Breakfasts in Art # 1
L'Etranger by Albert Camus
by H.P. Seuss
In my adolescence, I was briefly but fervently an existentialist. I would skulk to school worrying that I might slay a passing pupil for the sheer hell of it, just because the sun got in my eyes. I would mistake indigestion for profound realisations of the essential now-ness of existence. And I would foist Camus's L'Etranger on all my friends.
Not all of them found inspiration in his scorched streets and crystal seas. However, one read the novella at least as voraciously. But you can never predict another's reaction, and to the question "which is your favourite bit", he cited not the famous opening line; not the dazzling scene of the Arab's slaying; not the bit where Meursault nobly faces his execution at the hands of an incomprehending state; but the following sentence: "Je me suis fait cuire des œufs et je les ai mangés à même le plat". Or: "I cooked some eggs and ate them out the pan". This he regarded as the pinnacle of Camus's acheivement.
With the benefit of my years, I realise my frend's instincts were more acute than I first imagined. For though I grew out of my existential phase fairly promptly, I have never quite grown out of my taste for oeufs a la Camus, a dish that captures the very essence of French intellectual chic and teaches us something of life.
The preparation could not be simpler. Crack two eggs into a thin slick of oil in a frying pan, cook to your taste and consume them with a fork, standing up ("j'ai fait ma cuisine et j'ai mangé debout" Meursault explains later). A piece of buttered baguette may accompany your eggs, though strictly speaking, it would be inauthentic (Meursault eats his feast "sans pain parce que je n'en avais plus et que je ne voulais pas descendre pour en acheter"; however, I take it that he would have eaten bread were some lying around, so I see no reason to forgo carbohydrate for the sake of it). One important point: a stick frying pan should be used as non-stick is liable to scratch on contact with fork, but this being a rather bourgeois concern, I will emphasise that seasoned metal imparts a better taste to the eggs and Meursault would not have encountered Teflon in 1950s Algiers. A wok, it occurs to me, might provide an interesting variation; I don't know, I have never tried using one.
One obvious advantage of the dish is that the eggs do not get cold. But this again seems a trifling care, so instead I will emphasis the dish's philosophical worth in freeing us from the absurdities of bourgeois routine; in making an urgent appeal to our senses; and in isolating the
life-force of the egg, distilling breakfast to its very essence, reminding us that existence precedes it.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
The Waterhouse, De Beauvoir Town
The Waterhouse
10 Orsman Road
De Beauvoir Town
N1 5QJ
020 7033 0123
www.waterhouserestaurant.co.uk
by Orva Easy
The infinite variety with which humanity is blessed is a thing to treasure. In the hustle of everyday life, the constant fight to stand out against the tide of faceless others, it is hard to step back and take joy in our never-ending diversity. Sitting at a window table in the Waterhouse (feted as London's most eco-friendly restaurant, a fact which is neither noticeable nor interesting for those concerned purely with the question of breakfast - dear readers, we shall ignore it) overlooking the Regent’s canal, presents a splendid opportunity to do just that. And I will tell you, it is a curious and wonderful thing to discover that however many joggers there are panting their way along the towpath, there is an equal number of very distinct gaits. It is nothing short of astonishing. You wonder how some of these people stay upright.
While marvelling at these many miraculous methods of forward propulsion, one is treated to a delightful breakfast experience. The airy restaurant, empty but for one or two cashmere-trendy east London couples and an army of charming staff, put me in mind of a beach-side café in Sydney in which I once enjoyed a superb eggs Benedict - albeit minus the sun, sea and golden sand. Old-style blues and calypso are non-intrusive, and though they leave the teabag in, which would horrify my refined colleague Miss Tart, you are at least provided with saucers on which to deposit the offending sack of spent leaves. The eggs, my companions agreed, were superb, while the sausages were tiny but plentiful, with a hint of thyme. With two choices on the menu (three items for £5.50 and five at a whopping £9) I would have been righteously outraged if I had opted for black pudding as one of three, so meagre was the portion, but after some debate it was decided that the single meaty field mushroom was preferable to the usual sloppy mess of limp, overcooked slices. All of this came seasoned lightly with a pinch of smugness and a dash of relief that it was not us heaving our breakfast filled bulks down the towpath.
