The Deptford Project
121 - 123 Deptford High St
Deptford
SE8 4NS
www.thedeptfordproject.com
by Sultan Pepper
Deptford High Street has some great caffs – the tea is strong and milky, the breakfasts are gratifyingly greasy, and the prices are paltry. But, like everything else in this god-fearing district, they’re closed on Sundays. Adherents of the Church of Breakfast are the only congregation in Deptford without a place of worship.
Until The Deptford Project – a disused railway carriage reborn as a laid-back, mildly arty, lo-fi café – came to save our souls. The owner seemed to have underestimated the desperation of the area's surprisingly large population of middle-class white 20-something types for a Sabbath fry-up: the place was heaving when we dropped in (on one of their first Sundays, admittedly), the staff were flapping and complimentary coffees were being slung about in apology for the long wait for food.
But hallelujah, if it isn’t the breakfast that bourgeois Deptford’s been waiting for: velvety, flavoursome scrambled eggs; perfectly cooked bacon, cut almost thick enough to warrant the term ‘slab’. Tomatoes – a revelation: small, surprisingly sweet and juicy. Real Mushrooms! neither watery and pallid, nor fried to death – they steered a middle course between the two most common conditions of the inexpertly handled shroom. These were softly sautéed cuddly little buttons. I wanted to keep them as pets.
I mean it as a compliment when I say it was amateurish – not clinical, cynical, nor cheffy, and nor was it slapdash; it was achieved with the art that conceals art.
If, as its name suggests, The Deptford Project is some kind of experiment, perhaps designed to see whether the time is right to take Deptford’s café culture in a more flamboyant direction, then I don’t think it’s too early to pronounce the experiment a success. Praise the Lord.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Maze Grill, Mayfair
Maze Grill
10 - 13 Grosvenor Square
London
W1K 6JP
020 7495 2211
www.gordonramsay.com/mazegrill
by Rhys Chris Peese
My business manager, Martin, only came and knocked on my door.“What the fuck do you want?” I enquired.
“I’ve noticed,” he said, “there’s nowhere to get a Gordon Ramsay breakfast in London.”
“Fuck!” I said. “We’d better fucking sort that out!”
So I opened Maze Grill, and did it up in a pistachio and pebble colour scheme.
“How much should we charge?” said Martin.
“How about eighteen quid for the buffet, and twenty-six for a full fucking breakfast?” I said.
“…fine,” he said, totting up the massive fucking profit margins.
We planned the buffet first. We planned the fuck out of it. We ordered chorizo, Parma ham, miniature pastries, sweaty cheese – “And make sure it is fucking sweaty!” I yelled – cereals, yoghurt, and fruit.
“Call the muesli ‘Maze Grill muesli’!” I bellowed at Martin. “It’ll be indistinguishable from any other muesli, but we won’t have to pay the cunts at Alpen royalties.”
“We won’t have to anyway,” he said.
“Fuck off!” I replied.
Then we designed the cooked breakfast.
“How’s this?” said Martin, “Two eggs, streaky bacon, Old Spot sausages, mushrooms, beans, black pudding, and a tomato.”
“Too fucking generous!” I said. “For a start, make sure they’re the smallest fucking eggs there have ever been. Use quail eggs if necessary. And don’t waste much seasoning on them. That shit costs money! One sausage is plenty. Put the beans in a poncey bowl to disguise how fucking few there are. And only give ‘em half a tomato.”
“Half a tomato?” asked Martin.
“You heard, you fuck!”
“But they’re paying twenty-six quid.”
“Half a tomato is plenty!”
“How about three-quarters of a tomato?” he urged.
“NO!” I barked, involuntarily spitting in his eye, “Half a fucking tomato and not a fucking tomato seed more! And if they think that’s not enough then they can fuck off!”
10 - 13 Grosvenor Square
London
W1K 6JP
020 7495 2211
www.gordonramsay.com/mazegrill
by Rhys Chris Peese
My business manager, Martin, only came and knocked on my door.“What the fuck do you want?” I enquired.
“I’ve noticed,” he said, “there’s nowhere to get a Gordon Ramsay breakfast in London.”
“Fuck!” I said. “We’d better fucking sort that out!”
So I opened Maze Grill, and did it up in a pistachio and pebble colour scheme.
“How much should we charge?” said Martin.
