Shoreditch House
Ebor St
Shoreditch
E1 6AW
020 7739 5040
www.shoreditchhouse.com
(Members and guests only)
by Malcolm Eggs
As you enter, the clientele look you up and down. They check your shoes, observe your hair and guess your position in life’s unwritten hierarchy. “I’m in Shoreditch House. Who are you?” go their internal monologues – over and over and over, like coked up metronomes.
As with all members’ clubs, this is about the childhood desire to be included rather than excluded, or rather what happens to this basic need when it’s masked with grown-up condiments: bricks, mortar, a marketing plan, money, chefs, other stuff and – at Shoreditch House – a great interior designer. The décor really sweeps you away, each sofa being as rejuvenating as an upmarket milkshake, each chandelier having its own personality, every cascade of bookshelves scattered with yellowed manuscripts, old globes, antique cameras, board games... Oh god, it’s mesmerising. Like the secret HQ of a creative industries Bond villain. A waiter briskly delivers aromatic coffee and cool iced water to us both – and as I wait for my Full English I sink into a sort of comfortable acceptance and find myself ranking the people who were looking at me as I entered.
Everything about my breakfast is wonderful. Apart from the emptiness at its heart. And I don’t mean that metaphorically; I mean that the bacon and eggs – surely the Romeo and Juliet of any proper fry-up – are a disgrace. The sausage, mushrooms, beans, toast and tomatoes are perfect, juicy, hot, perfect and juicy respectively – but so what? When the egg has the wrong things in common with frogspawn, and the bacon shares the wrong values with Ian Beal, everything else is a consolation prize, a wooden spoon, Christina from the 1990s Neighbours twins.
They say a members’ club gets the breakfast it deserves. In a strange way, I think I wanted Shoreditch House to deserve better. I don’t know why. Maybe it got to me with its almost preposterous comfiness, or maybe the urge to be a paid-up member of something – dormant since I joined Desparate Dan’s Cowpie Eaters Club at the age of 8 – is still rattling around in there, somewhere.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Coco Momo Cafe Bar, Marylebone
Coco Momo Cafe Bar
79 Marylebone High St
Marylebone
W1U 5JZ
www.cocomomo.co.uk
by Farls Bronson
Early Sunday. At no other point does London feel so muted, like the whole place has taken a cue from its inhabitants and remains wrapped in a duvet until the excesses of the night before wear off. On the rare occasion I’m up, I love this chance to watch the city yawn and stretch back to life. Steve and I were early for an appointment and had designs on a breakfast.
Walking up a deserted Marylebone High Street we came across Coco Momo Cafe bar. Its colonial exterior was bathed in early sunlight and we quickly decided to shun the smart, wooden interior for an alfresco breakfast. It may have been our untidy appearance next to the well-groomed locals (Steve McBean had been up gathering foodstuffs from the hedgerows of Abney Park) but it took a while for our smiley waitress to arrive with our coffees and subsequently disappear with an order of one meat and one veggie breakfast. The coffee was decent though. Black and strong, exactly the caffeinated defibrillation needed, and time spent enjoying the sunshine is never wasted... But when the food arrived I was shaken from this bright bliss. The portions were meagre given the £7.25 price tag, and I was hungry.
I couldn’t fault the ingredients. The bacon was lightly smoked and streaky. The sausages were coarse, with a hint of sage and pepper (although I’d be surprised to find inferior pork this close to the Ginger Pig). The problem was how they were cooked. The bacon was cold and uncrisp and the sausage was lukewarm. Steve reckoned that the veggie sausages were the same standard brand that he buys. I pointed out that nothing highlights the folly of vegetarianism like a veggie sausage, but was told to shut up. The fried eggs were O.K. but with a ring of uncooked white surrounding the yolk. The one salvation was a large field mushroom, perfectly seasoned, with a hint of garlic and cooked just long enough to be juicy throughout. But it’s a sad state of affairs when a side act has to take centre stage.
We left not quite satisfied. The staff had been friendly and the surrounding idyllic. If only the breakfast had lived up to the setting.
79 Marylebone High St
Marylebone
W1U 5JZ
www.cocomomo.co.uk
by Farls Bronson
Early Sunday. At no other point does London feel so muted, like the whole place has taken a cue from its inhabitants and remains wrapped in a duvet until the excesses of the night before wear off. On the rare occasion I’m up, I love this chance to watch the city yawn and stretch back to life. Steve and I were early for an appointment and had designs on a breakfast.