10 Orsman Road
De Beauvoir Town
N1 5QJ
020 7033 0123
www.waterhouserestaurant.co.uk
by Orva Easy
The infinite variety with which humanity is blessed is a thing to treasure. In the hustle of everyday life, the constant fight to stand out against the tide of faceless others, it is hard to step back and take joy in our never-ending diversity. Sitting at a window table in the Waterhouse (feted as London's most eco-friendly restaurant, a fact which is neither noticeable nor interesting for those concerned purely with the question of breakfast - dear readers, we shall ignore it) overlooking the Regent’s canal, presents a splendid opportunity to do just that. And I will tell you, it is a curious and wonderful thing to discover that however many joggers there are panting their way along the towpath, there is an equal number of very distinct gaits. It is nothing short of astonishing. You wonder how some of these people stay upright.
While marvelling at these many miraculous methods of forward propulsion, one is treated to a delightful breakfast experience. The airy restaurant, empty but for one or two cashmere-trendy east London couples and an army of charming staff, put me in mind of a beach-side café in Sydney in which I once enjoyed a superb eggs Benedict - albeit minus the sun, sea and golden sand. Old-style blues and calypso are non-intrusive, and though they leave the teabag in, which would horrify my refined colleague Miss Tart, you are at least provided with saucers on which to deposit the offending sack of spent leaves. The eggs, my companions agreed, were superb, while the sausages were tiny but plentiful, with a hint of thyme. With two choices on the menu (three items for £5.50 and five at a whopping £9) I would have been righteously outraged if I had opted for black pudding as one of three, so meagre was the portion, but after some debate it was decided that the single meaty field mushroom was preferable to the usual sloppy mess of limp, overcooked slices. All of this came seasoned lightly with a pinch of smugness and a dash of relief that it was not us heaving our breakfast filled bulks down the towpath.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Sandwich Box, Highbury
The Sandwich Box
4a Gillespie Road
Highbury
N5 1LN
020 77041988
by Grease Witherspoon
Having only moved to my area fairly recently, I am still feeling smug about my decision. It's a place for parks, families, quirkiness, proximity, watering holes and local characters - and you just can’t knock it.
So it was with stubbornly high hopes that I decided to meet fellow new locals Min and Fe at The Sandwich Box, which I had already decided was a slice of Parisian quaintness. Every time I pass this tiny café-cum-takeaway with its striped awning and outdoor tables (spread over the pavement with an arrogance that only continentals can achieve), I am transported to the backstreets of Montparnasse. As we sat down I mourned leaving my sunglasses at home and instead pointed my nose upwards, trying to look like I had a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.
But instead of the Eiffel Tower straddling the horizon, our view was obscured by the cranes of the Highbury Square development; and instead of rubbing shoulders with would-be Serge Gainsbourgs, we were ogled by men in Arsenal shirts, perfuming the air with the smell of stale beer. I may have set myself up for disappointment.
Once seated, the friendly staff did their best to please, bringing a plate of toast cut from a proper loaf and completely smothered in salty butter. Très bien. But after a cup of strong tea my Gallic delusions quickly dissipated and all I craved was a proper British greasy spoon. Having arrived earlier, Fe was already tucking into a plastered together vegetarian, wheat and dairy-free option: beans, eggs and hash browns. Min had settled for a cheese toastie, a not unfeasible substitute for a croque monsieur, which I was told hit the spot. I eagerly awaited my full English, feeling my bets were aptly hedged.
There I went, setting myself up for disappointment again. The sausage was reheated and cold in the middle, the bacon was an odd mix between crispy and tough, the eggs - rubbery. Admittedly the hash browns fell apart in a flaky way that hinted at a kind of home-made domesticity, but perhaps this was only a wishful projection.
However, I did spy some homemade cakes on a counter, waiting to be sliced. Next time I might give the full English a miss, although for £3.95 you could do worse, and come back for tea and cake. So perhaps it isn’t so much "goodbye" to the Sandwich Box, as "au revoir".
4a Gillespie Road
Highbury
N5 1LN
020 77041988
by Grease Witherspoon
Having only moved to my area fairly recently, I am still feeling smug about my decision. It's a place for parks, families, quirkiness, proximity, watering holes and local characters - and you just can’t knock it.
So it was with stubbornly high hopes that I decided to meet fellow new locals Min and Fe at The Sandwich Box, which I had already decided was a slice of Parisian quaintness. Every time I pass this tiny café-cum-takeaway with its striped awning and outdoor tables (spread over the pavement with an arrogance that only continentals can achieve), I am transported to the backstreets of Montparnasse. As we sat down I mourned leaving my sunglasses at home and instead pointed my nose upwards, trying to look like I had a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.
