Eat 17
28-30 Orford Road
Walthamstow Village
Walthamstow
London
E17 9NJ
www.eat17.co.uk
020 8521 5279
by Cathy Latte
Me: "No way."
Him: “But Mandy Parnell lives there.”
Me again: “Who?”
Him “Mandy Parnell - the best mastering engineer in London. She lives there.”
Me, getting annoyed: “Why is that in any way helpful to me?”
Him: ‘She’s really nice. And there’s a little village with cafes and shops that I reckon you would like. They have loads of that granny floral tat like that dress you always wear – you’ll love it.”
Me: “So you want us to move there because of a woman I’ve never met and a second hand shop?”.
But it doesn’t matter what I’m saying. I’ve clocked his look, the one he gets when he’s been mulling something over for a while and decided now’s the time to spring it on me. He’s serious.
“Fuck”, I think.
Two weeks later I’m walking up Orford Road (5 mins from Walthamstow tube) - I’ve poked my head in the nice furniture shop (lovely floral prints), read the community notice board (‘Save the post office!’, ‘We’ve got the playground rebuilt!) and my thoughts of a little island on a boggy marsh where feral greyhounds race along pavements tearing out children’s eyeballs are dissipating, fast.
Eat 17 is a new establishment. Half deli, half restaurant café. Blatantly business is booming. Intellectual looking tweeds are plucking not-particularly-cheap ryes stuffed with raisins and rosemary from bursting shelves, happy babies are pointing chubby fingers at alarmingly good looking cakes.
We order waffles in the restaurant – their mainstay. These aren’t dirty greasy waffles – but fluffy ones, with locally sourced ingredients. They come with toppings like smoked salmon, vege bene, full English’s and whatever else you might like.
Now to be honest, the food isn't spectacular, but it is good and they do serve breakfast ‘til 4pm. And the service isn't amazing, but it really isn't bad. But as a whole experience it is a pleasant one. And for me that breakfast seals it.
I call the estate agent that night and leave a message on the answer machine: "we'll take it".
An update written on 27 March 2008: Maybe it’s because it’s my birthday, or that the sun’s suddenly burst out from behind the clouds. Or could it be that my eating this breakfast with a front row view of the pigeons’ pre-coital kissing, 'the act' and seeing the mother settling down gently and maternally onto her nest has softened the blow of last night? Maybe it’s because as I sip at my glorious morning smoothie of mango and honey I’m reading Malcolm’s breakfasty words of wisdom and it's sent me off dreaming of Indiana Jones on a trail for golden eggs, of eggy altercations on wave crashed British coastlines and I have no choice but to glow. Or maybe it’s just that this breakfast is really, really great.
Oh Eat 17, I am sorry. I have done you a disservice. Your waffles are fluffy, your eggs blobby, your sausages warm and spicy, your mushroom so full and fresh, your beans cascading into a hot, saucy shape. I was wrong, and this Latte is happy to admit it. I bow before you for you truly are the Queen of Walthamstow. Stand resplendent, proud and tall on this the brow of the Village hill, let the eggy soldiers salute you as I do. For the E17 breakfasting crown is forever bestowed to you.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Op-Egg: On the passing of Herb Peterson, an American pioneer
by H.P. Seuss
Roald Dahl once wrote a marvellous article about the glory years of confectionery, 1930-1937, during which "virtually all the great classic chocolate bars were invented". It is drizzled with such landmarks as "1930: Frys invented the Crunchie"; "1935: The wonderful Aero is introduced"; and "1937: Another golden year - Kit Kats, Rolos and Smarties were invented." Dahl concludes: "In music, the equivalent would be the golden age of Mozart, Bach, Beethoven", and suggests that these dates should be as prime in the child's memory as 1066 and 1769. Naturally, we have little time for chocolate here at the LRB - at least not until exactly one hour following the consumption of a full English, when an inexplicable craving for the stuff is wont to strike.
However, we cannot but wish that the history of breakfasting were so clear cut. Were we to compile our own timeline, and perhaps say: "1894: Lumuel Benedict wanders into the New York Waldorf and orders 'buttered toast, poached eggs, crisp bacon and a hooker of hollandaise', thereby inspiring Eggs Benedict", we would find ourselves assailed by the estates of Commodore E.C. Benedict and Mme Le Grand Benedict, claiming the dish as theirs. Were we to write: "1860-70: The Indian cooks of British colonials develop kedgeree", we would be inundated by callers from Srinagar to Kovalam, pointing out that kedgeree is an ignorant imperialist take on the ancient and subtle Indian rice dish khichdi.
No such controversy with 1972, for this is a landmark date in the breakfast saga as clean as disinfected formica: it is the year Herb Peterson, who yesterday died peacefully at his home in Santa Barbara, California at 89 years old, invented the Egg McMuffin for McDonald's, a sandwich we shall henceforth call "the Peterson".
Here's the story. Herb was a Chicago ad-man of the old-school (the LRB imagines him a bit like that upstart in Mad Men), who took a sideways step into the fast-food chain in a major period of the firm's American expansion, coining the phrase "Where Quality Starts Fresh Every Day". A fan of Eggs Benedict, he decided that what McDonald's really needed was to create an aubade of a sandwich to awaken the appetite for congealed grease in a nation still reeling from the Vietnam war and urban race riots.