Walking up a deserted Marylebone High Street we came across Coco Momo Cafe bar. Its colonial exterior was bathed in early sunlight and we quickly decided to shun the smart, wooden interior for an alfresco breakfast. It may have been our untidy appearance next to the well-groomed locals (Steve McBean had been up gathering foodstuffs from the hedgerows of Abney Park) but it took a while for our smiley waitress to arrive with our coffees and subsequently disappear with an order of one meat and one veggie breakfast. The coffee was decent though. Black and strong, exactly the caffeinated defibrillation needed, and time spent enjoying the sunshine is never wasted... But when the food arrived I was shaken from this bright bliss. The portions were meagre given the £7.25 price tag, and I was hungry.
I couldn’t fault the ingredients. The bacon was lightly smoked and streaky. The sausages were coarse, with a hint of sage and pepper (although I’d be surprised to find inferior pork this close to the Ginger Pig). The problem was how they were cooked. The bacon was cold and uncrisp and the sausage was lukewarm. Steve reckoned that the veggie sausages were the same standard brand that he buys. I pointed out that nothing highlights the folly of vegetarianism like a veggie sausage, but was told to shut up. The fried eggs were O.K. but with a ring of uncooked white surrounding the yolk. The one salvation was a large field mushroom, perfectly seasoned, with a hint of garlic and cooked just long enough to be juicy throughout. But it’s a sad state of affairs when a side act has to take centre stage.
We left not quite satisfied. The staff had been friendly and the surrounding idyllic. If only the breakfast had lived up to the setting.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Carluccio's, Terminal 5, Heathrow
Carluccio’s
Terminal 5 (pre-security)
Heathrow
TW6
www.carluccios.com
by Hashley Brown
In the past I’ve been somewhat disappointed by airport breakfasts; all that early morning struggling is seldom rewarded by the delicious breakfasty bounty it surely deserves. So when faced with an imminent departure from Heathrow Terminal 5, I succumbed to an understandable degree of scepticism (whilst narrowly avoiding any lost bag jokes at check-in).
This glorious cavern of international travel (it really is very nice inside), home to so many shattered dreams, now seems to have picked itself up from recent catastrophes - although one brief look at the website shows that post-security breakfasting options are limited to the mundane. Giraffe, Eat, Starbucks and Generic-Airport-Pub sit alongside more off-beat options such as Itsu and Wagamama (whose Japanese breakfasts I’ll be trying next time), but overall it displays a singular lack of imagination in airport service design. It must be the same people who are responsible for sticking a ‘Caviar House and Prunerie’ and a ‘Win a supercar’ stall in every British airport; such a peculiar reflection on the British psyche.
However there is one breakfasting ray of light in this whole situation, and it shines in pre-security land. Just after check-in sits Carluccio’s, whose breakfasting options are wonderfully robust. My uova e funghi, rich scrambled eggs and those famous Carluccio’s mushrooms sad side by side on a chunk of good fresh country bread. Although this humble public servant’s expense account didn't run to the full Italo-English melee, which throws pancetta into the mix, the quality of food on my plate was enough to reassure me that that just about anything this behemoth of Italy in England churns out will be good. Add great coffee and Terminal 5 looked more enticing by the mouthful.
The only problem being that with fast broken before one passes security, there really is nothing else to do but munch that beluga and dream of Ferraris.
PS. If you do try this, look out for the entertaining antics of the eyebrow plucking manager (permanently surprised v. terrahawks extra) and the surly waiter who looks disarmingly like the fat stupid one from The Wire.
Terminal 5 (pre-security)
Heathrow
TW6
www.carluccios.com
by Hashley Brown
In the past I’ve been somewhat disappointed by airport breakfasts; all that early morning struggling is seldom rewarded by the delicious breakfasty bounty it surely deserves. So when faced with an imminent departure from Heathrow Terminal 5, I succumbed to an understandable degree of scepticism (whilst narrowly avoiding any lost bag jokes at check-in).
This glorious cavern of international travel (it really is very nice inside), home to so many shattered dreams, now seems to have picked itself up from recent catastrophes - although one brief look at the website shows that post-security breakfasting options are limited to the mundane. Giraffe, Eat, Starbucks and Generic-Airport-Pub sit alongside more off-beat options such as Itsu and Wagamama (whose Japanese breakfasts I’ll be trying next time), but overall it displays a singular lack of imagination in airport service design. It must be the same people who are responsible for sticking a ‘Caviar House and Prunerie’ and a ‘Win a supercar’ stall in every British airport; such a peculiar reflection on the British psyche.