But instead of the Eiffel Tower straddling the horizon, our view was obscured by the cranes of the Highbury Square development; and instead of rubbing shoulders with would-be Serge Gainsbourgs, we were ogled by men in Arsenal shirts, perfuming the air with the smell of stale beer. I may have set myself up for disappointment.
Once seated, the friendly staff did their best to please, bringing a plate of toast cut from a proper loaf and completely smothered in salty butter. Très bien. But after a cup of strong tea my Gallic delusions quickly dissipated and all I craved was a proper British greasy spoon. Having arrived earlier, Fe was already tucking into a plastered together vegetarian, wheat and dairy-free option: beans, eggs and hash browns. Min had settled for a cheese toastie, a not unfeasible substitute for a croque monsieur, which I was told hit the spot. I eagerly awaited my full English, feeling my bets were aptly hedged.
There I went, setting myself up for disappointment again. The sausage was reheated and cold in the middle, the bacon was an odd mix between crispy and tough, the eggs - rubbery. Admittedly the hash browns fell apart in a flaky way that hinted at a kind of home-made domesticity, but perhaps this was only a wishful projection.
However, I did spy some homemade cakes on a counter, waiting to be sliced. Next time I might give the full English a miss, although for £3.95 you could do worse, and come back for tea and cake. So perhaps it isn’t so much "goodbye" to the Sandwich Box, as "au revoir".
Friday, May 16, 2008
Nineteen, Streatham
Nineteen
19 The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
London
SW16
0208 835 8285
www.atnineteen.co.uk
by Nelson Griddle
Forgotten Eighties popster Paul Hardcastle had a big hit with a record called “Nineteen”. It was so named, as he explained in laborious detail on the disc itself, because nineteen was the average age of a combat soldier in Vietnam.
Is there some similar statistic associated with Nineteen, the new star in the glittering firmament of eateries on Streatham High Road? Previous visits have had me convinced that the name could only refer to the average number of minutes you are likely to wait before someone comes along and asks if you’d like a drink, rather than anything so mundane as its postal address.
In short, the service at Nineteen is scatty. There’s also something a bit Vegas about the whole place, what with the metallic baubles, the leather booths, the high-end liqueurs behind the bar. Imagine the unlikely circumstance of Englebert Humperdink, say, finding himself in Streatham. Nineteen is precisely the kind of place he would choose to prop up the bar with a glass of Maker’s Mark.
Inspired by this showbizzy ambience, I ordered that American staple, Eggs Benedict - the only breakfast dish which inspired the stage name of a star of the A-Team (Dirk “Face” Benedict, in case you’re wondering).
The dish was good, but spoilt by undercooked bacon. Bacon, in my view, has to be crisp, otherwise you might as well be eating gammon. And never more so than with Eggs Benedict. This is partly because the dish rose to prominence in the good old US of A, where you’re more or less guaranteed bacon crunchier than the current credit crisis. But more importantly, all that egg yolk and hollandaise sauce just cries out for a bit of contrasting crispiness.
As for the service, well, it’s still a bit erratic, but at least their hearts are in the right place. In fact, just after we left the waitress rushed down the street to give my companion the sunglasses she had left on the table. Scatty, but sweet.
19 The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
London
SW16
0208 835 8285
www.atnineteen.co.uk
by Nelson Griddle
Forgotten Eighties popster Paul Hardcastle had a big hit with a record called “Nineteen”. It was so named, as he explained in laborious detail on the disc itself, because nineteen was the average age of a combat soldier in Vietnam.
Is there some similar statistic associated with Nineteen, the new star in the glittering firmament of eateries on Streatham High Road? Previous visits have had me convinced that the name could only refer to the average number of minutes you are likely to wait before someone comes along and asks if you’d like a drink, rather than anything so mundane as its postal address.
In short, the service at Nineteen is scatty. There’s also something a bit Vegas about the whole place, what with the metallic baubles, the leather booths, the high-end liqueurs behind the bar. Imagine the unlikely circumstance of Englebert Humperdink, say, finding himself in Streatham. Nineteen is precisely the kind of place he would choose to prop up the bar with a glass of Maker’s Mark.
