Tom’s Kitchen
27 Cale Street
Chelsea
SW3 3QP
020 7349 0202
by Duncan Soldiers
The back streets of Chelsea are rarely on the radar when it comes to searching for the perfect breakfast – local residents not being ones for sausage, egg and chips, unless the Atkins diet happens to be back in fashion that particular week.
However, one new arrival who seems to be hauling the yummy mummies out of their carbon copy King’s Road coffee shops is Tom Aitken and his trendy farmhouse kitchen. Goodbye, ladies who lunch; hello, ladies who breakfast.
The cutlery in Tom’s is ‘try-hard’ cool - lots of odd shaped glasses and retro cups that make you think you’re going to spill your tea, and then make you spill your tea. This is the antithesis of the greasy spoon – hence no builders’ mugs the size of waste paper bins here.
First of all, I plumped for the porridge with brown sugar (slow release carbs apparently – good for the waistline and all that). The bowl arrived - a huge, great portion and at £3 surely the most reasonably priced dish in Chelsea. It was thick, steamy and gluppy – perfect pre-shopping fare. My partner in breakfasts went for the half grapefruit – which apart from being already cut up for you (don’t be silly; Chelsea Sloanes don’t cut their own fruit) did exactly what it said on the tin. It was fresh, juicy and tart.
After my affair with the porridge, I felt it would be rude not to try their take on the full English: mushroom, tomato, sausage, black pudding (a lovely, meaty, fatty, angina-inducing treat), fried eggs, bacon, and beans served in a separate dish, all delivered on a thick wooden platter. You don’t get that at your local greasy spoon, but from now on that’s how I’m ordering it.
My only gripe would be that the food was ever so slightly cold, but I presume that’s because the place was rammed to the rafters (we waited 10 minutes for a table). In future I’ll book. Still, at £30 for two, I expected it to be hot, no matter how busy they were.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Op-Egg: Giles Coren is Being a Bit Daft
by Nelson Griddle
To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw, it seems that one Englishman has only to open his mouth and put a sausage in it for another Englishman to despise him.
For proof, look no further than Times man Giles Coren, who, not content with going about Pontefract telling truck drivers what they should and should not be eating for a TV documentary called Tax the Fat (sounds like highly nuanced stuff, eh?), has made a sally against the English breakfast.
“You never see a person with a degree eating a fry-up, do you?” argues Mr Coren. “Certainly not someone with a 2:1 or better in a humanities subject from a university founded before the invention of the iPod. That's because they are smart enough to know better.”
Only stupid people eat a Full English, according to Mr Coren. Oh, and working class people, too. Wealthy young Giles, whose father sent him to Westminster (where it seems they taught him that it’s amusing to poke fun at people on Disability Living Allowance) prefers porridge with… wait for it… salt.
LRB readers can make their own minds on whether they wish to swap their eggs and bacon for salty oatmeal. And whether they only plump for the former only because they’re dim-witted white trash.
My own contention would be twofold: that the cerebral can coexist happily with the calorific. And The Times is not what it was.
To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw, it seems that one Englishman has only to open his mouth and put a sausage in it for another Englishman to despise him.
For proof, look no further than Times man Giles Coren, who, not content with going about Pontefract telling truck drivers what they should and should not be eating for a TV documentary called Tax the Fat (sounds like highly nuanced stuff, eh?), has made a sally against the English breakfast.
“You never see a person with a degree eating a fry-up, do you?” argues Mr Coren. “Certainly not someone with a 2:1 or better in a humanities subject from a university founded before the invention of the iPod. That's because they are smart enough to know better.”
Only stupid people eat a Full English, according to Mr Coren. Oh, and working class people, too. Wealthy young Giles, whose father sent him to Westminster (where it seems they taught him that it’s amusing to poke fun at people on Disability Living Allowance) prefers porridge with… wait for it… salt.
LRB readers can make their own minds on whether they wish to swap their eggs and bacon for salty oatmeal. And whether they only plump for the former only because they’re dim-witted white trash.
My own contention would be twofold: that the cerebral can coexist happily with the calorific. And The Times is not what it was.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Special Dispatch: Gospel Brunch at the House of Blues, Cleveland
Gospel Brunch at the House of Blues
308 Euclid Ave
Cleveland, OH 44114
Ohio
USA
+1 (216) 523-2583
www.hob.com
by T. N. Toost
In retrospect, I made too many assumptions. First, what is a gospel brunch? I didn’t know; I just assumed it was a brunch with gospel music. It's like asking for a definition of a fat girl, or pornography, or the perfect fried egg: you know it when you see it, but how do you define it without using subjective adjectives? I don’t feel bad, though: people rely on assumptions, on stereotypes; it’s how we can quickly process massive amounts of information.