Experimenting in the Golden Lab one day, he substituted muffin for bun, Teflon-poached egg for beef patty and a round of Canadian bacon for iceberg lettuce. In fact, the one ingredient in common with the cheeseburger was the chrome square of cheese, a sliver of continuity in an unpredictable world. You may turn your nose up at its chemical after-taste and searing vegetable oil sheen. But what the fuck did you ever invent?
The LRB likes the locally reared, the deftly steamed and the thoughfully dabbed. But we have a weakness for the Peterson. A mania! Sometimes. Though they break all the rules, starting with 1) Never puncture the yolk. Sometimes we buy two of the fuckers at once. And chewing on a Malteser (1936) sixty minutes thence, we do not always regret it in a way we do the Big Mac (1968) the Quarter Pounder (1973) or the Chicken McNugget (1980). The simple truth is this: the combination of egg and salted meat is resilient to almost any horror in the cooking, serving and exploiting. As for McDonald's, we are only slightly alarmed that one of their best-selling lines should have been invented by an advertising executive. To Herb - "He embraced the community and the community embraced him", said Monte Fraker, a colleague from Santa Barbara, today.
Roald Dahl once wrote a marvellous article about the glory years of confectionery, 1930-1937, during which "virtually all the great classic chocolate bars were invented". It is drizzled with such landmarks as "1930: Frys invented the Crunchie"; "1935: The wonderful Aero is introduced"; and "1937: Another golden year - Kit Kats, Rolos and Smarties were invented." Dahl concludes: "In music, the equivalent would be the golden age of Mozart, Bach, Beethoven", and suggests that these dates should be as prime in the child's memory as 1066 and 1769. Naturally, we have little time for chocolate here at the LRB - at least not until exactly one hour following the consumption of a full English, when an inexplicable craving for the stuff is wont to strike.
However, we cannot but wish that the history of breakfasting were so clear cut. Were we to compile our own timeline, and perhaps say: "1894: Lumuel Benedict wanders into the New York Waldorf and orders 'buttered toast, poached eggs, crisp bacon and a hooker of hollandaise', thereby inspiring Eggs Benedict", we would find ourselves assailed by the estates of Commodore E.C. Benedict and Mme Le Grand Benedict, claiming the dish as theirs. Were we to write: "1860-70: The Indian cooks of British colonials develop kedgeree", we would be inundated by callers from Srinagar to Kovalam, pointing out that kedgeree is an ignorant imperialist take on the ancient and subtle Indian rice dish khichdi.
No such controversy with 1972, for this is a landmark date in the breakfast saga as clean as disinfected formica: it is the year Herb Peterson, who yesterday died peacefully at his home in Santa Barbara, California at 89 years old, invented the Egg McMuffin for McDonald's, a sandwich we shall henceforth call "the Peterson".
Here's the story. Herb was a Chicago ad-man of the old-school (the LRB imagines him a bit like that upstart in Mad Men), who took a sideways step into the fast-food chain in a major period of the firm's American expansion, coining the phrase "Where Quality Starts Fresh Every Day". A fan of Eggs Benedict, he decided that what McDonald's really needed was to create an aubade of a sandwich to awaken the appetite for congealed grease in a nation still reeling from the Vietnam war and urban race riots.
Experimenting in the Golden Lab one day, he substituted muffin for bun, Teflon-poached egg for beef patty and a round of Canadian bacon for iceberg lettuce. In fact, the one ingredient in common with the cheeseburger was the chrome square of cheese, a sliver of continuity in an unpredictable world. You may turn your nose up at its chemical after-taste and searing vegetable oil sheen. But what the fuck did you ever invent?
The LRB likes the locally reared, the deftly steamed and the thoughfully dabbed. But we have a weakness for the Peterson. A mania! Sometimes. Though they break all the rules, starting with 1) Never puncture the yolk. Sometimes we buy two of the fuckers at once. And chewing on a Malteser (1936) sixty minutes thence, we do not always regret it in a way we do the Big Mac (1968) the Quarter Pounder (1973) or the Chicken McNugget (1980). The simple truth is this: the combination of egg and salted meat is resilient to almost any horror in the cooking, serving and exploiting. As for McDonald's, we are only slightly alarmed that one of their best-selling lines should have been invented by an advertising executive. To Herb - "He embraced the community and the community embraced him", said Monte Fraker, a colleague from Santa Barbara, today.
Station Café, Kensal Rise
Station Café
17 Station Terrace
Kensal Rise
NW10 5RX
020 8969 3922
by Stephen Fry-Up
Cautiously, we entered. At three o’clock the place was empty, save – of course – for the staff, and a doddery old timer at the corner table.
“Easter next week.” The old timer spoke; thank god it was not to us.
“Sure is, Mike.”
“You open Easter?”
“Open every day except Christmas, Mike.” (Here, perhaps, a note of pride?)
“Doubt I’ll even make it to Christmas.”
“’Course you will Mike. You’ll be here every day for the next ten years.”
“Ten years? I bloody well doubt it.”
“Alright. Two then.” At that the waiter went purposefully outside to stack some tables or something: one gets the impression that, at the Station Café in Kensal Rise, this conversation might be a fairly regular occurrence.
