visitors: Greasy spoon?
Her: Never mind. Let’s get that table by the window. Watch the Kilburn High Road go by.
Him: So. What are you going for?
Berlin visitors: Hmm. We are a little confused by the menu. There seem to be many options of the same thing.
Her: Bloody cheap though. 59p for a tea. Brilliant.
Him: It’s a kind of mix and match menu. You can make up your own breakfast. What do you fancy? Small, medium or large - 2, 4 or 6 items?
Berlin visitors: What do they mean, ‘beans’?
Her: So, how do you like them?
Berlin visitors: They are strange. Nice. Too many on the plate, though, they are drowning my eggs. But these tomatoes are good.
Him: Grilled, not from a can.
Berlin visitors: So, this is a normal London breakfast for the morning after a party?
Her: Yes, but this place is a typical workers cafe, so they don’t have special veggie options or anything fancy. Quick and cheap.
Him: With Page 3 reading material aplenty.
Berlin visitors: Page 3?
243 Kilburn High Road
Brondesbury
NW6 7JN (Map)
020 7328 0421
by Goldie Quorn and Veggie Kray
Berlin visitors: Is this it?
Her: Ur, yeah. Although I don’t know why it’s got a cargo net on the ceiling. That’s not usual for a greasy spoon.
Berlin visitors: Greasy spoon?
Her: Never mind. Let’s get that table by the window. Watch the Kilburn High Road go by.
Him: So. What are you going for?
Berlin visitors: Hmm. We are a little confused by the menu. There seem to be many options of the same thing.
Her: Bloody cheap though. 59p for a tea. Brilliant.
Him: It’s a kind of mix and match menu. You can make up your own breakfast. What do you fancy? Small, medium or large - 2, 4 or 6 items?
Berlin visitors: What do they mean, ‘beans’?
Her: So, how do you like them?
Berlin visitors: They are strange. Nice. Too many on the plate, though, they are drowning my eggs. But these tomatoes are good.
Him: Grilled, not from a can.
Berlin visitors: So, this is a normal London breakfast for the morning after a party?
Her: Yes, but this place is a typical workers cafe, so they don’t have special veggie options or anything fancy. Quick and cheap.
Him: With Page 3 reading material aplenty.
Berlin visitors: Page 3?
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Breakfasts and Beds: Reka Dom, Devon
Reka Dom
43 The Strand
Topsham
Devon EX3 0AY
01392 873385
www.rekadom.co.uk
by Armand Croissant
‘Breakfast is just there,’ says the hobbling lady, ‘don’t worry, you’ll hear us.’ I am, for reasons too complicated to divulge (but most certainly glamorous and exciting), in a bed and breakfast in Topsham, a sweet village that totters on the coastline of Devon. The proprietess has shown me to my room, which is huge. I swim in the bed, a decanter of port lies beside it.
The next day. Breakfast. The house is huge, rambling. Am I in front of the right door? ‘Well the thing about Tescos is…’ a voice rises above a boiling kettle. There is a table, set for twenty people, at which two people sit. I sit. I am not sure what to do. Plastic boxes full of brightly coloured fluids litter the table. ‘Well I mean really,’ says the proprietess. She regards me. ‘If you’ll just help yourself,’ she says, mid flow. Does she mean these vats of unknown substances? I am still. ‘If you’ll just help yourself,’ she says once more. Ah! She is pointing to rows of jars of cereal. ‘The thing about care is that you give and you give and you give,’ says one of the people. I know what to do with cereal. I have a huge bowl, and finish it, replete. She regards me once more. ‘And what would you like for breakfast?’ she asks. ‘Sausage egg bacon and beans?’ ‘Just some toast,’ please, I mutter, unable to ingest any more. She makes me three pieces.
I leave, wishing only that I had been able to sample the cooked breakfast; for it looked as inviting as a warm pub on a cold winter’s night.
43 The Strand
Topsham
Devon EX3 0AY
01392 873385
www.rekadom.co.uk
by Armand Croissant
‘Breakfast is just there,’ says the hobbling lady, ‘don’t worry, you’ll hear us.’ I am, for reasons too complicated to divulge (but most certainly glamorous and exciting), in a bed and breakfast in Topsham, a sweet village that totters on the coastline of Devon. The proprietess has shown me to my room, which is huge. I swim in the bed, a decanter of port lies beside it.
The next day. Breakfast. The house is huge, rambling. Am I in front of the right door? ‘Well the thing about Tescos is…’ a voice rises above a boiling kettle. There is a table, set for twenty people, at which two people sit. I sit. I am not sure what to do. Plastic boxes full of brightly coloured fluids litter the table. ‘Well I mean really,’ says the proprietess. She regards me. ‘If you’ll just help yourself,’ she says, mid flow. Does she mean these vats of unknown substances? I am still. ‘If you’ll just help yourself,’ she says once more. Ah! She is pointing to rows of jars of cereal. ‘The thing about care is that you give and you give and you give,’ says one of the people. I know what to do with cereal. I have a huge bowl, and finish it, replete. She regards me once more. ‘And what would you like for breakfast?’ she asks. ‘Sausage egg bacon and beans?’ ‘Just some toast,’ please, I mutter, unable to ingest any more. She makes me three pieces.
I leave, wishing only that I had been able to sample the cooked breakfast; for it looked as inviting as a warm pub on a cold winter’s night.
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