Docklands Diner
76 Cannon Drive
West India Dock
Docklands
E14 4AS
020 7515 7160
by Gracie Spoon
Docklands is an area of unsettling and awe-inspiring new. However, nooked amongst the dizzying glass, salt water smells and box fresh pavements, there are wisps of an East End past of 0171 phone codes and first name familiarity. The Docklands Diner is one such wisp.
Sepia-tinted formica tables with bolted-on plastic chairs, neat clusters of condiments and lace frills claim the 'classic caff' badge of identity. The numerous and very large St George’s flags stake out a different and more ambiguous territory. The five standard brunch options (ranging from £3.60 to £4.90) are served – school dinner style – from rectangular chrome vats behind a glass counter.
Being veggie, the brunches didn't quite match me, and I had some explaining to do. Neither hostile nor unhelpful, the response was nonetheless: “well I don’t know what’s veggie and what ain’t darling”. I attempted some direction. “Um, like, fried slice?” I suggested hopefully, with positive results. “Uh, hash browns? Maybe mushrooms?” I continued. By this point she was getting the idea: “What about tomatoes?”. “Yes. Brilliant. Yes”.
I settled down to an ample plate of promising grease. I wanted to love this breakfast. The retroist in me loved the feel of the place, and the anti-corporate in me saluted it for existing when so many of its comrades have fallen to the armies of advancing Starbucks and Prets. But the breakfast was awful. My coffee was so unremittingly wrong that I didn’t get past two sips. The hash browns, stiffened with age, were a particularly disturbing discovery, while the fried slice left me with a querulous stomach for some hours to come. The fried egg was passable, but had no strong supporting actors to interact with. The grilled tomato was the only real player, a moment of fresh, raw red in aged and overcooked company.
I tried to gain some measure of space from my toughened meal, with a gaze up and away, designed for the middle distance. Instead I found myself looking at photoshopped picture of the Sydney Opera House draped in another very large St George’s Flag. This, I don’t get. On many levels.
Perhaps, I wondered as I made a quick exit, perhaps if my inclinations were a little less vegetarian and a bit more colonial, I would have enjoyed my breakfast more. But as I passed the the impersonal glamour of the banker restaurants 200 metres away, and headed into the expensive shimmer of Canary Wharf, I couldn't help but feel that even if I hated my Diner experience, I'm glad its there to be had.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Op-Egg: The Credit Brunch
by Cher E Jamm
We live in frugal times my friends, and it is in times like these that we must band together. It is the time to become stoic. A time to remember the tales our grandparents regaled us with, of rations and reuse.
Credit Crunch is a phrase that has become synonymous with our daily lives. At every turn apocalyptic headlines herald the end of our credit-frenzied existence. No more credit cards, mortgages, personal loans. Frivolity is now frowned upon.
It is time, good people, to shun lunches and dinners at restaurants, and, dare I say it, resurrect brunch. Later than breakfast, and earlier than lunch, brunch lives in that grey area we all too often fill with cups of tea and biscuits (or in my case, a cheeky second croissant) in the run up to 1pm. But what waste! Brunch is where you can have breakfast and lunch at the same time, thereby saving on two meals by rolling them into one. Brunch is where you can have a Full English or Fish and Chips or quite possibly both and still not be singled out for being a pig. Brunch is the future.
All our favourite caffs still serve food at brunchtime, so you can still enjoy your usual fare at the usual price and give two fingers to Pret-a-Manger at lunchtime, or better still, why not cook it yourself? Invite some friends round and get every person attending to bring one breakfast ingredient – bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, and toast – even black pudding if you’re feelin’ fancy. What a lovely way to start the day - friends, brunch and a chin-wag before setting off to work. And if you’re a little bit late into the office, just explain – with a nod to Gordon Brown – that it’s economic factors outside your control that have made you late.
A recession does not have to mean the end of the world as we know it. Many things are born out of hardship – art thrives in difficult times. It gives musicians something to sing about, painters something to, erm, paint about and writers something to write about. It reminds us what is important and teaches us there is more to life than living beyond our means. It is a time when we should turn to our fellow human and ask: fancy a spot of brunch?
We live in frugal times my friends, and it is in times like these that we must band together. It is the time to become stoic. A time to remember the tales our grandparents regaled us with, of rations and reuse.