First bad assumption: there would be more black people. Reality: with an African great-great-grandmother, I was clearly the blackest patron. Everyone else was white, lily-white, glow-in-the-dark white, with the exception of a few Japanese tourists and a sole black waiter. I wasn’t sure if everyone else was disappointed or not.
Second bad assumption: the food would be amazing. Over three trips to the buffet I had crawfish cheesecake, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken legs, bacon, sausages, a stuffed tomato, scrambled eggs, jambalaya, fried potatoes, a rosemary cornbread muffin with maple butter, pineapple, Tuscan melon, blackberries and blueberries, pecan sticky loaf, apple cobbler, pecan pie and white chocolate banana pudding with crème anglais. With the exception of the muffin, the fruit and the pudding, it was all mediocre, if not downright bad (I’m looking at you, fried chicken); the exceptions, though, were absolutely incredible. The muffin was hot, soft and buttery; the fruit fresh and the pudding sweet and yielding. As I understand it, this pudding was a staple on the plantations; the weak mimosas and strong coffee were just like Remus might have made them.
After our enormous eating session, the Jesus music stopped playing and the incongruous video screen showing Bjork videos rolled up. The band started – four men in matching 4-button chalkstripe suits, and the hostess, a full-bodied black woman in a black velvet gown. She sang “Ain’t Nobody Do Me Like Jesus” and, with the thrust in her hips, we wondered how well she knew the Savior. “Take Me Lord” likewise did nothing for her reputation.
Everyone in the audience was clapping along, waving napkins, singing on cue with the band. When the hostess said stand, clap or sing, we stood, clapped and sang. It was an opportunity to get black acceptance and even encouragement without being threatened by their inherent cultural hegemony. There is anti-black sentiment in America, but I suspect anti-white sentiment is even more prevalent in black culture. The gospel brunch, like a pair of fishbowls on a table, allowed each group to see each other with only minor refractions and distortions. It was more a performance than a prayer.
308 Euclid Ave
Cleveland, OH 44114
Ohio
USA
+1 (216) 523-2583
www.hob.com
by T. N. Toost
In retrospect, I made too many assumptions. First, what is a gospel brunch? I didn’t know; I just assumed it was a brunch with gospel music. It's like asking for a definition of a fat girl, or pornography, or the perfect fried egg: you know it when you see it, but how do you define it without using subjective adjectives? I don’t feel bad, though: people rely on assumptions, on stereotypes; it’s how we can quickly process massive amounts of information.
First bad assumption: there would be more black people. Reality: with an African great-great-grandmother, I was clearly the blackest patron. Everyone else was white, lily-white, glow-in-the-dark white, with the exception of a few Japanese tourists and a sole black waiter. I wasn’t sure if everyone else was disappointed or not.
Second bad assumption: the food would be amazing. Over three trips to the buffet I had crawfish cheesecake, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken legs, bacon, sausages, a stuffed tomato, scrambled eggs, jambalaya, fried potatoes, a rosemary cornbread muffin with maple butter, pineapple, Tuscan melon, blackberries and blueberries, pecan sticky loaf, apple cobbler, pecan pie and white chocolate banana pudding with crème anglais. With the exception of the muffin, the fruit and the pudding, it was all mediocre, if not downright bad (I’m looking at you, fried chicken); the exceptions, though, were absolutely incredible. The muffin was hot, soft and buttery; the fruit fresh and the pudding sweet and yielding. As I understand it, this pudding was a staple on the plantations; the weak mimosas and strong coffee were just like Remus might have made them.
After our enormous eating session, the Jesus music stopped playing and the incongruous video screen showing Bjork videos rolled up. The band started – four men in matching 4-button chalkstripe suits, and the hostess, a full-bodied black woman in a black velvet gown. She sang “Ain’t Nobody Do Me Like Jesus” and, with the thrust in her hips, we wondered how well she knew the Savior. “Take Me Lord” likewise did nothing for her reputation.
Everyone in the audience was clapping along, waving napkins, singing on cue with the band. When the hostess said stand, clap or sing, we stood, clapped and sang. It was an opportunity to get black acceptance and even encouragement without being threatened by their inherent cultural hegemony. There is anti-black sentiment in America, but I suspect anti-white sentiment is even more prevalent in black culture. The gospel brunch, like a pair of fishbowls on a table, allowed each group to see each other with only minor refractions and distortions. It was more a performance than a prayer.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Café Rossi, Borough
Café Rossi
57 Borough High Street,
Borough
London
SE1 1NE
020 7407 3718
by Molly Coddle-Degg
We trekked through London Bridge in search of shelter and nourishment. It was snowing. In April! Numerous menus tacked outside various restaurants had left us uninspired. How we were hungry. Desperately so, I realised, as we defaulted, zombie-like, into Slug and Lettuce. We stood inside, feeling sad, craving sausages, beans, eggcetera. There was no attempt to remove outerwear and sit down. We didn’t want to be in a chain pub considering the food options. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.