In my state of semi-confusion – what was I doing in Kensal Rise of all places? How had I even got here? – I was impressed by the waiter’s air of no-nonsense affability: he’d be friendly but no way was he going to stand and chat all day. “Not with all them tables to stack, boss,” he might just have said. I was also impressed, oddly, by the tablecloth – green gingham if I recall – and a particularly ugly-chic repro clock thing on the wall.
But the food! Get to the food! Well I shall, and it was mostly fabulous. Masses of mushrooms, crunchy hash browns, piping hot beans, adequate egg, cheaply peppery black pudding (which I rather like) and quite perfect bacon (fried right to the brink of blackness). And it all came to £4.50, I think. In short, the Station Café is great. And it’s right by the overland station, so you can get back to Hackney pretty sharpish too.
17 Station Terrace
Kensal Rise
NW10 5RX
020 8969 3922
by Stephen Fry-Up
Cautiously, we entered. At three o’clock the place was empty, save – of course – for the staff, and a doddery old timer at the corner table.
“Easter next week.” The old timer spoke; thank god it was not to us.
“Sure is, Mike.”
“You open Easter?”
“Open every day except Christmas, Mike.” (Here, perhaps, a note of pride?)
“Doubt I’ll even make it to Christmas.”
“’Course you will Mike. You’ll be here every day for the next ten years.”
“Ten years? I bloody well doubt it.”
“Alright. Two then.” At that the waiter went purposefully outside to stack some tables or something: one gets the impression that, at the Station Café in Kensal Rise, this conversation might be a fairly regular occurrence.
In my state of semi-confusion – what was I doing in Kensal Rise of all places? How had I even got here? – I was impressed by the waiter’s air of no-nonsense affability: he’d be friendly but no way was he going to stand and chat all day. “Not with all them tables to stack, boss,” he might just have said. I was also impressed, oddly, by the tablecloth – green gingham if I recall – and a particularly ugly-chic repro clock thing on the wall.
But the food! Get to the food! Well I shall, and it was mostly fabulous. Masses of mushrooms, crunchy hash browns, piping hot beans, adequate egg, cheaply peppery black pudding (which I rather like) and quite perfect bacon (fried right to the brink of blackness). And it all came to £4.50, I think. In short, the Station Café is great. And it’s right by the overland station, so you can get back to Hackney pretty sharpish too.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Harpers, Borough
Harpers
3 Southwark Street
Borough
SE1 1RQ
020 7407 9666
by Bree Oche
Another Saturday morning, another thumping red wine and vodka based hangover. With an empty fridge and stomach to boot, this grey morn is surely the perfect time for a trip to the friendly greasy spoon-cum-Italian Bistro known as Harpers.
Eloquently decked out in a verdant green, Harpers' bizarre selection of wooden shelving presents everything from pot plants to bottles of olive oil to tin watering cans with museum-like posterity. The ever reliable Jones and I gallop up to the counter with childlike enthusiasm, the scent of bacon crisping and bread toasting teasing our nostrils into a state of pure, unadulterated desire.
Our tiny wooden table is decked out with 50s chrome peppershakers and finger snatching napkin dispensers and the full English, which arrives less than ten minutes after ordering, is utterly delightful. A basket of hot buttered toast sits in the void between our laden plates, upon which shimmering fried eggs battle for supremacy with an ocean of beans, thick rashers of bacon, hulks of fried tomato and the questionably meaty delights of a low quality sausage.
Greasy in the right places yet crispy where it matters, at £3.70 Harpers have definitively produced one of the best hangover breakfasts this reviewer has ever encountered. As Jones and I sweep the yolky remains from our plates with the last of the delectably cheap white toast, we stare out of the huge windows at the harried bustle of Borough Market, its rain swept tourists laden with organic produce and overpriced smoothies, smug in the knowledge that this wet March morning, we wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.
3 Southwark Street
Borough
SE1 1RQ
020 7407 9666
by Bree Oche
Another Saturday morning, another thumping red wine and vodka based hangover. With an empty fridge and stomach to boot, this grey morn is surely the perfect time for a trip to the friendly greasy spoon-cum-Italian Bistro known as Harpers.
Eloquently decked out in a verdant green, Harpers' bizarre selection of wooden shelving presents everything from pot plants to bottles of olive oil to tin watering cans with museum-like posterity. The ever reliable Jones and I gallop up to the counter with childlike enthusiasm, the scent of bacon crisping and bread toasting teasing our nostrils into a state of pure, unadulterated desire.
Our tiny wooden table is decked out with 50s chrome peppershakers and finger snatching napkin dispensers and the full English, which arrives less than ten minutes after ordering, is utterly delightful. A basket of hot buttered toast sits in the void between our laden plates, upon which shimmering fried eggs battle for supremacy with an ocean of beans, thick rashers of bacon, hulks of fried tomato and the questionably meaty delights of a low quality sausage.
Greasy in the right places yet crispy where it matters, at £3.70 Harpers have definitively produced one of the best hangover breakfasts this reviewer has ever encountered. As Jones and I sweep the yolky remains from our plates with the last of the delectably cheap white toast, we stare out of the huge windows at the harried bustle of Borough Market, its rain swept tourists laden with organic produce and overpriced smoothies, smug in the knowledge that this wet March morning, we wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Op-Egg: Where have all the breakfasts gone?