However there is one breakfasting ray of light in this whole situation, and it shines in pre-security land. Just after check-in sits Carluccio’s, whose breakfasting options are wonderfully robust. My uova e funghi, rich scrambled eggs and those famous Carluccio’s mushrooms sad side by side on a chunk of good fresh country bread. Although this humble public servant’s expense account didn't run to the full Italo-English melee, which throws pancetta into the mix, the quality of food on my plate was enough to reassure me that that just about anything this behemoth of Italy in England churns out will be good. Add great coffee and Terminal 5 looked more enticing by the mouthful.
The only problem being that with fast broken before one passes security, there really is nothing else to do but munch that beluga and dream of Ferraris.
PS. If you do try this, look out for the entertaining antics of the eyebrow plucking manager (permanently surprised v. terrahawks extra) and the surly waiter who looks disarmingly like the fat stupid one from The Wire.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Breakfasts in Art: Bernard Sumner's fry up
Breakfasts in Art #2
Control by Anton Corbijn
by H.P. Seuss
I do not think any reader will mind my beginning this discussion by relaying the following joke:
I went to see that Joy Division film the other night. And you'll never guess who was sitting in front of me: Beth Ditto! Only she kept getting up and blocking my view. "Sit down Beth!", I cried. "You're standing in the way of Control!"
Unfortunately, Control is no longer in the cinemas, the Gossip's Standing in the Way of Control is not as ubiquitious as it was when it was, and this delightful joke, once so fresh, is as stale as a Victor Lewis Smith TV column. Fans of metatextuality will be pleased to note that since Victor
Lewis Smith no longer writes his stale TV column, this reference itself is stale, deliberately so. For such is the way with pop cultural ephemera, which is why the London Review of Breakfast purports to report the news from eternity as well as review breakfasts.
But this is all besides the point, the point being the scene in Control in which a cooked breakfast is prepared by Bernard Sumner for himself and Ian Curtis. I say breakfast, though the meal is clearly consumed in the evening, because its constituent parts are as follows:
Eggs
Beans
Sausage
Fried slice
It is a memorable scene. Ian (Sam Riley) is at a low ebb. Embroiled in an extra-marital affair, afflicted by epilepsy and exhaustion, he has left his long-suffering wife Deborah (beautifully portrayed by Samantha Morton) and has been forced to stay with his bandmate Bernard (played James Anthony Pearson). The meal is Bernard's way of accommodating, even comforting his friend, drawing him out of himself.
I do not imagine women in late-Seventies Macclesfield were stern advocates of the Five-a-Day, but even so, there is something very male about the unhealthiness of the concoction, its particular combination of ingredients, washed down with tea; the kitchen was then still foreign territory even for relatively mild, intellectual men such as Bernard, and you suspect Deborah would have done a better job, that Ian would need the HP Sauce on the table to render it palatable, had he any appetite at all.
Conversation is stilted; Ian does not open up; the meal does not mark a turning point. But Bernard is mothering Ian as far as the strictures of northern masculinity and his own competence will allow and this is very touching. There, in a pool of grease, is a sad truth about male friendship.
Control by Anton Corbijn
by H.P. Seuss
I do not think any reader will mind my beginning this discussion by relaying the following joke:
I went to see that Joy Division film the other night. And you'll never guess who was sitting in front of me: Beth Ditto! Only she kept getting up and blocking my view. "Sit down Beth!", I cried. "You're standing in the way of Control!"
Unfortunately, Control is no longer in the cinemas, the Gossip's Standing in the Way of Control is not as ubiquitious as it was when it was, and this delightful joke, once so fresh, is as stale as a Victor Lewis Smith TV column. Fans of metatextuality will be pleased to note that since Victor
Lewis Smith no longer writes his stale TV column, this reference itself is stale, deliberately so. For such is the way with pop cultural ephemera, which is why the London Review of Breakfast purports to report the news from eternity as well as review breakfasts.
But this is all besides the point, the point being the scene in Control in which a cooked breakfast is prepared by Bernard Sumner for himself and Ian Curtis. I say breakfast, though the meal is clearly consumed in the evening, because its constituent parts are as follows:
Eggs
Beans
Sausage
Fried slice
It is a memorable scene. Ian (Sam Riley) is at a low ebb. Embroiled in an extra-marital affair, afflicted by epilepsy and exhaustion, he has left his long-suffering wife Deborah (beautifully portrayed by Samantha Morton) and has been forced to stay with his bandmate Bernard (played James Anthony Pearson). The meal is Bernard's way of accommodating, even comforting his friend, drawing him out of himself.