“How about eighteen quid for the buffet, and twenty-six for a full fucking breakfast?” I said.
“…fine,” he said, totting up the massive fucking profit margins.
We planned the buffet first. We planned the fuck out of it. We ordered chorizo, Parma ham, miniature pastries, sweaty cheese – “And make sure it is fucking sweaty!” I yelled – cereals, yoghurt, and fruit.
“Call the muesli ‘Maze Grill muesli’!” I bellowed at Martin. “It’ll be indistinguishable from any other muesli, but we won’t have to pay the cunts at Alpen royalties.”
“We won’t have to anyway,” he said.
“Fuck off!” I replied.
Then we designed the cooked breakfast.
“How’s this?” said Martin, “Two eggs, streaky bacon, Old Spot sausages, mushrooms, beans, black pudding, and a tomato.”
“Too fucking generous!” I said. “For a start, make sure they’re the smallest fucking eggs there have ever been. Use quail eggs if necessary. And don’t waste much seasoning on them. That shit costs money! One sausage is plenty. Put the beans in a poncey bowl to disguise how fucking few there are. And only give ‘em half a tomato.”
“Half a tomato?” asked Martin.
“You heard, you fuck!”
“But they’re paying twenty-six quid.”
“Half a tomato is plenty!”
“How about three-quarters of a tomato?” he urged.
“NO!” I barked, involuntarily spitting in his eye, “Half a fucking tomato and not a fucking tomato seed more! And if they think that’s not enough then they can fuck off!”
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Breaking News: Hashley in Hackney
The LRB has taken part in the very first Hackney Podcast.
Little Georgia is one of the legendary cafes that fell foul of the Broadway Market development scandal. Hashley Brown pays a visit to their new-ish premises with the presenter Francesca Panetta. Inspired by Des Ayuno's approving verdict, he tries out the Full Georgian.
But what did he think of the beans? And how does it all compare with the Georgian Democratic Republic of 1917? Find out at www.hackneypodcast.co.uk
As we've a fair few Hackney-residing contributors, perhaps they will ask us back for future editions too.
Apologies to readers from Wandsworth, Southwark, Brent, Ghana, etc.
Little Georgia is one of the legendary cafes that fell foul of the Broadway Market development scandal. Hashley Brown pays a visit to their new-ish premises with the presenter Francesca Panetta. Inspired by Des Ayuno's approving verdict, he tries out the Full Georgian.
But what did he think of the beans? And how does it all compare with the Georgian Democratic Republic of 1917? Find out at www.hackneypodcast.co.uk
As we've a fair few Hackney-residing contributors, perhaps they will ask us back for future editions too.
Apologies to readers from Wandsworth, Southwark, Brent, Ghana, etc.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Shipping Dispatch: 6.30am P&O ferry, Dover to Calais
6.30am P&O ferry
Dover to Calais
www.poferries.com
by Captain Cook
Breeze light south westerly, Viking decreasing good. Sea moderate to choppy. Sausage bacon moderate, hint of dogger? Eggs no good. Toast oily to moderate. Tea variable. Sea choppy now rough. Sausage bacon sick. Mainly fair with bean patches. No fog.
Dover to Calais
www.poferries.com
by Captain Cook
Breeze light south westerly, Viking decreasing good. Sea moderate to choppy. Sausage bacon moderate, hint of dogger? Eggs no good. Toast oily to moderate. Tea variable. Sea choppy now rough. Sausage bacon sick. Mainly fair with bean patches. No fog.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Café Rogerio’s, Putney
Café Rogerio’s
Putney High Street
Putney
SW15 1RX
www.rogeriosrestaurant.com
by Blake Pudding
I am always amazed by the general ineptitude in my office at making tea. Granted this is exacerbated by the weedy, Fair Trade teabags that those in charge of office supplies insist on buying – why can’t they be delicious and ethical? Or just delicious? Anyway the common technique seems to be: boil the water, leave for 5 minutes, pour onto the teabag and then immediately add lots of milk before any tea extraction can have taken place, remove teabag, add dregs from the bottom of the kettle and then serve. The tea at Café Rogerio’s was even worse than this. It tasted like it had come from those Lipton yellow label teabags that you get in holiday resorts where they really hate the English. Katie, one of the few in my office able to make tea, described it as a “tea-style drink.”