By Hashley Brown
How does it happen?
There used to be a day when you could walk out of the LRB's northwest London campaign headquarters, and on every corner, some lascivious breakfasting house would beckon you in with flash of bacon, or a whiff of sausage. Even, when with loins girded you stepped out just to pick up a paper, or a have a quiet beer, someone somewhere would be offering a cheeky eggs benedict for a fiver, or if you wanted to go all the way, needed a quick pick me up, a full english with all the extras.
They were halcyon days, a life of gentle punning, interspersed with breakfasts and thoughts of breakfast, until we could no longer with good conscience entertain that culinary mistress, that all consuming passion. With more than a sideways glance at those establishments of our youth, we shed a last greasy tear for the memories of private battles lost and won, of yolks broken and gammons roasted, and the office disbanded for sunnier shores.
At least we could leave knowing that many more young men and women would follow in our footsteps. Or so we thought.
Has the breakfast reached a point of terminal decline? Did the critical gaze of my peers burn too brightly for the underachieving breakfast house? On a recent return to my former chomping ground I acted the big man. Don't worry, I said. I know where to eat. Let's start with the old faithful gastropub - oh, seared scallops with purple sprouting. Not breakfast. Don't worry there's another - oh, only bar snacks. Still not breakfast. Beloved greasy spoon - er, closed. Why not gammon, egg and chips? Oh, I see, a Thai kitchen, lovely. Still not bleeding breakfast.
People definitely looked unhappier, like in prohibition, or some new puritan state, or a convent maybe. Where did all the breakfasts go, succour to so many brilliant young minds? My greasy tears have all but dried now, and still I find no answers.
How does it happen?
There used to be a day when you could walk out of the LRB's northwest London campaign headquarters, and on every corner, some lascivious breakfasting house would beckon you in with flash of bacon, or a whiff of sausage. Even, when with loins girded you stepped out just to pick up a paper, or a have a quiet beer, someone somewhere would be offering a cheeky eggs benedict for a fiver, or if you wanted to go all the way, needed a quick pick me up, a full english with all the extras.
They were halcyon days, a life of gentle punning, interspersed with breakfasts and thoughts of breakfast, until we could no longer with good conscience entertain that culinary mistress, that all consuming passion. With more than a sideways glance at those establishments of our youth, we shed a last greasy tear for the memories of private battles lost and won, of yolks broken and gammons roasted, and the office disbanded for sunnier shores.
At least we could leave knowing that many more young men and women would follow in our footsteps. Or so we thought.
Has the breakfast reached a point of terminal decline? Did the critical gaze of my peers burn too brightly for the underachieving breakfast house? On a recent return to my former chomping ground I acted the big man. Don't worry, I said. I know where to eat. Let's start with the old faithful gastropub - oh, seared scallops with purple sprouting. Not breakfast. Don't worry there's another - oh, only bar snacks. Still not breakfast. Beloved greasy spoon - er, closed. Why not gammon, egg and chips? Oh, I see, a Thai kitchen, lovely. Still not bleeding breakfast.
People definitely looked unhappier, like in prohibition, or some new puritan state, or a convent maybe. Where did all the breakfasts go, succour to so many brilliant young minds? My greasy tears have all but dried now, and still I find no answers.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Special Dispatch: News Café, Miami Beach, Florida
News Café
800 Ocean Drive
Miami Beach, Florida
33139
USA
++305 538 6397
by Cher E. Jamm
I was looking forward to the big, fat American breakfast more than anything else. A weekend partying in Miami was nothing without the knowledge that after a heavy night on the Mojitos, there would be somewhere to pull myself together and take stock of the damage I’d done the evening before.
Which brings me to the News Café, a 24-hour café/bar/restaurant, bang in the middle of Ocean Drive. The café’s tree lined alfresco dining area, with its dappled sunlight and gentle live soft-rock music (don’t ask - it somehow works) was perfect for people watching. Gym-buffed men walking their chihuahuas, plastic surgery tragedies walking their chihuahuas, there were even several chihuahuas on skateboards. The staff were swift and borderline rude, making a nice change to the pseudo-Americana friendliness we’d endured for the first 24 hours of our stay.
I ordered the Eggs Florentine as several people seemed to be enjoying theirs. What I got was rock hard poached eggs, rested on alarmingly chewy and sour english muffins and then drowned in a bucket of single cream. No spinach. The ‘fries’ were deep-fried cubes of potato – perfectly nice and dusted in Cajun spices, but cold. Indeed, the whole dish was stone cold. My dining companion was happy. She’d asked for a smoothie as she doesn’t ‘do’ solid food before midday. My head hurt too much to kick up a fuss, so I handed the waiter my plate, practically untouched, and decided to start again. “Could I get the French toast please?” I whimpered from behind the mother of all headaches. By then I was weak, so very weak. Twenty minutes later, three A5-sized slices of French toast about an inch thick, a side of fruit salad and practically a litre of maple syrup lay before me. I took a bite. Salty and again, stone cold. Somebody just shoot me.