I do not imagine women in late-Seventies Macclesfield were stern advocates of the Five-a-Day, but even so, there is something very male about the unhealthiness of the concoction, its particular combination of ingredients, washed down with tea; the kitchen was then still foreign territory even for relatively mild, intellectual men such as Bernard, and you suspect Deborah would have done a better job, that Ian would need the HP Sauce on the table to render it palatable, had he any appetite at all.
Conversation is stilted; Ian does not open up; the meal does not mark a turning point. But Bernard is mothering Ian as far as the strictures of northern masculinity and his own competence will allow and this is very touching. There, in a pool of grease, is a sad truth about male friendship.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Cecconi's, Mayfair
Cecconi’s
5 - 5a Burlington Gardens
Mayfair
W1X 1LE
020 7434 1500
www.cecconis.co.uk
From the diary of Miss Eggletina Benedict (as seen by Orva Easy)
Dear Diary,
Bunked off for breakfast at Cecconi’s with the girls today – Granola and Nutella are over from Capri - such a pair of darlings though Granola’s a bit on the neurotic side if you ask me - a mecca of the rich and famous, they said! Tinted windows and everything, though I didn’t recognise anyone. George (not the gardener, the new security man, lovely chap, one eye, neck like a Hummer tyre) had a squint at the menu while I waited in the Daimler and I was reassured to note the outrageous expense to which they put you for the privilege of breakfasting in such exclusive surroundings. That reminds me, must ask Daddy to transfer a few quid. Can’t imagine why I haven’t been there before!
Rather nice inside I must say! Lovely soft lighting (well, darking, more accurately, couldn’t see a bloody thing for the first five mins). Splendid velvet banquettes and green leather chairs, rather reminded me of the inside of the old man’s vintage MG, though he’d probably use those white tablecloths to wipe the oil off his hands, the old mucker. Just my sort of place anyway, I thought.
Breakfast was super, decidedly up to scratch. I had yummy eggs Florentine - perfect - oozy yolks, soft whites, absolute lashings of hollandaise, (not too sharp or vinegary like that strange yellow goop we get at school) and soooooooo much spinach! And of course, a deliciously doughy Good Old English muffin. Yum!
But you know what… I hesitate to complain. Really I do, it seems dreadfully vulgar, but frankly, I felt rather let down. The service is just awful. Really, spectacularly, almost amusingly dire. Truculent is the word Nutty used (she’s awfully clever!) but dozy isn’t far off. George was all for having a word but I thought that was a bit much. One doesn’t like to make a scene. Shopping in Bond Street after then back to school in time for double maths, bor-ring! Can't wait for the hols!!!
5 - 5a Burlington Gardens
Mayfair
W1X 1LE
020 7434 1500
www.cecconis.co.uk
From the diary of Miss Eggletina Benedict (as seen by Orva Easy)
Dear Diary,
Bunked off for breakfast at Cecconi’s with the girls today – Granola and Nutella are over from Capri - such a pair of darlings though Granola’s a bit on the neurotic side if you ask me - a mecca of the rich and famous, they said! Tinted windows and everything, though I didn’t recognise anyone. George (not the gardener, the new security man, lovely chap, one eye, neck like a Hummer tyre) had a squint at the menu while I waited in the Daimler and I was reassured to note the outrageous expense to which they put you for the privilege of breakfasting in such exclusive surroundings. That reminds me, must ask Daddy to transfer a few quid. Can’t imagine why I haven’t been there before!
Rather nice inside I must say! Lovely soft lighting (well, darking, more accurately, couldn’t see a bloody thing for the first five mins). Splendid velvet banquettes and green leather chairs, rather reminded me of the inside of the old man’s vintage MG, though he’d probably use those white tablecloths to wipe the oil off his hands, the old mucker. Just my sort of place anyway, I thought.
Breakfast was super, decidedly up to scratch. I had yummy eggs Florentine - perfect - oozy yolks, soft whites, absolute lashings of hollandaise, (not too sharp or vinegary like that strange yellow goop we get at school) and soooooooo much spinach! And of course, a deliciously doughy Good Old English muffin. Yum!