Credit Crunch is a phrase that has become synonymous with our daily lives. At every turn apocalyptic headlines herald the end of our credit-frenzied existence. No more credit cards, mortgages, personal loans. Frivolity is now frowned upon.
It is time, good people, to shun lunches and dinners at restaurants, and, dare I say it, resurrect brunch. Later than breakfast, and earlier than lunch, brunch lives in that grey area we all too often fill with cups of tea and biscuits (or in my case, a cheeky second croissant) in the run up to 1pm. But what waste! Brunch is where you can have breakfast and lunch at the same time, thereby saving on two meals by rolling them into one. Brunch is where you can have a Full English or Fish and Chips or quite possibly both and still not be singled out for being a pig. Brunch is the future.
All our favourite caffs still serve food at brunchtime, so you can still enjoy your usual fare at the usual price and give two fingers to Pret-a-Manger at lunchtime, or better still, why not cook it yourself? Invite some friends round and get every person attending to bring one breakfast ingredient – bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, and toast – even black pudding if you’re feelin’ fancy. What a lovely way to start the day - friends, brunch and a chin-wag before setting off to work. And if you’re a little bit late into the office, just explain – with a nod to Gordon Brown – that it’s economic factors outside your control that have made you late.
A recession does not have to mean the end of the world as we know it. Many things are born out of hardship – art thrives in difficult times. It gives musicians something to sing about, painters something to, erm, paint about and writers something to write about. It reminds us what is important and teaches us there is more to life than living beyond our means. It is a time when we should turn to our fellow human and ask: fancy a spot of brunch?
Monday, September 22, 2008
myhotel, Bloomsbury
myhotel
11-13 Bayley St
Bedford Square
Bloomsbury
WC1B 3HD
020 3004 6000
www.myhotels.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
Some readers may have noted the sudden outbreak of breakfast specials across the some newspapers and magazines earlier this year. The Guardian ran extracts from the LRB, though rather spoilt it by turning their noses up at our secret identities. The Independent and Observer Food Monthly also did supplements but Time Out outdid them all with an innovative and iconic piece about breakfasting circumstances written by me. Unlike Malcolm Eggs they actually paid in real money so I decided to take out the beautiful and in many ways godlike Rachel Halliburton who commissioned the piece in the hope that she would make me a regular columnist.
We went to myhotel just off Tottenham Court Road. I walked in and my mind started thinking of how I could get myself worked up into a lather about the lower case lettering and the mission statements but the food was so good and of such good value that I don’t have space. Rachel had the bread basket which contained croissant, baguettes, pain au chocolat, rye bread - in fact enough grain-based fun to feed 2 or 3 for £4. One of the eggs in my eggs Benedict was cooked perfectly whilst the other was a little on the hard side but the hollandaise, ham and muffins were perky enough. A special mention should go to the orange juice which tasted as if there was a portal to Seville located in the juicing machine. myhotel itself has no discernable character and already looks dated despite having only been open for 4 years. We sat outside, soaked up the rare morning sunshine and enjoyed our breakfast. The column, alas, is still yet to materialise.
11-13 Bayley St
Bedford Square
Bloomsbury
WC1B 3HD
020 3004 6000
www.myhotels.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
Some readers may have noted the sudden outbreak of breakfast specials across the some newspapers and magazines earlier this year. The Guardian ran extracts from the LRB, though rather spoilt it by turning their noses up at our secret identities. The Independent and Observer Food Monthly also did supplements but Time Out outdid them all with an innovative and iconic piece about breakfasting circumstances written by me. Unlike Malcolm Eggs they actually paid in real money so I decided to take out the beautiful and in many ways godlike Rachel Halliburton who commissioned the piece in the hope that she would make me a regular columnist.
We went to myhotel just off Tottenham Court Road. I walked in and my mind started thinking of how I could get myself worked up into a lather about the lower case lettering and the mission statements but the food was so good and of such good value that I don’t have space. Rachel had the bread basket which contained croissant, baguettes, pain au chocolat, rye bread - in fact enough grain-based fun to feed 2 or 3 for £4. One of the eggs in my eggs Benedict was cooked perfectly whilst the other was a little on the hard side but the hollandaise, ham and muffins were perky enough. A special mention should go to the orange juice which tasted as if there was a portal to Seville located in the juicing machine. myhotel itself has no discernable character and already looks dated despite having only been open for 4 years. We sat outside, soaked up the rare morning sunshine and enjoyed our breakfast. The column, alas, is still yet to materialise.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Breakfasts and Beds: Pentower, Fishguard, Pembrokeshire
Pentower
Tower Hill
Fishguard
Pembrokeshire
SA65 9LA
01348 874 462
by Egon Toast
In the distance, the ferries inched across the glassy Irish sea. Sat in a voluminous armchair in a quiet, turreted suite, up in a corner of this elegantly proportioned hillside retreat, I chortled smugly to myself: my ship, too, had finally come in. A sharp Easter sunshine had brought excitement such as to lift us from bed at a good hour. So it was that I and Ms Toast, my freshly betrothed, descended the oak-panelled staircase to breakfast a good 30 minutes before purported last orders, a first in our books.