I looked around forlornly at other diners, and they were all chowing down, smiling and clinking glasses, offering one another bites of their dishes. It was like being in a breakfast-themed nightmare where no one could hear my cries. I decided to go for round three: fortune favours the brave and all that. The waiter ambled over, I handed my near untouched plate back and asked for the yoghurt with granola and fresh fruit. They couldn’t get this wrong. It was slapped in front of me five minutes later. It looked gorgeous and fresh. I could smell the cinnamon and pecans and deliciousness that were coming my way. This was hope in a bowl. A new beginning. And guess what? The yoghurt was hot. Really. I decided I’d take my friend's advice. I didn’t ‘do’ solid food before midday for the next four days.
800 Ocean Drive
Miami Beach, Florida
33139
USA
++305 538 6397
by Cher E. Jamm
I was looking forward to the big, fat American breakfast more than anything else. A weekend partying in Miami was nothing without the knowledge that after a heavy night on the Mojitos, there would be somewhere to pull myself together and take stock of the damage I’d done the evening before.
Which brings me to the News Café, a 24-hour café/bar/restaurant, bang in the middle of Ocean Drive. The café’s tree lined alfresco dining area, with its dappled sunlight and gentle live soft-rock music (don’t ask - it somehow works) was perfect for people watching. Gym-buffed men walking their chihuahuas, plastic surgery tragedies walking their chihuahuas, there were even several chihuahuas on skateboards. The staff were swift and borderline rude, making a nice change to the pseudo-Americana friendliness we’d endured for the first 24 hours of our stay.
I ordered the Eggs Florentine as several people seemed to be enjoying theirs. What I got was rock hard poached eggs, rested on alarmingly chewy and sour english muffins and then drowned in a bucket of single cream. No spinach. The ‘fries’ were deep-fried cubes of potato – perfectly nice and dusted in Cajun spices, but cold. Indeed, the whole dish was stone cold. My dining companion was happy. She’d asked for a smoothie as she doesn’t ‘do’ solid food before midday. My head hurt too much to kick up a fuss, so I handed the waiter my plate, practically untouched, and decided to start again. “Could I get the French toast please?” I whimpered from behind the mother of all headaches. By then I was weak, so very weak. Twenty minutes later, three A5-sized slices of French toast about an inch thick, a side of fruit salad and practically a litre of maple syrup lay before me. I took a bite. Salty and again, stone cold. Somebody just shoot me.
I looked around forlornly at other diners, and they were all chowing down, smiling and clinking glasses, offering one another bites of their dishes. It was like being in a breakfast-themed nightmare where no one could hear my cries. I decided to go for round three: fortune favours the brave and all that. The waiter ambled over, I handed my near untouched plate back and asked for the yoghurt with granola and fresh fruit. They couldn’t get this wrong. It was slapped in front of me five minutes later. It looked gorgeous and fresh. I could smell the cinnamon and pecans and deliciousness that were coming my way. This was hope in a bowl. A new beginning. And guess what? The yoghurt was hot. Really. I decided I’d take my friend's advice. I didn’t ‘do’ solid food before midday for the next four days.
Friday, March 14, 2008
First Great Western Railways, Swansea to London
07:59 Service
First Great Western RailwaysSwansea to London Paddington
by Moose Lee
I was feeling dangerous. The travelling chef was wearing authentic “chef’s clothes”. Okay, he was wearing a white smock that buttoned up at the side but, at eight in the morning on a train out of Swansea, that was more than enough. I ordered Eggs Benedict, even though I knew it would be served in a cardboard box.
I was feeling dangerous. The travelling chef was wearing authentic “chef’s clothes”. Okay, he was wearing a white smock that buttoned up at the side but, at eight in the morning on a train out of Swansea, that was more than enough. I ordered Eggs Benedict, even though I knew it would be served in a cardboard box.
The cashier shouted back to the kitchen.
“Eggs Benedict Tone!”
I could hear it in her voice – there was going to be trouble.
“What?”
“Eggs Benedict!”
No reply. She took a step back and looked in to the galley. Tony, out of sight, spoke quietly, but not so quietly that I couldn’t hear him.
“I don’t know how,” he whispered.
She glanced at me, smiled, then disappeared back-stage.
“It’s easy,” she said. “Just poach two eggs.”
As a man who has spent most of his adult life trying to master the dark art of poaching eggs, I winced at this.
“I’m not sure,” Tony said.
“You just put ‘em in hot water. Then on a muffin.”
The hours I have spent spinning a wooden spoon around a pan of boiling water, trying to create “a vortex.” I have added splashes of vinegar and red wine. I’ve used deep water, shallow water, skillets, pans, even Clingfilm.
She came back out.
“It’ll just be a minute,” she said.
I stood around the side of the bar to watch the chef at work.
He put some boiling water in a plastic coffee cup. Then he broke the egg in to the cup. Why had I never thought of that? An idiot savant! He had solved one of the universe’s great mysteries!
But alas, the poor fool then put the cup in the microwave.
Predictably, the yolks were pale, crumbly and tasteless. Way too much cheap ham, way too little cheap Hollandaise. And I stank out my carriage.
Is it feasible that I would have been better off ordering – I can barely bring myself to type it – a Breakfast Baguette?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Pete’s Mini Bar, Putney
Pete’s Mini Bar
118 Upper Richmond Rd
Putney
SW15 2SP
by Nelson Griddle
Putney is, without question, my least favourite district of London.