She was also disappointed by the smoked salmon with scrambled eggs. I think we all expected a mound of creamy eggs with lots of oily fish. Instead there were some school scrambled eggs with some miserly rashers of dry salmon. For this we were charged £5.40. My ladyfriend Alice and I went for something more meaty. Their nearest approximation of a Full English was OK. The sausages were at the top end of the budget range but by then we had lost interest.
Café Rogerio’s has the look of a café that was remodelled to cash in on the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. There are even Gaudi-esque mosaics. The food tastes a bit like this too - quite good coffee, paninis etc but no idea how to make a nice cup of tea and in a breakfast place this is unforgivable.
Putney High Street
Putney
SW15 1RX
www.rogeriosrestaurant.com
by Blake Pudding
I am always amazed by the general ineptitude in my office at making tea. Granted this is exacerbated by the weedy, Fair Trade teabags that those in charge of office supplies insist on buying – why can’t they be delicious and ethical? Or just delicious? Anyway the common technique seems to be: boil the water, leave for 5 minutes, pour onto the teabag and then immediately add lots of milk before any tea extraction can have taken place, remove teabag, add dregs from the bottom of the kettle and then serve. The tea at Café Rogerio’s was even worse than this. It tasted like it had come from those Lipton yellow label teabags that you get in holiday resorts where they really hate the English. Katie, one of the few in my office able to make tea, described it as a “tea-style drink.”
She was also disappointed by the smoked salmon with scrambled eggs. I think we all expected a mound of creamy eggs with lots of oily fish. Instead there were some school scrambled eggs with some miserly rashers of dry salmon. For this we were charged £5.40. My ladyfriend Alice and I went for something more meaty. Their nearest approximation of a Full English was OK. The sausages were at the top end of the budget range but by then we had lost interest.
Café Rogerio’s has the look of a café that was remodelled to cash in on the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. There are even Gaudi-esque mosaics. The food tastes a bit like this too - quite good coffee, paninis etc but no idea how to make a nice cup of tea and in a breakfast place this is unforgivable.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Dino’s Grill & Restaurant, Spitalfields
Dino’s Grill & Restaurant
76 Commercial Street
Spitalfields
E1 6LY
020 7247 6097
by Megan Bacon
Oh, the joys of sacking off a morning’s work and having breakfast with someone you haven’t seen in ages. Don’t tell anyone, but that’s exactly what I’m up to, as I pick my way past the early-morning traffic and construction work that dominates the Aldgate scenery. In recent years, Commercial Street has been given a face lift by its ever-growing colony of ciabatta eaters and Belgian beer enthusiasts, and I must confess – I am both a ciabatta eater and a Belgian beer enthusiast. But I’m also a sucker for museums, and that is exactly what Dino’s is.
The restaurant hasn’t had a face lift. Nay, while its 1970s shades of olive, brown and yellow are pleasing to the eye, it’s evident that Dino’s hasn’t even subjected to a little bit of Botox. While waiting for my companion to arrive, I’m pretty much the only person there on a Wednesday morning, apart from the man behind the counter (Dino himself?) and a few passing labourers who check in for takeaway bacon butties. The walls are bedecked with posters of long-gone exhibitions and plays, many of which I’d been to. The place is a study in nostalgia. Luckily, I’m the nostalgic sort.
We choose a booth in the corner, and peruse the menu – a no-nonsense list that pairs all your usual breakfast foods in divergent orgies of deliciousness. According to internet lore, the chips are pretty special, but I’m against chip-eating before midday. Being adventurous sorts, we order off-menu: bacon and eggs with toast and tea. We aren’t entirely sure that “Dino” has got our order right, because he doesn’t seem to understand what we were saying, but when the meal is delivered within minutes, it’s all there. A common complaint of London eateries – particularly of the fancier type – is that their food looks fabulous, but lacks bite. Dino’s is the polar opposite – the food looks grim, but tastes good. The bacon has none of the nearly-burnt crispiness of a perfect rasher, but it is surprisingly tasty, particularly when paired with the eggs, which are coloured to perfection in dreamy hues of white and yellow. The toast, too, is a revelation: white, thickly sliced and smothered with full-fat, salted butter. Just like toast used to be. A better start to the day, I can’t possibly imagine. I’ll be back to try the chips.