But you know what… I hesitate to complain. Really I do, it seems dreadfully vulgar, but frankly, I felt rather let down. The service is just awful. Really, spectacularly, almost amusingly dire. Truculent is the word Nutty used (she’s awfully clever!) but dozy isn’t far off. George was all for having a word but I thought that was a bit much. One doesn’t like to make a scene. Shopping in Bond Street after then back to school in time for double maths, bor-ring! Can't wait for the hols!!!
Monday, June 09, 2008
Op-Egg: What we talk about when we talk about wedding breakfasts
by Hashley Brown
Getting married is a fraught business. Not only do you have the standard barriers to progress: the mother-in-law, invitations, what socks to wear; you also have to think about feeding people. In the face of this sticky problem, the new Mrs Brown and I decided to ignore it altogether. We made this decision not only because wedding meals can be tedious, relative-filled affairs, but also because they are so inappropriately named. No wedding breakfast I can think of has ever had a fried egg in it.
Whilst you may argue that the significance of the name lies in the breaking of the fast of bachelor-hood, I feel this literal interpretation leaves much to be desired and casts breakfast in a thoroughly unsavoury light. To my mind, breakfast is a celebration. Each morning one revels in the light of a new day. It is an existential marker one eats to affirm that he or she made it through the night.
It is disingenuous then to talk of a wedding breakfast, when in reality there are two real wedding breakfasts to consider: what one eats at the start of their wedding day, as celebration of life so far, and to gird the loins for challenges ahead; and what one eats with their bride or groom on the first glorious morning of married life. To me these meals are crucial - setting the tenor of both the wedding and the marriage to come.
In a concession to tradition, Mrs Brown and I spent the night before our wedding apart. I was hosted by friends and when bleary eyed - and with a hint of trepidation - crawled down their stairs on the big day, I was greeted with that cheery and heart warming call of 'Breakfast?'. What to eat on a morning like this? Not enough and you risk collapsing at the altar, too much and that knot in your stomach becomes an unpleasant sausagey one. My host, A., took the decision out of my hands and within moments had plated up 2 poached eggs on granary, with a watercress salad on the side. In one fell swoop she had provided me with a hefty protein hit for the day, whilst eschewing any greasy unpleasantness. Full marks to the lady, I thought, as I sat around the table with my best-man and good friends feeling the warm glow of breakfasting communion. I felt prepared, both emotionally and physically, for the day ahead.
[What followed went smoothly and safe to say there was no altar collapsing thanks to the prescience of my host.]
As dawn broke on the first breakfast of my married life, Mrs Brown and I were ensconced in the warm 16th century embrace of the Rookery Hotel in Clerkenwell. Thankfully there was to be none of that awkward breakfast buffet small talk, or sipping from ludicrously small glasses of juice that one can often experience in a hotel breakfast, as the Rookery only serves breakfast in bed. Not all breakfast options are suitable for leisurely and prostrate eating either, and thankfully no plates of sloppy beans or obstinate egg combinations were on offer. What arrived, on a substantial and sturdy wooden tray, was a breakfast to remember.
A bacon sandwich for me and a basket of fresh pastries for her came surrounded with freshly squeezed juices, dark velvety coffee and reassuring tea in a generous pot. It was a simple yet luxurious way to start the day. The bacon was thick cut and old-spot in a fresh warm ciabatta, the pastries and bread were glowing in that just baked rather than just re-microwaved way, and once we'd opened the complimentary bottle of champagne that we hadn't had the wherewithal to pop in the small hours of our arrival, a sumptuous feast was guaranteed. This wedding breakfast had no need to be fat free or considerate of the events of the day ahead. What it needed was to be decadent, to celebrate the start of something special...
Mr & Mrs Brown are still married.
Getting married is a fraught business. Not only do you have the standard barriers to progress: the mother-in-law, invitations, what socks to wear; you also have to think about feeding people. In the face of this sticky problem, the new Mrs Brown and I decided to ignore it altogether. We made this decision not only because wedding meals can be tedious, relative-filled affairs, but also because they are so inappropriately named. No wedding breakfast I can think of has ever had a fried egg in it.
Whilst you may argue that the significance of the name lies in the breaking of the fast of bachelor-hood, I feel this literal interpretation leaves much to be desired and casts breakfast in a thoroughly unsavoury light. To my mind, breakfast is a celebration. Each morning one revels in the light of a new day. It is an existential marker one eats to affirm that he or she made it through the night.