It’s inhabitants seem mostly to comprise of unfeasibly tall blonde women in padded waistcoats who spend the day trolleying their offspring around in prams only slightly smaller than the ludicrous 4-by-4s they drive. Around them are towering glassy yuppie flats and twee overpriced semis, and with a high street selling little more than frothy coffee, trinkets and tat, the whole place resembles nothing so much as an outsized branch of Accessorize.
What an oasis of peace and sanity, then, is Pete’s Mini Bar on the Upper Richmond Road. Pete’s is a cosy, old-fashioned greasy spoon. The eponymous owner is a cheerful Cockney who runs what would in a more exalted establishment be called “front of house”, while his lovely assistant Edna cooks up the breakfasts.
Everything about Pete’s is reassuring, from the long and tea-coloured interior, decorated by an aged painting of the Hammersmith Bridge, to a menu that is resolutely no-frills.
Pete’s does not seek to dazzle or intimidate. About the most complicated item available is a chicken sandwich. Egg, bacon, sausage, tomato, chips, black pudding with two slices of toast and coffee is my usual choice. Liver and bacon is another winner.
The only thing you should definitely give a miss is the basement room, which is dank, cold, and somewhat reminiscent of a scene from the League of Gentlemen.
My own association with Pete’s is longstanding. And when I was last in Putney (to file for divorce from the acrimonious Mrs Griddle at Wandsworth County Court) it was straight to Pete’s that I headed.
Long may Pete and Edna reign on the Upper Richmond Road!
118 Upper Richmond Rd
Putney
SW15 2SP
by Nelson Griddle
Putney is, without question, my least favourite district of London.
It’s inhabitants seem mostly to comprise of unfeasibly tall blonde women in padded waistcoats who spend the day trolleying their offspring around in prams only slightly smaller than the ludicrous 4-by-4s they drive. Around them are towering glassy yuppie flats and twee overpriced semis, and with a high street selling little more than frothy coffee, trinkets and tat, the whole place resembles nothing so much as an outsized branch of Accessorize.
What an oasis of peace and sanity, then, is Pete’s Mini Bar on the Upper Richmond Road. Pete’s is a cosy, old-fashioned greasy spoon. The eponymous owner is a cheerful Cockney who runs what would in a more exalted establishment be called “front of house”, while his lovely assistant Edna cooks up the breakfasts.
Everything about Pete’s is reassuring, from the long and tea-coloured interior, decorated by an aged painting of the Hammersmith Bridge, to a menu that is resolutely no-frills.
Pete’s does not seek to dazzle or intimidate. About the most complicated item available is a chicken sandwich. Egg, bacon, sausage, tomato, chips, black pudding with two slices of toast and coffee is my usual choice. Liver and bacon is another winner.
The only thing you should definitely give a miss is the basement room, which is dank, cold, and somewhat reminiscent of a scene from the League of Gentlemen.
My own association with Pete’s is longstanding. And when I was last in Putney (to file for divorce from the acrimonious Mrs Griddle at Wandsworth County Court) it was straight to Pete’s that I headed.
Long may Pete and Edna reign on the Upper Richmond Road!
Friday, March 07, 2008
The Walpole, Ealing
The Walpole
35 St Mary's Rd
Ealing
W5 5RG
020 8567 7918
by Malcolm Eggs
The Walpole... The Walpole... Every month or two, like a heartbeat under the floorboards, a letter arrives from some erudite Iain Sinclair fan or other, entreating us to visit. We’ve already done most of the London brekistocracy – Banners, The Wolseley and E Pellicci – and we made it to the New Piccadilly before the grim breakfast reaper turned up with his giant butter knife. But South Ealing was something of a black hole for me. I didn’t know anyone who had anything to do with Ealing. How would I find a willing contributor?
Then, I arranged to have a long-awaited breakfast with Hattie, an old friend. I suppose I don’t need to spell out the suggested venue – if I do, please email me – but this was my chance. Getting there involved a train and two tubes. We had food and tea and chatted for a couple of hours and everything was great. Then I returned home and, tragically, in the time between then and now, I became hooked on the mid nineties Playstation game Speed Freaks. Two months were lost racing a cartoon dog through places such as Neon City and Grand Rapids. All that now remains of The Walpole is a memory of an impression, like a kaleidoscope filled with fog.
Digging deep, I remember clinking mugs of tea, stainless steel in the open kitchen and, I think, the colour red on the walls and menus – a nice, deep red. I recall friendly staff of the traditional caff sort, a hearty, old-fashioned Full English and yes, it was delicious.
So I recommend The Walpole and think it has been left unrecommended far too long, but hardly expect to be called on as a character witness. Does anyone have a better description?
35 St Mary's Rd
Ealing
W5 5RG
020 8567 7918
by Malcolm Eggs
The Walpole... The Walpole... Every month or two, like a heartbeat under the floorboards, a letter arrives from some erudite Iain Sinclair fan or other, entreating us to visit. We’ve already done most of the London brekistocracy – Banners, The Wolseley and E Pellicci – and we made it to the New Piccadilly before the grim breakfast reaper turned up with his giant butter knife. But South Ealing was something of a black hole for me. I didn’t know anyone who had anything to do with Ealing. How would I find a willing contributor?