76 Commercial Street
Spitalfields
E1 6LY
020 7247 6097
by Megan Bacon
Oh, the joys of sacking off a morning’s work and having breakfast with someone you haven’t seen in ages. Don’t tell anyone, but that’s exactly what I’m up to, as I pick my way past the early-morning traffic and construction work that dominates the Aldgate scenery. In recent years, Commercial Street has been given a face lift by its ever-growing colony of ciabatta eaters and Belgian beer enthusiasts, and I must confess – I am both a ciabatta eater and a Belgian beer enthusiast. But I’m also a sucker for museums, and that is exactly what Dino’s is.
The restaurant hasn’t had a face lift. Nay, while its 1970s shades of olive, brown and yellow are pleasing to the eye, it’s evident that Dino’s hasn’t even subjected to a little bit of Botox. While waiting for my companion to arrive, I’m pretty much the only person there on a Wednesday morning, apart from the man behind the counter (Dino himself?) and a few passing labourers who check in for takeaway bacon butties. The walls are bedecked with posters of long-gone exhibitions and plays, many of which I’d been to. The place is a study in nostalgia. Luckily, I’m the nostalgic sort.
We choose a booth in the corner, and peruse the menu – a no-nonsense list that pairs all your usual breakfast foods in divergent orgies of deliciousness. According to internet lore, the chips are pretty special, but I’m against chip-eating before midday. Being adventurous sorts, we order off-menu: bacon and eggs with toast and tea. We aren’t entirely sure that “Dino” has got our order right, because he doesn’t seem to understand what we were saying, but when the meal is delivered within minutes, it’s all there. A common complaint of London eateries – particularly of the fancier type – is that their food looks fabulous, but lacks bite. Dino’s is the polar opposite – the food looks grim, but tastes good. The bacon has none of the nearly-burnt crispiness of a perfect rasher, but it is surprisingly tasty, particularly when paired with the eggs, which are coloured to perfection in dreamy hues of white and yellow. The toast, too, is a revelation: white, thickly sliced and smothered with full-fat, salted butter. Just like toast used to be. A better start to the day, I can’t possibly imagine. I’ll be back to try the chips.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Brew, Clapham Junction
Brew
45 Northcote Road
Clapham Junction
SW11 1NJ
by Dee Caff
It’s all very bourgeois urbanite chic in Brew, with its edgy grey paint-job and wonky hanging mirrors and clock. A well thought-out Sinatra/Franklin soundtrack and a counter flaunting hand-made cakes, cookies and pastries seem promising as me, my companion, and our plummeting blood sugar levels stop in for some much needed breakfast.
It’s packed out and, after squeezing our way onto a table next to a couple who are eating in belligerent silence, we squint at the blackboard. To my horror there’s no sign of a full English. ‘Tomatoes on sour dough’ and ‘granola with blueberries’ just isn’t going to cut it. “I’ll make my own full English, you fools,” I think smugly as I piece together some components in a grasping attempt to bring some substance to the table. I’m hoping that poached eggs on toast with a side of ‘field mushrooms with pesto and cream’ and ‘Lincolnshire sausages’ will do the job.
Now, you may be imagining, from my onslaught about the unsubstantial nature of this wholesome sounding fare, that I’m some kind of meat guzzling, oil slugging philistine. I’m not, I just don’t like getting ripped off by people with pretensions that only serve to make their customers miserable. When, after about 15 minutes our breakfasts finally come, my Lincolnshire sausages are served cut lenthways in half and lightly griddled. I think the Brew crew should familiarise themselves with the expression “If it ain’t broke...”
My field mushrooms are tasty at first, but after two mouthfuls, I’m stopped in my tracks by the cloying, creamy pesto sauce they’re drowning in. My companion’s ‘Ham, cheese, tomato and poached egg, pesto melt’ has the same problem. There’s just too much going on for this time in the morning. The whole sorry episode comes to a whopping £24, and we’re quite aggressively probed to buy more coffee as we sink into the morning papers. We opt to leave instead.
45 Northcote Road
Clapham Junction
SW11 1NJ
by Dee Caff
It’s all very bourgeois urbanite chic in Brew, with its edgy grey paint-job and wonky hanging mirrors and clock. A well thought-out Sinatra/Franklin soundtrack and a counter flaunting hand-made cakes, cookies and pastries seem promising as me, my companion, and our plummeting blood sugar levels stop in for some much needed breakfast.