A handwritten sandwich board, noticed through a window. Did it really say ‘All Day Breakfast’? It did! Cue palpable joy and a hasty retreat.
Café Rossi. Busily peopled by trendies, builders, and trendy builders. Formica décor, green mismatched chairs, the specials proclaimed in biro, presided over by Signor Rossi*. If you look up ‘Mediterranean patriarch slash café owner’ on Wikipedia, it’s his picture that appears, at the time of writing.
Traditional Breakfast: two eggs, two bacon, sausage, chips, beans, mushrooms or tomato, tea or coffee. £4.50. Sold!
Though Signor was upset by an attempt to order food and drink in one go (“First food! Then drink” he roared), the rest was plain sailing. Jules was allowed both mushrooms AND tomato (“It’s two of my five a day!”), Vix able to substitute hash browns for chips.
“How was it?” Signor demanded as he took our plates. “Great!” we truthfully revealed – for it was. Every last breakfast item had been blessed by the greasy spoon and consumed with relish. Signor was then distracted by a Globe brochure. “Shakespeare!” he sneered. “I no like. Too tragedy. I prefer happy news! YouTube and MySpace!”
So, we invited Signor Rossi to come and see the Merry Wives of Windsor. He is still thinking about it.
*perhaps. Hopefully.
57 Borough High Street,
Borough
London
SE1 1NE
020 7407 3718
by Molly Coddle-Degg
We trekked through London Bridge in search of shelter and nourishment. It was snowing. In April! Numerous menus tacked outside various restaurants had left us uninspired. How we were hungry. Desperately so, I realised, as we defaulted, zombie-like, into Slug and Lettuce. We stood inside, feeling sad, craving sausages, beans, eggcetera. There was no attempt to remove outerwear and sit down. We didn’t want to be in a chain pub considering the food options. This wasn’t how it was meant to be.
A handwritten sandwich board, noticed through a window. Did it really say ‘All Day Breakfast’? It did! Cue palpable joy and a hasty retreat.
Café Rossi. Busily peopled by trendies, builders, and trendy builders. Formica décor, green mismatched chairs, the specials proclaimed in biro, presided over by Signor Rossi*. If you look up ‘Mediterranean patriarch slash café owner’ on Wikipedia, it’s his picture that appears, at the time of writing.
Traditional Breakfast: two eggs, two bacon, sausage, chips, beans, mushrooms or tomato, tea or coffee. £4.50. Sold!
Though Signor was upset by an attempt to order food and drink in one go (“First food! Then drink” he roared), the rest was plain sailing. Jules was allowed both mushrooms AND tomato (“It’s two of my five a day!”), Vix able to substitute hash browns for chips.
“How was it?” Signor demanded as he took our plates. “Great!” we truthfully revealed – for it was. Every last breakfast item had been blessed by the greasy spoon and consumed with relish. Signor was then distracted by a Globe brochure. “Shakespeare!” he sneered. “I no like. Too tragedy. I prefer happy news! YouTube and MySpace!”
So, we invited Signor Rossi to come and see the Merry Wives of Windsor. He is still thinking about it.
*perhaps. Hopefully.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Op-Egg: Solving the breakfast class divide
by Blake Pudding
In Britain we have a problem with breakfasts. In fact, we have a problem with food in general and like a lot of problems in this country it boils down to class. I speak of the great divide between the caff and the café. In the caff you will be served enormous quantities of not very good quality food quickly and with no pretension or fuss. In the café, there may be a mission statement, there may be a picture of Nicaraguan peasants' children dancing happily because their parents have got a good price for their coffee, there may well be a family tree showing the lineage of the pork products. This will all be a mask to hide the fact that they don’t really know what they are doing. The service will be terrible, the sausages will be over-cooked and the eggs will be under-cooked. In places like this, I look at the quality of the ingredients and weep at the waste and weep at the bill too which normally tops £7 for a full English. Complaining is pointless because all the staff are part-time and most of them are as hungover as the clientele.
What they lack is discipline!