Then, I arranged to have a long-awaited breakfast with Hattie, an old friend. I suppose I don’t need to spell out the suggested venue – if I do, please email me – but this was my chance. Getting there involved a train and two tubes. We had food and tea and chatted for a couple of hours and everything was great. Then I returned home and, tragically, in the time between then and now, I became hooked on the mid nineties Playstation game Speed Freaks. Two months were lost racing a cartoon dog through places such as Neon City and Grand Rapids. All that now remains of The Walpole is a memory of an impression, like a kaleidoscope filled with fog.
Digging deep, I remember clinking mugs of tea, stainless steel in the open kitchen and, I think, the colour red on the walls and menus – a nice, deep red. I recall friendly staff of the traditional caff sort, a hearty, old-fashioned Full English and yes, it was delicious.
So I recommend The Walpole and think it has been left unrecommended far too long, but hardly expect to be called on as a character witness. Does anyone have a better description?
Monday, March 03, 2008
US Election Dispatch: Slyman's, Cleveland, Ohio
Slyman’s
3106 St. Clair Avenue
Cleveland, Ohio 44114
USA
+1-216-621-3760
www.slymans.com
by T.N. Toost
Back in January I invited all the major Presidential candidates at the time to breakfast with me for the LRB. In the States, the LRB does not command the journalistic respect it does in the UK. Most campaigns sent an auto-reply email thanking me and promising to be in touch. John Edwards’ scheduler actually called me a few days before he quit (nothing better to do, I suppose). Two weeks before the Ohio primary, I followed up with those who remained, but to little avail. Then, a week later, on the front page of the Cleveland Plain Dealer:
“Campaign staffers called Mayor Dean DePiero on Monday morning, seeking his suggestions on locations that would serve Clinton’s ‘breakfast table’ theme.”
To which I responded exactly as you just did: “What the fuck?”
Clinton is not the nicest human being. In fact, she’s repulsive. And I’m not just a slighted breakfast date: I worked for the bitch back in 1999. Then she has the audacity to ignore the LRB’s campaign correspondent in favor of the advice of some fucking dumbshit suburban mayor. I’m not voting for any candidate right now – I’m voting against her. Slut. Cow.
I even scheduled breakfast on the date of the debate in Cleveland, and told them about the old Evening Standard slot. God, I was so close.
Obama was marginally better: no newspaper article appeared saying he was trying to breakfast in Ohio without me. In fact, I haven’t heard of him having breakfast here at all. McCain ignored me completely – he has enough to think about, what with that whole fucking-a-lobbyist scandal. Nader joined too late to invite. Anyway, he’s almost as vain as Hillary.
Spilt milk: none of them showed anyway. Your correspondent and two friends walked in and Freddie Slyman greeted us, showing us to a table and announcing loudly that everyone in the restaurant was to talk politics with us. Immediately we were accosted by the waitress and a pensioner patron while another customer snuck away. The pensioner said, “I’m for McCain,” then, instantly, “Well, Ron Paul first, of course…” Then came the media hush-up theory. The waitress came out strongly for Hillary until she, too, remembered to say, “Oh, of course, Ron Paul would be my first choice, but you know, the media shut him up and took everything he said out of context.” Ron Paul, according to the morning’s popular consensus, “is honest.” “He talks straight.” “He doesn’t play the Washington games.”
We ordered. One man walked over to point out that Ron Paul is the only candidate who will close the borders, pull the troops out of Iraq and restore America to its pre-W. glory. Eddie the Glass Man, a patron with long white hair, a long white beard, heavily calloused hands and a heady odor of sweat and coffee, promised he would vote. However, when asked what mattered to him, he digressed, spitting Cheshire Cat riddles without being as interesting. He then paraphrased Stalin: “The people who vote aren’t the ones that matter. It’s the people who count the votes that matter.” He’ll know who he’ll be voting for, apparently, when he wakes up on Tuesday. He then insulted the sign I’d posted on my table saying, “Please talk/about politics/with me!!!” He would have written it, “Please/talk about politics/with me!!!” Two breakfasters, separated by a common language.
I ate. The braised eggs were perfectly textured, the hash browns fresh, the corned beef pile exquisite. Heaped on buttered rye toast, it formed the perfect breakfast sandwich. The Slyman’s machine is a beautiful thing to watch – the workers are like a highly trained dance company, each moving in their calculated rhythms. I spoke with the waitress and another patron about their regular visits to London, which they love.
In the end, my notes offered irrefutable proof that ordinary Americans care deeply about what is going on in the government even if, like Eddie the Glass Man, they believe they have no effect on the election's ultimate direction. (At least, that’s what I think he was riddling at). In this country, schoolchildren are regaled with glorious stories of civic-mindedness during and after the Revolutionary War, and it seems to have stuck. My notes also reminded me of the George Burns line, “Too bad all the people who know how to run this country are busy running taxicabs or cutting hair.” I’ve always wondered if he meant that they’re the ones who know how things work, or just think they are. After breakfast at Slyman’s I must say I’m still not quite sure.
On the way out, I stopped again to thank Freddie for having hosting us. He turned around with a paper bag in his left hand, shaking my outstretched right. In that moment, he exemplified everything good I can think of about America: a Lebanese man who runs a Jewish-style deli; a man of strong convictions and faith who can sit down with his patrons and disagree with someone on every issue and yet not alienate them; a man who is intensely interested in and inquisitive about how the world operates, who works hard every day yet has the grace to send your correspondent out with a packed lunch and a smile. Bribery? Hardly – we’ve already reviewed Slyman’s favorably twice, and he comped our meal. It was just the friendliness and care that is so characteristic of the American people.