It’s packed out and, after squeezing our way onto a table next to a couple who are eating in belligerent silence, we squint at the blackboard. To my horror there’s no sign of a full English. ‘Tomatoes on sour dough’ and ‘granola with blueberries’ just isn’t going to cut it. “I’ll make my own full English, you fools,” I think smugly as I piece together some components in a grasping attempt to bring some substance to the table. I’m hoping that poached eggs on toast with a side of ‘field mushrooms with pesto and cream’ and ‘Lincolnshire sausages’ will do the job.
Now, you may be imagining, from my onslaught about the unsubstantial nature of this wholesome sounding fare, that I’m some kind of meat guzzling, oil slugging philistine. I’m not, I just don’t like getting ripped off by people with pretensions that only serve to make their customers miserable. When, after about 15 minutes our breakfasts finally come, my Lincolnshire sausages are served cut lenthways in half and lightly griddled. I think the Brew crew should familiarise themselves with the expression “If it ain’t broke...”
My field mushrooms are tasty at first, but after two mouthfuls, I’m stopped in my tracks by the cloying, creamy pesto sauce they’re drowning in. My companion’s ‘Ham, cheese, tomato and poached egg, pesto melt’ has the same problem. There’s just too much going on for this time in the morning. The whole sorry episode comes to a whopping £24, and we’re quite aggressively probed to buy more coffee as we sink into the morning papers. We opt to leave instead.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Café Grill, Camden Town
Café Grill
40 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1 0JH
020 7383 0494
by Nelson Griddle
“The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins.”
What was it in a brisk walk through Camden on a summer’s day which could call to mind this, D.H. Lawrence’s famous pronouncement on the state of the world in the 1920s?
Was it the credit crunch? The election of Boris Johnson as overlord of City Hall? I’m afraid, dear Reader, it was an événement much closer to home. What shook me was the fact that the Café Crescent, ancient greasy spoon stalwart of Camden High Street, has closed down. And in its place, almost as swiftly as night follows day, had appeared an upstart establishment, the Café Grill.
Well, a man has to eat, and decent breakfasts are thin on the ground in NW1, so I decided to give the Café Grill a whirl. At first glance, the changes are glaring. Broaching the entrance is no longer like stepping back in time. Or is it? That burgundy and silver sign is oh-so-2002. And the terracotta walls are distinctly 90s. Yet the menu, despite a hike in prices, is largely unchanged.
I opt for eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms. It’s all good, standard fare, served on a reassuringly oval plate. The mushrooms are doubtless the highlight (why are greasy-spoon mushrooms so often slightly slimy and tasteless? - these aren’t). And the whole is accompanied by pleasingly thick toast and rather good coffee.
Quibbles? Well, they were a bit late bringing the bill (This is one thing I never understand about eating out: when people offer me money, I accept like a shot). Apart from that, I left feeling that the end of the world might be survivable after all. But then, in the words of D.H.L.:
“We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”
40 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1 0JH
020 7383 0494
by Nelson Griddle
“The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins.”
What was it in a brisk walk through Camden on a summer’s day which could call to mind this, D.H. Lawrence’s famous pronouncement on the state of the world in the 1920s?
Was it the credit crunch? The election of Boris Johnson as overlord of City Hall? I’m afraid, dear Reader, it was an événement much closer to home. What shook me was the fact that the Café Crescent, ancient greasy spoon stalwart of Camden High Street, has closed down. And in its place, almost as swiftly as night follows day, had appeared an upstart establishment, the Café Grill.
Well, a man has to eat, and decent breakfasts are thin on the ground in NW1, so I decided to give the Café Grill a whirl. At first glance, the changes are glaring. Broaching the entrance is no longer like stepping back in time. Or is it? That burgundy and silver sign is oh-so-2002. And the terracotta walls are distinctly 90s. Yet the menu, despite a hike in prices, is largely unchanged.
I opt for eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms. It’s all good, standard fare, served on a reassuringly oval plate. The mushrooms are doubtless the highlight (why are greasy-spoon mushrooms so often slightly slimy and tasteless? - these aren’t). And the whole is accompanied by pleasingly thick toast and rather good coffee.