Back at the caff, a stern patriarch (probably called Nico and of Greek Cypriot origin), will be conducting his kitchen in a symphony of steam and hissing fat. Your food will arrive miraculously quickly and will be exactly how you ordered it. The problem comes when you start to think about where your food comes from. Those peculiar brown/ grey bangers are fine for the lower orders who have never tasted better but once you have tried a proper sausage then you will not want to go back.
What’s to be done? I would love to see a reality TV show where Nico is sent into one of these organic rip-off joints to put the fear of God into the pretty fey staff. That would make excellent television and probably very good breakfast. Alternatively greasy spoons caffs could offer a better class of sausage and bacon alongside the traditional tat. In a masterstroke the decline of the caff would be halted. You would have the best of both worlds, the caff and the café. The middle class would eat roughly the same food on the same premises as working class. It could spell the end of the class conflict that has plagued England since the Norman Conquest.
In Britain we have a problem with breakfasts. In fact, we have a problem with food in general and like a lot of problems in this country it boils down to class. I speak of the great divide between the caff and the café. In the caff you will be served enormous quantities of not very good quality food quickly and with no pretension or fuss. In the café, there may be a mission statement, there may be a picture of Nicaraguan peasants' children dancing happily because their parents have got a good price for their coffee, there may well be a family tree showing the lineage of the pork products. This will all be a mask to hide the fact that they don’t really know what they are doing. The service will be terrible, the sausages will be over-cooked and the eggs will be under-cooked. In places like this, I look at the quality of the ingredients and weep at the waste and weep at the bill too which normally tops £7 for a full English. Complaining is pointless because all the staff are part-time and most of them are as hungover as the clientele.
What they lack is discipline!
Back at the caff, a stern patriarch (probably called Nico and of Greek Cypriot origin), will be conducting his kitchen in a symphony of steam and hissing fat. Your food will arrive miraculously quickly and will be exactly how you ordered it. The problem comes when you start to think about where your food comes from. Those peculiar brown/ grey bangers are fine for the lower orders who have never tasted better but once you have tried a proper sausage then you will not want to go back.
What’s to be done? I would love to see a reality TV show where Nico is sent into one of these organic rip-off joints to put the fear of God into the pretty fey staff. That would make excellent television and probably very good breakfast. Alternatively greasy spoons caffs could offer a better class of sausage and bacon alongside the traditional tat. In a masterstroke the decline of the caff would be halted. You would have the best of both worlds, the caff and the café. The middle class would eat roughly the same food on the same premises as working class. It could spell the end of the class conflict that has plagued England since the Norman Conquest.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Le Chandelier, East Dulwich
Le Chandelier
161 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22 8HX
020 8299 3344
by Malcolm Eggs
"Would you like your bacon soft or crispy?"
The waitress at Le Chandelier has just asked me this question and it sets me thinking. What if I meet a genie today and he instructs me that I must decide whether to give up bacon or steak for the rest of my life? I don’t think I would hesitate. I love that "to hell with sausage and mash, to hell with barbary duck" moment when I order steak. But lose bacon? It'd never work. When I was younger, I‘d take an eight-rasher pack and grill it all for a single sandwich. No sauce; sometimes not even an egg. I would miss steak, but wouldn't pine for it, not in the same way. But then... What if the little genie – he looks like a tiny, green-haired Peter Kay – is tricking me, and actually I have just expunged juicy steak only to get soft bacon for all my living days? Cruel, cheeky genie. Crispy and soft are completely different foods, far less alike than rare and well-done steak. Which brings me full circle to:
"Crispy."
Her question - so welcome, so criminally rare – renders me unable to criticise anything. The tinny music emanating from the kitchen is endearing. The unbuttered toast is better that way. The scrambled eggs are perfect. The décor is flawless. The toilet is well signposted. And to be fair, in general, it is lovely. Mabel Syrup’s eggs benedict is wonderful and generous, the eggs poached to perfection and the hollandaise finished off with an interesting method involving grilling the top until it browns slightly. It works well. My bacon and scrambled eggs aren’t going to win any major awards, but they are just fine. And the cakes and loaves of bread stacked up at the counter look incredible.
We emerge into the winter and get into the car. I resolve to eat steak the next time I get the chance – it being prudent to make the most of it, just in case.
161 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22 8HX
020 8299 3344
by Malcolm Eggs
"Would you like your bacon soft or crispy?"