It is disingenuous then to talk of a wedding breakfast, when in reality there are two real wedding breakfasts to consider: what one eats at the start of their wedding day, as celebration of life so far, and to gird the loins for challenges ahead; and what one eats with their bride or groom on the first glorious morning of married life. To me these meals are crucial - setting the tenor of both the wedding and the marriage to come.
In a concession to tradition, Mrs Brown and I spent the night before our wedding apart. I was hosted by friends and when bleary eyed - and with a hint of trepidation - crawled down their stairs on the big day, I was greeted with that cheery and heart warming call of 'Breakfast?'. What to eat on a morning like this? Not enough and you risk collapsing at the altar, too much and that knot in your stomach becomes an unpleasant sausagey one. My host, A., took the decision out of my hands and within moments had plated up 2 poached eggs on granary, with a watercress salad on the side. In one fell swoop she had provided me with a hefty protein hit for the day, whilst eschewing any greasy unpleasantness. Full marks to the lady, I thought, as I sat around the table with my best-man and good friends feeling the warm glow of breakfasting communion. I felt prepared, both emotionally and physically, for the day ahead.
[What followed went smoothly and safe to say there was no altar collapsing thanks to the prescience of my host.]
As dawn broke on the first breakfast of my married life, Mrs Brown and I were ensconced in the warm 16th century embrace of the Rookery Hotel in Clerkenwell. Thankfully there was to be none of that awkward breakfast buffet small talk, or sipping from ludicrously small glasses of juice that one can often experience in a hotel breakfast, as the Rookery only serves breakfast in bed. Not all breakfast options are suitable for leisurely and prostrate eating either, and thankfully no plates of sloppy beans or obstinate egg combinations were on offer. What arrived, on a substantial and sturdy wooden tray, was a breakfast to remember.
A bacon sandwich for me and a basket of fresh pastries for her came surrounded with freshly squeezed juices, dark velvety coffee and reassuring tea in a generous pot. It was a simple yet luxurious way to start the day. The bacon was thick cut and old-spot in a fresh warm ciabatta, the pastries and bread were glowing in that just baked rather than just re-microwaved way, and once we'd opened the complimentary bottle of champagne that we hadn't had the wherewithal to pop in the small hours of our arrival, a sumptuous feast was guaranteed. This wedding breakfast had no need to be fat free or considerate of the events of the day ahead. What it needed was to be decadent, to celebrate the start of something special...
Mr & Mrs Brown are still married.
Friday, June 06, 2008
The Dartmouth Arms, Dartmouth Park
The Dartmouth Arms
35 York Rise
Dartmouth Park
NW5 1SP
7485 3267
www.dartmoutharms.co.uk
by Poppy Tartt
If Tufnell Park were a staircase, the Dartmouth Arms would be its ornate newel post carved from one chunk of timber, it is that solid and comforting. As the pub’s reassuring embrace enveloped us, Monsieur Bébé and I pinched each other to check for dreams. ‘Waking,’ confirmed Monsieur. We held the breakfast menu aloft for inspection. Its style and substance was, if concise (full English and veggie options and a range of breakfast sandwiches are available), wholly pleasing. It even boasted an endorsement from that doyen of English breakfasters, Mr P. G. Wodehouse.
Compatible in all things (apart from Monsieur’s pathological dislike of les champignons), we ordered the full English twice, and repaired to a large round table by the window. I removed my shoes and put my feet up. It was like being at home, only better. Monsieur obtained the Sunday papers from a nearby shop and we opened them up and spread them all about the table and all over our laps and dropped some of the least interesting parts on the floor. Breakfast arrived on big white oval plates and was lovely. The whites of the eggs were as clean and shiny as the plates themselves, the yolks like melted wax, the bacon porcine, toast thick and marvellous, tomato rubicund and jolly as a plump lady with a hat on . . . The je nais sais quoi of it all was I just don’t know what.
The one disappointment was the underdone sausage, which, were I less English, I might have sent back for a grilling. But everything else was so perfect, and – rather like when you realise, moments from the act of lovemaking, that your bladder has other things on its mind – I couldn’t quite bear to mention it . . .
35 York Rise
Dartmouth Park
NW5 1SP
7485 3267
www.dartmoutharms.co.uk
by Poppy Tartt
If Tufnell Park were a staircase, the Dartmouth Arms would be its ornate newel post carved from one chunk of timber, it is that solid and comforting. As the pub’s reassuring embrace enveloped us, Monsieur Bébé and I pinched each other to check for dreams. ‘Waking,’ confirmed Monsieur. We held the breakfast menu aloft for inspection. Its style and substance was, if concise (full English and veggie options and a range of breakfast sandwiches are available), wholly pleasing. It even boasted an endorsement from that doyen of English breakfasters, Mr P. G. Wodehouse.