Quibbles? Well, they were a bit late bringing the bill (This is one thing I never understand about eating out: when people offer me money, I accept like a shot). Apart from that, I left feeling that the end of the world might be survivable after all. But then, in the words of D.H.L.:
“We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”
Monday, July 07, 2008
Book Review: AA Grill on AA Gill
Book Review
Breakfast at the Wolseley
by AA Gill
Reviewed by AA Grill
I suppose we should feel good about it really: one of Britain’s most lauded food writers has chosen to write a whole book on our repas de choix. It’s a surprise, in fact, for those of us here on this site, those of us who’ve long been celebrating the most important meal of the day, that there are so few books out there on the subject. So it is with relief that we open Mr Gill’s book and read the gleeful proclamation: “Breakfast is everything.” Great, we think. He’s one of us. He gets it.
But I should stop there. There’s a problem with the last paragraph. And it stems from the use of the word “chosen.” For Mr Gill has not “chosen” to write this book… there’s something a little more cynical at work that rather undermines his critical disinterest.
We’ve all done it I’m sure. Started reading a spread in a Sunday supplement only to realise, somewhere in the midst of the third paragraph, that the tone is rather too cloyingly effusive to stand as journalism proper - that there is a singular lack of distance. And then our eyes alight to the top corner of the page: “Advertisement feature”. A cunning attempt at dressing up an advert as journalistic endeavour, surely something that most writers spend their lives trying to avoid, for fear of compromising their art.
Not so AA Gill. However you read this book, you can’t escape the fact that it’s a marketing man’s commission, first and foremost, rather than a passion of Gill’s. You can see the logic in it from the Wolseley’s point of view. Why throw a few grand the way of an advertising exec when you can buy AA Gill and get him to write a book about your estimable eatery? Much less work all round.
I suppose it’s a sign of the times: not long ago, pre-Moby, Coldplay et al, it was considered a bit of a sell-out to allow your music on a TV advert, but now it’s pretty much ubiquitous. And ever since Fay Weldon wrote a novel for Bulgari, it seems that the world of literature is fair game too.
That said, Gill hasn’t taken his commission too seriously here, and “literature” would be an overstatement: Breakfast at the Wolseley runs to barely 35 pages of text by Gill, intermingled, with little consideration for the reader, with some fine recipes from the Wolselely’s kitchens and bound together with some rather outdated book design.
So, what meat is there within these 35 pages? To kick off, Gill refers dutifully to a Wolselely press pack and gives us a brief rundown of its history – well written brochure copy, essentially – its origins as a car showroom (well I never!) and more recent history as a branch of Barclays. He then does a little google-research into the various forms of breakfast matter: Viennoiserie, Eggs, English Breakfast, Fruits and Cereals, and Tea, Coffee and Hot Chocolate. He has also, it seems, spent a morning hanging out in the kitchens to better get a sense of place. And, evidently, spent a little too much time with the Tourier (a specialist patissier, flown in from France, no less) who sends him off down an-ever-so-slightly-too-long cul-de-sac about the origins of French pastry in Vienna.
It is Gill in Sunday Times magazine mode, with his incisors removed.
Once in a while, you see the real Gill trying to break through. When, say, criticising the Wolseley “Full English” for having beans (“de trop”, he exclaims, “and there should be fried bread,”) but it really is only once in a while. In fact, this is literally the only moment I could find in which Gill really breaks free from the shackles of his commission and dares bite the hand that feeds.
He still has time for some great writing – let’s not forget, he really does know how to write - particularly about the English breakfast, delightfully referring to the “piggy unctuous brilliance of a British banger”. And I particularly like the phrase “Double-Benny” for a double Eggs Benedict.
But then, just as Gill embarks on a rather enjoyable paragraph in which we learn the origins of bacon (actually invented in Britain, we discover - which is, again, all a little too google-researched for my liking), we reach its end only to be reminded of the real purpose of the book: “The Wolseley will serve 15,000 rashers of bacon a month,” Gill declaims. Woop-di-do, Adrian. Woop-di-do.
Whichever way you look at it, Gill’s heart really isn’t in it. Which is a real pity. I’d have quite happily ingested his Breakfast-related musings without added Wolseley flavouring – but the overpowering taint of commercialism leaves such a bitter taste. His writing can be as dependable as a Full English. As his says early on, breakfast is “the most personal and idiosyncratic construction… the most intimate of meals, a euphemism, a glance and a sly smile.” The same could be said of Gill at his best. When on form, he can serve the literary equivalent of a perfect “Double Benny”, but here, I’m sorry to say, he’s barely rustled up a runny serving of scrambled eggs.