The waitress at Le Chandelier has just asked me this question and it sets me thinking. What if I meet a genie today and he instructs me that I must decide whether to give up bacon or steak for the rest of my life? I don’t think I would hesitate. I love that "to hell with sausage and mash, to hell with barbary duck" moment when I order steak. But lose bacon? It'd never work. When I was younger, I‘d take an eight-rasher pack and grill it all for a single sandwich. No sauce; sometimes not even an egg. I would miss steak, but wouldn't pine for it, not in the same way. But then... What if the little genie – he looks like a tiny, green-haired Peter Kay – is tricking me, and actually I have just expunged juicy steak only to get soft bacon for all my living days? Cruel, cheeky genie. Crispy and soft are completely different foods, far less alike than rare and well-done steak. Which brings me full circle to:
"Crispy."
Her question - so welcome, so criminally rare – renders me unable to criticise anything. The tinny music emanating from the kitchen is endearing. The unbuttered toast is better that way. The scrambled eggs are perfect. The décor is flawless. The toilet is well signposted. And to be fair, in general, it is lovely. Mabel Syrup’s eggs benedict is wonderful and generous, the eggs poached to perfection and the hollandaise finished off with an interesting method involving grilling the top until it browns slightly. It works well. My bacon and scrambled eggs aren’t going to win any major awards, but they are just fine. And the cakes and loaves of bread stacked up at the counter look incredible.
We emerge into the winter and get into the car. I resolve to eat steak the next time I get the chance – it being prudent to make the most of it, just in case.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Leila's Shop, Shoreditch
Leila’s Shop
17 Calvert Avenue
Shoreditch
E2 7JP
020 7729 9789
by Dieggo Rivera
I can point out Leila’s on a map and describe the things you’ll find there – baskets of vegetables and shelves stocking books, preserves, dried ceps – but it’s harder to explain exactly what it is. At first glance, it’s like a group of friends gathered in a kitchen, whose door was accidentally left ajar.
Similarly, the tins and jars lined along the wall appear to be food friends who share an affectionate connection, rather than getting bogged down in all the usual food prejudices and cliques which stipulate, for instance, that egg and bacon always appear together at breakfast time, that spaghetti belongs to the Italian food sector and that all organic food must be marked with a squiggly font.
Now, although there are tables and Leila’s serves food, to compare it to a regular café is to miss the point. Leila’s shop is a little alcove, carefully whittled out from the food massif, with a succinct menu offering simply eggs, a cheese sandwich or a polish platter of sausages, pickles, horseradish and rye. That’s it.
My companion, who confuses service with subservience, is to the waitress as the tax collector was to Jesus. But her requests for soya milk and mayonnaise on her comté sandwich are refused. You can find comfort in a place like this, where rebellion is futile: succumb to Leila for she knows best and be grateful for relief from the endlessness of choice.
I sit around a long table and watch as my eggs languish in a hot fist of butter then make their way over to the table, snug in their still-sizzling cast-iron pan. They taste like being in love with your husband or wife.
While my post-prandial companion busies herself with complex mathematical comparisons between our bill and what it would have cost to buy the individual ingredients at Tesco, I look up and glimpse, for an instant, something of the meaning of life in a waitress, a gently-tarnished silver spoon and a jug of milk, as she stops beside the espresso machine, bends down and scoops a thick and goopy layer of cream from its meniscus.
17 Calvert Avenue
Shoreditch
E2 7JP
020 7729 9789
by Dieggo Rivera
I can point out Leila’s on a map and describe the things you’ll find there – baskets of vegetables and shelves stocking books, preserves, dried ceps – but it’s harder to explain exactly what it is. At first glance, it’s like a group of friends gathered in a kitchen, whose door was accidentally left ajar.
Similarly, the tins and jars lined along the wall appear to be food friends who share an affectionate connection, rather than getting bogged down in all the usual food prejudices and cliques which stipulate, for instance, that egg and bacon always appear together at breakfast time, that spaghetti belongs to the Italian food sector and that all organic food must be marked with a squiggly font.
Now, although there are tables and Leila’s serves food, to compare it to a regular café is to miss the point. Leila’s shop is a little alcove, carefully whittled out from the food massif, with a succinct menu offering simply eggs, a cheese sandwich or a polish platter of sausages, pickles, horseradish and rye. That’s it.
My companion, who confuses service with subservience, is to the waitress as the tax collector was to Jesus. But her requests for soya milk and mayonnaise on her comté sandwich are refused. You can find comfort in a place like this, where rebellion is futile: succumb to Leila for she knows best and be grateful for relief from the endlessness of choice.
I sit around a long table and watch as my eggs languish in a hot fist of butter then make their way over to the table, snug in their still-sizzling cast-iron pan. They taste like being in love with your husband or wife.