Compatible in all things (apart from Monsieur’s pathological dislike of les champignons), we ordered the full English twice, and repaired to a large round table by the window. I removed my shoes and put my feet up. It was like being at home, only better. Monsieur obtained the Sunday papers from a nearby shop and we opened them up and spread them all about the table and all over our laps and dropped some of the least interesting parts on the floor. Breakfast arrived on big white oval plates and was lovely. The whites of the eggs were as clean and shiny as the plates themselves, the yolks like melted wax, the bacon porcine, toast thick and marvellous, tomato rubicund and jolly as a plump lady with a hat on . . . The je nais sais quoi of it all was I just don’t know what.
The one disappointment was the underdone sausage, which, were I less English, I might have sent back for a grilling. But everything else was so perfect, and – rather like when you realise, moments from the act of lovemaking, that your bladder has other things on its mind – I couldn’t quite bear to mention it . . .
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Boiled Egg and Soldiers, Clapham
The Boiled Egg and Soldiers
63 Northcote Rd
Clapham
SW11 1NP
020 7223 4894
by Dee Caff
There may be no better time to indulge in a Full English than on the first morning of a festival, which is why my festival-bound friend and I donned our baggy waisted eating-apparel and chowed down on some serious sausage. It’s amazing what the thought of living on nothing but rich tea biscuits, beer and cigarettes for three days can do to the appetite.
Our spot of choice was The Boiled Egg and Soldiers, which, cursed though it is with seeming like the backdrop to an irrepressibly smug Richard Curtis film, is still a top breakfast destination for anyone in the SW area. The place exudes the kind of laid-back promise of a good brunch that you might expect from Uncle Monty’s larder. Stripped wooden floorboards, intimate seating and the smell of smoked bacon are a cosy lure, while a blackboard announces that the place is fully licensed, so you can indulge in a little hair-of-the-dog.
If you tire of the joy of watching the yummy mummies wheel past with their Alfies and Jezebels, then the menu makes for excellent reading with its sheer unabashed promises of indulgence. Feasts such as ‘The Works’ beckon with sirloin steak and black pudding, while ‘Old School’ boasts smoked haddock and poached eggs with lemon mayo on toast.
I opted for a good old ‘Traditional’ (£6.95) with eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and a sausage. The prices are fairly steep, but you are paying that couple of extra quid for noticeable quality, which is what you want when you’re about to spend the best part of a week in a drunken stupor, deciding between the nutritional benefits of cheesy chips and pizza.
My breakfast really was everything I hoped it would be – the sausage herby and delicious and the mushrooms oozing with butter – every little thing cooked perfectly, right down to the crispy rinds of the thick, salty bacon. The service was a little on the nonchalant side, but our food came promptly and we left full of beans, just about ready to face the indignity of service station toilets, navigational mishaps and hairy men in small T-shirts.
63 Northcote Rd
Clapham
SW11 1NP
020 7223 4894
by Dee Caff
There may be no better time to indulge in a Full English than on the first morning of a festival, which is why my festival-bound friend and I donned our baggy waisted eating-apparel and chowed down on some serious sausage. It’s amazing what the thought of living on nothing but rich tea biscuits, beer and cigarettes for three days can do to the appetite.
Our spot of choice was The Boiled Egg and Soldiers, which, cursed though it is with seeming like the backdrop to an irrepressibly smug Richard Curtis film, is still a top breakfast destination for anyone in the SW area. The place exudes the kind of laid-back promise of a good brunch that you might expect from Uncle Monty’s larder. Stripped wooden floorboards, intimate seating and the smell of smoked bacon are a cosy lure, while a blackboard announces that the place is fully licensed, so you can indulge in a little hair-of-the-dog.
If you tire of the joy of watching the yummy mummies wheel past with their Alfies and Jezebels, then the menu makes for excellent reading with its sheer unabashed promises of indulgence. Feasts such as ‘The Works’ beckon with sirloin steak and black pudding, while ‘Old School’ boasts smoked haddock and poached eggs with lemon mayo on toast.