(Post-Script: if you ever get a chance, the Reuben he made for me had 66 layers of corned beef. It lasted me through both lunch and dinner, and along with our breakfast provided me with 36 hours solid of corned beef sustenance. This is, after all, America.)
3106 St. Clair Avenue
Cleveland, Ohio 44114
USA
+1-216-621-3760
www.slymans.com
by T.N. Toost
Back in January I invited all the major Presidential candidates at the time to breakfast with me for the LRB. In the States, the LRB does not command the journalistic respect it does in the UK. Most campaigns sent an auto-reply email thanking me and promising to be in touch. John Edwards’ scheduler actually called me a few days before he quit (nothing better to do, I suppose). Two weeks before the Ohio primary, I followed up with those who remained, but to little avail. Then, a week later, on the front page of the Cleveland Plain Dealer:
“Campaign staffers called Mayor Dean DePiero on Monday morning, seeking his suggestions on locations that would serve Clinton’s ‘breakfast table’ theme.”
To which I responded exactly as you just did: “What the fuck?”
Clinton is not the nicest human being. In fact, she’s repulsive. And I’m not just a slighted breakfast date: I worked for the bitch back in 1999. Then she has the audacity to ignore the LRB’s campaign correspondent in favor of the advice of some fucking dumbshit suburban mayor. I’m not voting for any candidate right now – I’m voting against her. Slut. Cow.
I even scheduled breakfast on the date of the debate in Cleveland, and told them about the old Evening Standard slot. God, I was so close.
Obama was marginally better: no newspaper article appeared saying he was trying to breakfast in Ohio without me. In fact, I haven’t heard of him having breakfast here at all. McCain ignored me completely – he has enough to think about, what with that whole fucking-a-lobbyist scandal. Nader joined too late to invite. Anyway, he’s almost as vain as Hillary.
Spilt milk: none of them showed anyway. Your correspondent and two friends walked in and Freddie Slyman greeted us, showing us to a table and announcing loudly that everyone in the restaurant was to talk politics with us. Immediately we were accosted by the waitress and a pensioner patron while another customer snuck away. The pensioner said, “I’m for McCain,” then, instantly, “Well, Ron Paul first, of course…” Then came the media hush-up theory. The waitress came out strongly for Hillary until she, too, remembered to say, “Oh, of course, Ron Paul would be my first choice, but you know, the media shut him up and took everything he said out of context.” Ron Paul, according to the morning’s popular consensus, “is honest.” “He talks straight.” “He doesn’t play the Washington games.”
We ordered. One man walked over to point out that Ron Paul is the only candidate who will close the borders, pull the troops out of Iraq and restore America to its pre-W. glory. Eddie the Glass Man, a patron with long white hair, a long white beard, heavily calloused hands and a heady odor of sweat and coffee, promised he would vote. However, when asked what mattered to him, he digressed, spitting Cheshire Cat riddles without being as interesting. He then paraphrased Stalin: “The people who vote aren’t the ones that matter. It’s the people who count the votes that matter.” He’ll know who he’ll be voting for, apparently, when he wakes up on Tuesday. He then insulted the sign I’d posted on my table saying, “Please talk/about politics/with me!!!” He would have written it, “Please/talk about politics/with me!!!” Two breakfasters, separated by a common language.
I ate. The braised eggs were perfectly textured, the hash browns fresh, the corned beef pile exquisite. Heaped on buttered rye toast, it formed the perfect breakfast sandwich. The Slyman’s machine is a beautiful thing to watch – the workers are like a highly trained dance company, each moving in their calculated rhythms. I spoke with the waitress and another patron about their regular visits to London, which they love.
In the end, my notes offered irrefutable proof that ordinary Americans care deeply about what is going on in the government even if, like Eddie the Glass Man, they believe they have no effect on the election's ultimate direction. (At least, that’s what I think he was riddling at). In this country, schoolchildren are regaled with glorious stories of civic-mindedness during and after the Revolutionary War, and it seems to have stuck. My notes also reminded me of the George Burns line, “Too bad all the people who know how to run this country are busy running taxicabs or cutting hair.” I’ve always wondered if he meant that they’re the ones who know how things work, or just think they are. After breakfast at Slyman’s I must say I’m still not quite sure.
On the way out, I stopped again to thank Freddie for having hosting us. He turned around with a paper bag in his left hand, shaking my outstretched right. In that moment, he exemplified everything good I can think of about America: a Lebanese man who runs a Jewish-style deli; a man of strong convictions and faith who can sit down with his patrons and disagree with someone on every issue and yet not alienate them; a man who is intensely interested in and inquisitive about how the world operates, who works hard every day yet has the grace to send your correspondent out with a packed lunch and a smile. Bribery? Hardly – we’ve already reviewed Slyman’s favorably twice, and he comped our meal. It was just the friendliness and care that is so characteristic of the American people.
(Post-Script: if you ever get a chance, the Reuben he made for me had 66 layers of corned beef. It lasted me through both lunch and dinner, and along with our breakfast provided me with 36 hours solid of corned beef sustenance. This is, after all, America.)
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