While my post-prandial companion busies herself with complex mathematical comparisons between our bill and what it would have cost to buy the individual ingredients at Tesco, I look up and glimpse, for an instant, something of the meaning of life in a waitress, a gently-tarnished silver spoon and a jug of milk, as she stops beside the espresso machine, bends down and scoops a thick and goopy layer of cream from its meniscus.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Kensington Square Kitchen, Kensington
Kensington Square Kitchen
9 Kensington Square
Kensington
W8 5EP
020 7938 2598
www.kensingtonsquarekitchen.co.uk
by Alotta Waffle
What with Kensington Square being one of the country’s most expensive places to buy property, you’d think its latest café might be something special. Yummy mummies and their personal trainers, ladies who brunch and those with time and money to burn would all (one might assume) be regulars. Not to mention anyone who is heartily sick of Whole Foods.
From the airy yet cosy feel inside, it seemed that I was not to be disappointed. The walls were pale green, the panelling was cream-washed and there were papers lying around for all to enjoy. But oh, how deceptive appearances can be.
Aghast when the granola came in a thimble – sorry egg cup-sized pot – I nearly broke a tooth on the burn-to-a-cinder oats that tasted both smoky and overly sweet from all the added sugar. A few well-chosen raisins or figs really would have sufficed.
The eggs fared a little better (again – small portions) but were a tad on the buttery side for those who prefer their scrambled to be firm. What a relief to find that both the toast and smoked salmon were entirely edible, and the staff at least friendly.
The clientele in KSQ is more media types from Associated News across the square – mainlining coffee or sweating their way through job interviews to get the hell out of there – than yummies or trillionaires.
The tea was fine, the coffee OK, and the yoghurt/berry mix very passable. But then I could have got all that (and more) from my local greasy spoon and not paid £25 purely, it seems, for the privilege of sitting in London’s most expensive square. Give it a miss – unless you’re going for a job interview, of course.
9 Kensington Square
Kensington
W8 5EP
020 7938 2598
www.kensingtonsquarekitchen.co.uk
by Alotta Waffle
What with Kensington Square being one of the country’s most expensive places to buy property, you’d think its latest café might be something special. Yummy mummies and their personal trainers, ladies who brunch and those with time and money to burn would all (one might assume) be regulars. Not to mention anyone who is heartily sick of Whole Foods.
From the airy yet cosy feel inside, it seemed that I was not to be disappointed. The walls were pale green, the panelling was cream-washed and there were papers lying around for all to enjoy. But oh, how deceptive appearances can be.
Aghast when the granola came in a thimble – sorry egg cup-sized pot – I nearly broke a tooth on the burn-to-a-cinder oats that tasted both smoky and overly sweet from all the added sugar. A few well-chosen raisins or figs really would have sufficed.
The eggs fared a little better (again – small portions) but were a tad on the buttery side for those who prefer their scrambled to be firm. What a relief to find that both the toast and smoked salmon were entirely edible, and the staff at least friendly.
The clientele in KSQ is more media types from Associated News across the square – mainlining coffee or sweating their way through job interviews to get the hell out of there – than yummies or trillionaires.
The tea was fine, the coffee OK, and the yoghurt/berry mix very passable. But then I could have got all that (and more) from my local greasy spoon and not paid £25 purely, it seems, for the privilege of sitting in London’s most expensive square. Give it a miss – unless you’re going for a job interview, of course.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Op-Egg: What the Terminal 5 fiasco teaches us about breakfast
by Poppy Tartt
If only they had all had a good breakfast, I wondered aloud as I pondered the Heathrow Terminal 5 fiasco, this might never have happened. I was speaking metaphorically of course. Be prepared! A mantra for breakfasters and baggage handlers the world over. Breakfasting should be like packing for a journey, and packing well.
A wise packer lays everything out before placing the items in their suitcase, considers which items to pack first, which to leave out and which to enfold delicately within another item. It is both the point and pitfall of dining out that in doing so you relinquish this preliminary (but fundamental) stage to a shadowy third party. As all airport employees know this is the very seed of threat. Suppose your moisturizer had been carelessly thrown in with your clothes! In transit, anything could happen: the possibilities are devastating. This is one of the worst dangers with beans. They are the chief culprits of breakfast moisture (discounting, of course, the drink, which has the decency to wear its wetness on its sleeve). Beans are forever poised to taint the delicate patina of an egg, that silken garment so easily ruined by a lotion explosion; they are desperate to ooze remorselessly into the soft undersides of toast, to flatten a crisp hash brown into a wet runway.
Since the renaissance of terrorism – the beans of the western world – measures have been taken to save us from the wickedness of unregulated moisture. On planes liquids are now carried separately: sealed off, yet accessible, in case moisture is required at short notice. Follow this system on the breakfast plate. Some may consider it extreme to house beans in a separate bowl. I consider it essential. Even a bank of sausages is not always enough to curb their insidious, creeping nature.