Breakfast at the Wolseley is published by Quadrille with an RRP of £12.99 (or £6.49
from Amazon)
Breakfast at the Wolseley
by AA Gill
Reviewed by AA Grill
I suppose we should feel good about it really: one of Britain’s most lauded food writers has chosen to write a whole book on our repas de choix. It’s a surprise, in fact, for those of us here on this site, those of us who’ve long been celebrating the most important meal of the day, that there are so few books out there on the subject. So it is with relief that we open Mr Gill’s book and read the gleeful proclamation: “Breakfast is everything.” Great, we think. He’s one of us. He gets it.
But I should stop there. There’s a problem with the last paragraph. And it stems from the use of the word “chosen.” For Mr Gill has not “chosen” to write this book… there’s something a little more cynical at work that rather undermines his critical disinterest.
We’ve all done it I’m sure. Started reading a spread in a Sunday supplement only to realise, somewhere in the midst of the third paragraph, that the tone is rather too cloyingly effusive to stand as journalism proper - that there is a singular lack of distance. And then our eyes alight to the top corner of the page: “Advertisement feature”. A cunning attempt at dressing up an advert as journalistic endeavour, surely something that most writers spend their lives trying to avoid, for fear of compromising their art.
Not so AA Gill. However you read this book, you can’t escape the fact that it’s a marketing man’s commission, first and foremost, rather than a passion of Gill’s. You can see the logic in it from the Wolseley’s point of view. Why throw a few grand the way of an advertising exec when you can buy AA Gill and get him to write a book about your estimable eatery? Much less work all round.
I suppose it’s a sign of the times: not long ago, pre-Moby, Coldplay et al, it was considered a bit of a sell-out to allow your music on a TV advert, but now it’s pretty much ubiquitous. And ever since Fay Weldon wrote a novel for Bulgari, it seems that the world of literature is fair game too.
That said, Gill hasn’t taken his commission too seriously here, and “literature” would be an overstatement: Breakfast at the Wolseley runs to barely 35 pages of text by Gill, intermingled, with little consideration for the reader, with some fine recipes from the Wolselely’s kitchens and bound together with some rather outdated book design.
So, what meat is there within these 35 pages? To kick off, Gill refers dutifully to a Wolselely press pack and gives us a brief rundown of its history – well written brochure copy, essentially – its origins as a car showroom (well I never!) and more recent history as a branch of Barclays. He then does a little google-research into the various forms of breakfast matter: Viennoiserie, Eggs, English Breakfast, Fruits and Cereals, and Tea, Coffee and Hot Chocolate. He has also, it seems, spent a morning hanging out in the kitchens to better get a sense of place. And, evidently, spent a little too much time with the Tourier (a specialist patissier, flown in from France, no less) who sends him off down an-ever-so-slightly-too-long cul-de-sac about the origins of French pastry in Vienna.
It is Gill in Sunday Times magazine mode, with his incisors removed.
Once in a while, you see the real Gill trying to break through. When, say, criticising the Wolseley “Full English” for having beans (“de trop”, he exclaims, “and there should be fried bread,”) but it really is only once in a while. In fact, this is literally the only moment I could find in which Gill really breaks free from the shackles of his commission and dares bite the hand that feeds.
He still has time for some great writing – let’s not forget, he really does know how to write - particularly about the English breakfast, delightfully referring to the “piggy unctuous brilliance of a British banger”. And I particularly like the phrase “Double-Benny” for a double Eggs Benedict.
But then, just as Gill embarks on a rather enjoyable paragraph in which we learn the origins of bacon (actually invented in Britain, we discover - which is, again, all a little too google-researched for my liking), we reach its end only to be reminded of the real purpose of the book: “The Wolseley will serve 15,000 rashers of bacon a month,” Gill declaims. Woop-di-do, Adrian. Woop-di-do.