I opted for a good old ‘Traditional’ (£6.95) with eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and a sausage. The prices are fairly steep, but you are paying that couple of extra quid for noticeable quality, which is what you want when you’re about to spend the best part of a week in a drunken stupor, deciding between the nutritional benefits of cheesy chips and pizza.
My breakfast really was everything I hoped it would be – the sausage herby and delicious and the mushrooms oozing with butter – every little thing cooked perfectly, right down to the crispy rinds of the thick, salty bacon. The service was a little on the nonchalant side, but our food came promptly and we left full of beans, just about ready to face the indignity of service station toilets, navigational mishaps and hairy men in small T-shirts.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Special Dispatch: High Street Cafe, Bedford
High Street Cafe
5 High Street
Bedford
MK40
by Bob El Ensquique
The sun was up, the sparrows were singing and, being underemployed, the day was mine. After taking a morning stroll along the blossoming riverbank of the graceful Great Ouse, I fancied some nourishment. As it is ideally situated by the town bridge, I decided to try the High Street Cafe.
Barging in through the sturdy metal framed door, my reception was like a cuddle from a chubby aunt. A chirpy waitress with an impressive pony-tail greeted me; everything felt right. I ordered the vegetarian set: egg, beans, tomatoes, hash browns, bubble & squeak, toast, and tea/coffee. With all this for just £4.50, it was a veritable snip.
After spending a few minutes admiring the cafe’s decor – as well as blackboards and coat pegs the walls featured, to my surprise, Las Vegas cityscapes – and listening to two talkative pensioners planning their afternoon shopping spree at Bhs, my cuppa arrived. The hot tea did well in both key departments: it was bracing in strength but also refreshingly milky.
An oval platter of fried enjoyment was soon slid under my nose, followed by four pieces of hot buttered triangular toast. The presentation was tidy; three hunks of tomato lined the top of the plate, with beans taking centre stage, flanked by bubble on one side, and egg and hash browns on the other.
Unfortunately, the asymmetry of the plate’s arrangement was matched in its ability to satisfy. The bubble and squeak was flavoursome and filling, but lacked texture; there was no crunch to it. The hash browns were a joy, striking the perfect balance between brittle shell and tender innards. Heinz beans and a little fried egg with a creamy yolk provided ample slipperiness to the dish, but I wasn’t keen on the tomatoes, which I found a tad soggy. My tomato worries were eased however when I combined them with the toast to make bespoke toasties, and I did manage to clear the plate(s).
The great build-up to the food may have made me overly critical of my meal, because I really had no strong complaints and I even tipped the proprietor.
Full, I departed the High Street Cafe and continued my aimless riverside walk.
5 High Street
Bedford
MK40
by Bob El Ensquique
The sun was up, the sparrows were singing and, being underemployed, the day was mine. After taking a morning stroll along the blossoming riverbank of the graceful Great Ouse, I fancied some nourishment. As it is ideally situated by the town bridge, I decided to try the High Street Cafe.
Barging in through the sturdy metal framed door, my reception was like a cuddle from a chubby aunt. A chirpy waitress with an impressive pony-tail greeted me; everything felt right. I ordered the vegetarian set: egg, beans, tomatoes, hash browns, bubble & squeak, toast, and tea/coffee. With all this for just £4.50, it was a veritable snip.
After spending a few minutes admiring the cafe’s decor – as well as blackboards and coat pegs the walls featured, to my surprise, Las Vegas cityscapes – and listening to two talkative pensioners planning their afternoon shopping spree at Bhs, my cuppa arrived. The hot tea did well in both key departments: it was bracing in strength but also refreshingly milky.
An oval platter of fried enjoyment was soon slid under my nose, followed by four pieces of hot buttered triangular toast. The presentation was tidy; three hunks of tomato lined the top of the plate, with beans taking centre stage, flanked by bubble on one side, and egg and hash browns on the other.
Unfortunately, the asymmetry of the plate’s arrangement was matched in its ability to satisfy. The bubble and squeak was flavoursome and filling, but lacked texture; there was no crunch to it. The hash browns were a joy, striking the perfect balance between brittle shell and tender innards. Heinz beans and a little fried egg with a creamy yolk provided ample slipperiness to the dish, but I wasn’t keen on the tomatoes, which I found a tad soggy. My tomato worries were eased however when I combined them with the toast to make bespoke toasties, and I did manage to clear the plate(s).
The great build-up to the food may have made me overly critical of my meal, because I really had no strong complaints and I even tipped the proprietor.
Full, I departed the High Street Cafe and continued my aimless riverside walk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)