Inspired by this showbizzy ambience, I ordered that American staple, Eggs Benedict - the only breakfast dish which inspired the stage name of a star of the A-Team (Dirk “Face” Benedict, in case you’re wondering).
The dish was good, but spoilt by undercooked bacon. Bacon, in my view, has to be crisp, otherwise you might as well be eating gammon. And never more so than with Eggs Benedict. This is partly because the dish rose to prominence in the good old US of A, where you’re more or less guaranteed bacon crunchier than the current credit crisis. But more importantly, all that egg yolk and hollandaise sauce just cries out for a bit of contrasting crispiness.
As for the service, well, it’s still a bit erratic, but at least their hearts are in the right place. In fact, just after we left the waitress rushed down the street to give my companion the sunglasses she had left on the table. Scatty, but sweet.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Special Dispatch: Trenchard Lines Mess, Basra
Trenchard Lines Mess
Contingency Operating Base
Basra International Airport
Basra
Iraq
by Private Yolk
Amid the palette of hazy browns that perpetually blankets the home of British Forces in Iraq, there is a sole beacon of colour that cuts through the fuzz. Nestled between oversized sandbags and shaded under the giant arched sunshades lies our own Mesopotamian desert oasis: Trenchard Lines Mess.
Chef Omar and his team regularly serve up a veritable feast of traditional British delights. For the temporary ex-pats innovation is not the mot de jour when it comes to the most important meal of the day. Hash browns, pork sausages (!), bacon (!!), baked beans, eggs (the exact incarnation a daily revelation) and fried toast are always provided piping hot. Also, a choice of cereals that almost runs into double figures, brown and white bread (flanked by an industrial toaster that rivals the International Space Station in engineering complexity), fresh fruit and a tasteful choice of cold meats serve as a nod to the spreading breakfasting habits of those usually associated with the Officer Class.
Most crucially, the opening times have been carefully considered to accommodate the 24/7 lifestyle of those working on the base. Security prevents the divulging of exact details, but suffice to say shiftworkers, early risers, nightowls and those deciding to have a lie in are all catered for.
The decor is a combination of retro-chic, truck-stop functionality and the community of a school canteen. Simple but striking informative 'artwork' and a whiteboard of complexity rivalling an early Jackson Pollock break up the expanse of the jovial yellow walls, further complimented by the sumptuous ochre internal blast walls. Collectively, these features create an intimate atmosphere more befitting a 1950s American diner than a frontline mess hall.
Despite providing ample storage for body armour and personal weapons, the proprietors have provided a welcome relaxed atmosphere to those who are placing them around their tables. Indeed, the chance to examine your eating companions' kit provides as much of a welcome discussion opener as the large TV carrying the latest from the British Forces Broadcasting Service.
Sadly, like many British institutions, the future of the mess is under review. As the continual creep of Americanisation permeates the furthest flung corners of the globe, so too are we facing the potential that our Iraqi egg options will be replaced by 'sunny side up' and other such butchery of the English culinary lexicon. If Trenchard Mess is to be incorporated into a new monolithic 'welfare facility' then we can only hope space is allowed for our breakfast soldiers to continue to serve Queen and Country. Morale depends on it.
Contingency Operating Base
Basra International Airport
Basra
Iraq
by Private Yolk
Amid the palette of hazy browns that perpetually blankets the home of British Forces in Iraq, there is a sole beacon of colour that cuts through the fuzz. Nestled between oversized sandbags and shaded under the giant arched sunshades lies our own Mesopotamian desert oasis: Trenchard Lines Mess.
Chef Omar and his team regularly serve up a veritable feast of traditional British delights. For the temporary ex-pats innovation is not the mot de jour when it comes to the most important meal of the day. Hash browns, pork sausages (!), bacon (!!), baked beans, eggs (the exact incarnation a daily revelation) and fried toast are always provided piping hot. Also, a choice of cereals that almost runs into double figures, brown and white bread (flanked by an industrial toaster that rivals the International Space Station in engineering complexity), fresh fruit and a tasteful choice of cold meats serve as a nod to the spreading breakfasting habits of those usually associated with the Officer Class.
Most crucially, the opening times have been carefully considered to accommodate the 24/7 lifestyle of those working on the base. Security prevents the divulging of exact details, but suffice to say shiftworkers, early risers, nightowls and those deciding to have a lie in are all catered for.