Whichever way you look at it, Gill’s heart really isn’t in it. Which is a real pity. I’d have quite happily ingested his Breakfast-related musings without added Wolseley flavouring – but the overpowering taint of commercialism leaves such a bitter taste. His writing can be as dependable as a Full English. As his says early on, breakfast is “the most personal and idiosyncratic construction… the most intimate of meals, a euphemism, a glance and a sly smile.” The same could be said of Gill at his best. When on form, he can serve the literary equivalent of a perfect “Double Benny”, but here, I’m sorry to say, he’s barely rustled up a runny serving of scrambled eggs.
Breakfast at the Wolseley is published by Quadrille with an RRP of £12.99 (or £6.49
from Amazon)
Friday, July 04, 2008
Special Dispatch: Café Tango, Glastonbury
Café Tango
The Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
You know the sinking feeling you get in your stomach when you think the party's over before it's even started? Well, last Thursday afternoon, when I woke up gasping for air to the sound of fat rain drops hitting the roof of my polyester tent, I panicked. I woke up Mr Jamm and declared I was going home after breakfast as I couldn't bear another mudfest. He said I was being dramatic, but he humoured me anyway. We got into our wellies and raincoats and I self righteously packed all my stuff ready to head home a mere 24 hours into being there. The day before had been beautiful, and I knew, I just knew that this would happen. I don't like rain, I don't like having wet socks and hands, I don't like not being able to sit down anywhere. Yes, after breakfast, I would be going home. The decision had been made.
We trudged over to Café Tango and ordered two veggie breakfasts’ and took our coffees to the comfy low chairs and tables. Watching people slip and slide in the mud as they walked past depressed me. Breakfast arrived on recycled paper plates and wooden cutlery. Eggs, beans, veggie sausage, wholemeal toast and a spinach and mushroom extravaganza. The beans were homemade and I'd usually turn my nose up at the ponciness of it all, but these were delicious. Veggie sausages were impressive - crispy on the outside and a herby taste sensation on the inside. The mushrooms and spinach were my favourite bit – sautéed with spring onions and black pepper. The only let down was the wholemeal toast which came without butter (or anything for that matter). The eggs were fine, if slightly over cooked.
The highlight and light at the end of my blue funk was the coffee. If I could have coffee like that every day it would change my life. And indeed, it helped change my mind about leaving. I stopped seeing the slipping and sliding and noticed that people were actually laughing in the mud while I'd sat there fuming and thinking about the nearest train station. I suddenly felt ridiculous for coming over all prudish. And sure enough, by the next morning, the sun had started to shine again. I even got a tan. And I got to see Leonard Cohen. Café Tango can have my £7 any day.
The Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
You know the sinking feeling you get in your stomach when you think the party's over before it's even started? Well, last Thursday afternoon, when I woke up gasping for air to the sound of fat rain drops hitting the roof of my polyester tent, I panicked. I woke up Mr Jamm and declared I was going home after breakfast as I couldn't bear another mudfest. He said I was being dramatic, but he humoured me anyway. We got into our wellies and raincoats and I self righteously packed all my stuff ready to head home a mere 24 hours into being there. The day before had been beautiful, and I knew, I just knew that this would happen. I don't like rain, I don't like having wet socks and hands, I don't like not being able to sit down anywhere. Yes, after breakfast, I would be going home. The decision had been made.
We trudged over to Café Tango and ordered two veggie breakfasts’ and took our coffees to the comfy low chairs and tables. Watching people slip and slide in the mud as they walked past depressed me. Breakfast arrived on recycled paper plates and wooden cutlery. Eggs, beans, veggie sausage, wholemeal toast and a spinach and mushroom extravaganza. The beans were homemade and I'd usually turn my nose up at the ponciness of it all, but these were delicious. Veggie sausages were impressive - crispy on the outside and a herby taste sensation on the inside. The mushrooms and spinach were my favourite bit – sautéed with spring onions and black pepper. The only let down was the wholemeal toast which came without butter (or anything for that matter). The eggs were fine, if slightly over cooked.
The highlight and light at the end of my blue funk was the coffee. If I could have coffee like that every day it would change my life. And indeed, it helped change my mind about leaving. I stopped seeing the slipping and sliding and noticed that people were actually laughing in the mud while I'd sat there fuming and thinking about the nearest train station. I suddenly felt ridiculous for coming over all prudish. And sure enough, by the next morning, the sun had started to shine again. I even got a tan. And I got to see Leonard Cohen. Café Tango can have my £7 any day.
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