When it comes to the honestly wet, tea and coffee, separation from the meal generally occurs by default. I would personally advise the packing of tea over coffee – the former may help ease any congestion in storing other items within your case, whereas the latter will certainly make them weigh more heavily upon you. Juice is a personal choice; I would not recommend it but there are those who might like to take a small glass pre-breakfast, in manner of a pre-flight Valium.
The bulk of your luggage will generally be formed by the animal products. The only way to take your eggs is with a yolk. Scrambled eggs have a tendency to disperse, getting smaller and smaller, hiding in the folds of bacon and grumbling about their misfortunes. Any items liable to entropy ought to be contained before packing. A yolked egg is also a suitable foil for the absence of beans, which can leave the plate (and palate) a little dry. I beseech you – never pack the two together! There are some who encourage a goodbye smooch between beans and egg, who smother a fried egg in ketchup and even salivate as the red and yellow run together like some horrible reunion between blood and plasma. These are probably the same people who pack shampoo in their shoes or put books in wash bags. They cannot be saved.
When it comes to sausage and bacon, be cautious. True, they go together like British Airways and chaos, but we would do well to ask whether they might not do rather better apart. If you pack jeans, does it follow that you must also pack a denim shirt? Not unless you are a redneck. When travelling, too much meat can be a burden. Pack too much in, and you will sweat. If you do decide to take only one, take the sausage. Bacon is so prone to curling up in a corner, pinkish grey and unappealing as a discarded thong.
A common mistake people make when packing a suitcase is to take items which they have not used for years. Breakfast should prepare you for an adventure; it should not be an adventure in itself. Take what you know you like. When you haven’t got room for something, wait a little while and try again. But be aware that if you pack everything in too tightly, it may be difficult to unpack at the other end. Worse still, your suitcase might burst open on the journey. Perhaps after all I am wrong in assuming that the people behind Terminal 5 failed to take their breakfast. Perhaps they breakfasted indeed, but breakfasted without caution, unadvisedly, with little thought for what went here, what there. A well-packed suitcase is a beautiful thing. Your stomach is a suitcase that goes with you everywhere. Pack it well and, eventually, you will fly.
If only they had all had a good breakfast, I wondered aloud as I pondered the Heathrow Terminal 5 fiasco, this might never have happened. I was speaking metaphorically of course. Be prepared! A mantra for breakfasters and baggage handlers the world over. Breakfasting should be like packing for a journey, and packing well.
A wise packer lays everything out before placing the items in their suitcase, considers which items to pack first, which to leave out and which to enfold delicately within another item. It is both the point and pitfall of dining out that in doing so you relinquish this preliminary (but fundamental) stage to a shadowy third party. As all airport employees know this is the very seed of threat. Suppose your moisturizer had been carelessly thrown in with your clothes! In transit, anything could happen: the possibilities are devastating. This is one of the worst dangers with beans. They are the chief culprits of breakfast moisture (discounting, of course, the drink, which has the decency to wear its wetness on its sleeve). Beans are forever poised to taint the delicate patina of an egg, that silken garment so easily ruined by a lotion explosion; they are desperate to ooze remorselessly into the soft undersides of toast, to flatten a crisp hash brown into a wet runway.
Since the renaissance of terrorism – the beans of the western world – measures have been taken to save us from the wickedness of unregulated moisture. On planes liquids are now carried separately: sealed off, yet accessible, in case moisture is required at short notice. Follow this system on the breakfast plate. Some may consider it extreme to house beans in a separate bowl. I consider it essential. Even a bank of sausages is not always enough to curb their insidious, creeping nature.
When it comes to the honestly wet, tea and coffee, separation from the meal generally occurs by default. I would personally advise the packing of tea over coffee – the former may help ease any congestion in storing other items within your case, whereas the latter will certainly make them weigh more heavily upon you. Juice is a personal choice; I would not recommend it but there are those who might like to take a small glass pre-breakfast, in manner of a pre-flight Valium.
The bulk of your luggage will generally be formed by the animal products. The only way to take your eggs is with a yolk. Scrambled eggs have a tendency to disperse, getting smaller and smaller, hiding in the folds of bacon and grumbling about their misfortunes. Any items liable to entropy ought to be contained before packing. A yolked egg is also a suitable foil for the absence of beans, which can leave the plate (and palate) a little dry. I beseech you – never pack the two together! There are some who encourage a goodbye smooch between beans and egg, who smother a fried egg in ketchup and even salivate as the red and yellow run together like some horrible reunion between blood and plasma. These are probably the same people who pack shampoo in their shoes or put books in wash bags. They cannot be saved.