The decor is a combination of retro-chic, truck-stop functionality and the community of a school canteen. Simple but striking informative 'artwork' and a whiteboard of complexity rivalling an early Jackson Pollock break up the expanse of the jovial yellow walls, further complimented by the sumptuous ochre internal blast walls. Collectively, these features create an intimate atmosphere more befitting a 1950s American diner than a frontline mess hall.
Despite providing ample storage for body armour and personal weapons, the proprietors have provided a welcome relaxed atmosphere to those who are placing them around their tables. Indeed, the chance to examine your eating companions' kit provides as much of a welcome discussion opener as the large TV carrying the latest from the British Forces Broadcasting Service.
Sadly, like many British institutions, the future of the mess is under review. As the continual creep of Americanisation permeates the furthest flung corners of the globe, so too are we facing the potential that our Iraqi egg options will be replaced by 'sunny side up' and other such butchery of the English culinary lexicon. If Trenchard Mess is to be incorporated into a new monolithic 'welfare facility' then we can only hope space is allowed for our breakfast soldiers to continue to serve Queen and Country. Morale depends on it.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Toads Mouth Too, Brockley
Toads Mouth Too
188 Brockley Road
Brockley
SE4 2RN
020 8469 0043
by Holly N. Daise
Is it a restaurant? Is it a café? One thing is for sure: Toads Mouth Too is a labyrinth of disappointment.
Stretching to cater for all possible mealtime requirements, the menu doesn’t really cover any of them in much depth. Breakfast fare includes fruit, muesli and a selection of pastries, but for the full English enthusiast, the only option here is the ‘Full Toad’ (toast, eggs, 2 bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans and choice of Cumberland sausage or chorizo).
If you enjoy the customisable aspect of your breakfast, then you may be frustrated by the occasional rigidity here. Poached egg appears to be beyond the ability of the chef, as is making small exceptions for individuality of taste. You can try asking them to swap various features, but this usually receives a despondent reaction.
On this occasion, I ordered the Full Toad and enquired about the possibility of swapping the mushrooms for a hash brown (a feature of the vegetarian equivalent). To my surprise this was agreed to with little resistance as my order was pecked into a handheld computerised gadget by the joyless waiter. Two clues into the Sunday crossword, I overheard a man on an adjacent table also asking for a mushroom/ hash brown swap, only to be told, “I can ask the chef, but I can’t guarantee he’ll do it.”
What is it exactly the chef finds so erratically difficult about spooning a hash brown onto a plate instead of some mushrooms?
Interrupting thoughts like this my food arrived and was a major letdown. Everything on the plate appeared to be swimming in a soup of tepid beans, the portion of chorizo was miserably small and the two pieces of bacon were welded together in an impenetrable embrace. For an order costing nearly £10 it was pretty dismal.
It’s a shame that the breakfast here is always so disappointing because the place itself has a lot of potential. There’s an assortment of charming subterranean rooms ornamented with original art and a surprisingly peaceful garden. These attractions plus the homemade cakes and excellent coffee could make it still worth a visit, if you’re in Brockley and that’s what you want.
188 Brockley Road
Brockley
SE4 2RN
020 8469 0043
by Holly N. Daise
Is it a restaurant? Is it a café? One thing is for sure: Toads Mouth Too is a labyrinth of disappointment.
Stretching to cater for all possible mealtime requirements, the menu doesn’t really cover any of them in much depth. Breakfast fare includes fruit, muesli and a selection of pastries, but for the full English enthusiast, the only option here is the ‘Full Toad’ (toast, eggs, 2 bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans and choice of Cumberland sausage or chorizo).
If you enjoy the customisable aspect of your breakfast, then you may be frustrated by the occasional rigidity here. Poached egg appears to be beyond the ability of the chef, as is making small exceptions for individuality of taste. You can try asking them to swap various features, but this usually receives a despondent reaction.
On this occasion, I ordered the Full Toad and enquired about the possibility of swapping the mushrooms for a hash brown (a feature of the vegetarian equivalent). To my surprise this was agreed to with little resistance as my order was pecked into a handheld computerised gadget by the joyless waiter. Two clues into the Sunday crossword, I overheard a man on an adjacent table also asking for a mushroom/ hash brown swap, only to be told, “I can ask the chef, but I can’t guarantee he’ll do it.”
What is it exactly the chef finds so erratically difficult about spooning a hash brown onto a plate instead of some mushrooms?
Interrupting thoughts like this my food arrived and was a major letdown. Everything on the plate appeared to be swimming in a soup of tepid beans, the portion of chorizo was miserably small and the two pieces of bacon were welded together in an impenetrable embrace. For an order costing nearly £10 it was pretty dismal.
It’s a shame that the breakfast here is always so disappointing because the place itself has a lot of potential. There’s an assortment of charming subterranean rooms ornamented with original art and a surprisingly peaceful garden. These attractions plus the homemade cakes and excellent coffee could make it still worth a visit, if you’re in Brockley and that’s what you want.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Café Mozart, Highgate
Café Mozart
17 Swains Lane
Highgate
N6 6QX
020 8348 1384
By Cher E. Jamm
There is nothing like a bit of alfresco breakfasting at this time of year. When it’s not pouring with rain, the birds are a tweetin’, cherry blossoms are a bloomin’ and the sun has a way of shining down on your plate like a proud chef watching over your shoulder as you eat.
Café Mozart is a popular North London breakfast spot. The décor, supposedly modelled on a traditional Austrian kaffee house, is a tad gloomy and depressing – all dark wood panelling and (of course) a few Mozart manuscripts dotted around casually, jostling with other vaguely Austrian relics in various forms. It has its charms, but after more than five minutes inside the atmosphere becomes strangely suffocating.
The good news is this: they have a big outdoor dining area at the front, it’s a mere shimmy to Hampstead Heath and the staff are friendly and efficient – within moments of sitting outside, a cheery waitress delivers a couple of menus and a jug of water and takes our drinks order. Oh, and the cake counter will have your saliva glands doing the hula if you stare at it for too long.
Tea is served with the bag in and the milk in a small jug at its side. Orange juice is fresh, lovely and cold. We order. I’m having the Veggie breakfast and I make Mr Jamm order the Full English. We are given the choice of how we’d like our eggs and what type of bread we’d like. I go for granary and Mr Jamm goes for rye. A side of spinach and sautéed potatoes is also thrown into the mix. 10 minutes later and our breakfast arrives - both dishes are plentiful, hot and I’m happy to say, the bacon is delightfully crispy.
I’m afraid that’s all I can remember. I’ve tried to recall what the eggs were like, and I know the vegetarian ‘sausage’ was hideous, dry and a bit like chewing on a rolled up towel, but I’m afraid my tastebuds went into a boredom-induced coma at some stage after the second bite. What I can tell you is this: I won’t be coming back unless it’s for tea and cake.
17 Swains Lane
Highgate
N6 6QX
020 8348 1384
By Cher E. Jamm
There is nothing like a bit of alfresco breakfasting at this time of year. When it’s not pouring with rain, the birds are a tweetin’, cherry blossoms are a bloomin’ and the sun has a way of shining down on your plate like a proud chef watching over your shoulder as you eat.
Café Mozart is a popular North London breakfast spot. The décor, supposedly modelled on a traditional Austrian kaffee house, is a tad gloomy and depressing – all dark wood panelling and (of course) a few Mozart manuscripts dotted around casually, jostling with other vaguely Austrian relics in various forms. It has its charms, but after more than five minutes inside the atmosphere becomes strangely suffocating.
The good news is this: they have a big outdoor dining area at the front, it’s a mere shimmy to Hampstead Heath and the staff are friendly and efficient – within moments of sitting outside, a cheery waitress delivers a couple of menus and a jug of water and takes our drinks order. Oh, and the cake counter will have your saliva glands doing the hula if you stare at it for too long.
Tea is served with the bag in and the milk in a small jug at its side. Orange juice is fresh, lovely and cold. We order. I’m having the Veggie breakfast and I make Mr Jamm order the Full English. We are given the choice of how we’d like our eggs and what type of bread we’d like. I go for granary and Mr Jamm goes for rye. A side of spinach and sautéed potatoes is also thrown into the mix. 10 minutes later and our breakfast arrives - both dishes are plentiful, hot and I’m happy to say, the bacon is delightfully crispy.
I’m afraid that’s all I can remember. I’ve tried to recall what the eggs were like, and I know the vegetarian ‘sausage’ was hideous, dry and a bit like chewing on a rolled up towel, but I’m afraid my tastebuds went into a boredom-induced coma at some stage after the second bite. What I can tell you is this: I won’t be coming back unless it’s for tea and cake.
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