When it comes to sausage and bacon, be cautious. True, they go together like British Airways and chaos, but we would do well to ask whether they might not do rather better apart. If you pack jeans, does it follow that you must also pack a denim shirt? Not unless you are a redneck. When travelling, too much meat can be a burden. Pack too much in, and you will sweat. If you do decide to take only one, take the sausage. Bacon is so prone to curling up in a corner, pinkish grey and unappealing as a discarded thong.
A common mistake people make when packing a suitcase is to take items which they have not used for years. Breakfast should prepare you for an adventure; it should not be an adventure in itself. Take what you know you like. When you haven’t got room for something, wait a little while and try again. But be aware that if you pack everything in too tightly, it may be difficult to unpack at the other end. Worse still, your suitcase might burst open on the journey. Perhaps after all I am wrong in assuming that the people behind Terminal 5 failed to take their breakfast. Perhaps they breakfasted indeed, but breakfasted without caution, unadvisedly, with little thought for what went here, what there. A well-packed suitcase is a beautiful thing. Your stomach is a suitcase that goes with you everywhere. Pack it well and, eventually, you will fly.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Special Dispatch: European, Melbourne, Australia
European
161 Spring St
Melbourne
Victoria
Australia
+61 3 9654 0811
by Rhys Chris Peese
It is an article of faith Down Under that whereas Sydney is like an American city, Melbourne is like a European one. The café / restaurant European seems dedicated to proving this point. With its dark panelled walls, bent wood chairs, and crisp linen, it’s more like Europe than Europe itself. It’s almost too good to be true. Sophisticated, glamorous, dusky waitresses, dressed in black, glide across the check floor, promising such treats as pikelets, homemade baked beans with ham hock, and Huevos Madrileños – baked eggs with black pudding and chorizo to the uninitiated.
With the aroma of darkly-roasted coffee in my nose, and a continental disregard for bacon in my soul, I plumped for the roast mushrooms with wilted spinach and marinated feta. Served on toast with red pepper, this was a simple, perfect balance of flavour and texture; a balsamic sweetness in the mushrooms cut through with the mineral notes in the spinach. One of my companions enjoyed crumpets with jam, the other, Eggs Benedict; creamy Hollandaise slathered over perfectly poached eggs, a generous quantity of artisanal ham, and a heavy muffin. Tea was loose-leaf, and true to Europe, not strong enough for our British palates. The whole spread came to around AS$60, which felt reasonable despite the exchange rate. The British, moaning about the exchange rate on the continent? That’s what Europe is for.
European is an expressionist dream of a lost Europe of the nineteen twenties; Baltic formality meeting an Italian love of simple food cooked well, tucked away in a darkened Budapest alley, all in the bright sunlight of the Antipodes. As we strolled out to face the day, did I see Tristan Tzara sat in a corner, sipping absinthe, and discussing the AFL? I think I did.
161 Spring St
Melbourne
Victoria
Australia
+61 3 9654 0811
by Rhys Chris Peese
It is an article of faith Down Under that whereas Sydney is like an American city, Melbourne is like a European one. The café / restaurant European seems dedicated to proving this point. With its dark panelled walls, bent wood chairs, and crisp linen, it’s more like Europe than Europe itself. It’s almost too good to be true. Sophisticated, glamorous, dusky waitresses, dressed in black, glide across the check floor, promising such treats as pikelets, homemade baked beans with ham hock, and Huevos Madrileños – baked eggs with black pudding and chorizo to the uninitiated.
With the aroma of darkly-roasted coffee in my nose, and a continental disregard for bacon in my soul, I plumped for the roast mushrooms with wilted spinach and marinated feta. Served on toast with red pepper, this was a simple, perfect balance of flavour and texture; a balsamic sweetness in the mushrooms cut through with the mineral notes in the spinach. One of my companions enjoyed crumpets with jam, the other, Eggs Benedict; creamy Hollandaise slathered over perfectly poached eggs, a generous quantity of artisanal ham, and a heavy muffin. Tea was loose-leaf, and true to Europe, not strong enough for our British palates. The whole spread came to around AS$60, which felt reasonable despite the exchange rate. The British, moaning about the exchange rate on the continent? That’s what Europe is for.
European is an expressionist dream of a lost Europe of the nineteen twenties; Baltic formality meeting an Italian love of simple food cooked well, tucked away in a darkened Budapest alley, all in the bright sunlight of the Antipodes. As we strolled out to face the day, did I see Tristan Tzara sat in a corner, sipping absinthe, and discussing the AFL? I think I did.
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