Bare feet on cool, emerald tiles made their way to the wicker chairs in the dining room's enclosed verandah. We were swiftly overrun by Pentower's small squadron of cats. Binoculars to hand, I scoured the view laid out in front of me. A small seaside port waking up for the weekend; not a breath of wind to ruffle the scene. Kittiwakes wheeled over cliffs, while enigmatic breaks in the smooth surface of the harbour's waters had me seeking out seals' snouts, or a dolphin's fin.
A few more minutes' idling before our gracious hostess, Mary, arrived with a cafetière and a wicker basket full of toast. We took our seats at the sleek, sturdy dining table and began to graze, eyes ever drawn to the marvellous view encompassing the clefts and outcrops surrounding Fishguard harbour, and beyond to the horizon. On the dresser lay myriad pamphlets and brochures; I resisted the urge to input. The day had begun in too civilised a fashion to descend into sunken-headed silence.
Shortly, the main event was presented: two handsomely-sized plates of early-morning joy. Buttery, golden-hued scrambled eggs lay nestled beneath swathes of smoked salmon. One or two frisks of the pepper grinder, a squidge of quartered lemon, and life was complete. Although never too complete to resist further cups of coffee, oh, and possibly some more toasted granary to go with that alluring pot of homemade marmalade. Actually, these were not requested; rather, suggested. A fine, considerate hostess, alive to the needs of her greedy guests.
Such a quietly decadent spot. In Fishguard, too - who'd have thought it?
Tower Hill
Fishguard
Pembrokeshire
SA65 9LA
01348 874 462
by Egon Toast
In the distance, the ferries inched across the glassy Irish sea. Sat in a voluminous armchair in a quiet, turreted suite, up in a corner of this elegantly proportioned hillside retreat, I chortled smugly to myself: my ship, too, had finally come in. A sharp Easter sunshine had brought excitement such as to lift us from bed at a good hour. So it was that I and Ms Toast, my freshly betrothed, descended the oak-panelled staircase to breakfast a good 30 minutes before purported last orders, a first in our books.
Bare feet on cool, emerald tiles made their way to the wicker chairs in the dining room's enclosed verandah. We were swiftly overrun by Pentower's small squadron of cats. Binoculars to hand, I scoured the view laid out in front of me. A small seaside port waking up for the weekend; not a breath of wind to ruffle the scene. Kittiwakes wheeled over cliffs, while enigmatic breaks in the smooth surface of the harbour's waters had me seeking out seals' snouts, or a dolphin's fin.
A few more minutes' idling before our gracious hostess, Mary, arrived with a cafetière and a wicker basket full of toast. We took our seats at the sleek, sturdy dining table and began to graze, eyes ever drawn to the marvellous view encompassing the clefts and outcrops surrounding Fishguard harbour, and beyond to the horizon. On the dresser lay myriad pamphlets and brochures; I resisted the urge to input. The day had begun in too civilised a fashion to descend into sunken-headed silence.
Shortly, the main event was presented: two handsomely-sized plates of early-morning joy. Buttery, golden-hued scrambled eggs lay nestled beneath swathes of smoked salmon. One or two frisks of the pepper grinder, a squidge of quartered lemon, and life was complete. Although never too complete to resist further cups of coffee, oh, and possibly some more toasted granary to go with that alluring pot of homemade marmalade. Actually, these were not requested; rather, suggested. A fine, considerate hostess, alive to the needs of her greedy guests.
Such a quietly decadent spot. In Fishguard, too - who'd have thought it?
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Deli, Walthamstow
The Deli
69 Orford Rd
Walthamstow
E17 9NJ
by Cathy Latte
“Peep peep”. I rummage around in my bag and find Alpine Sport (my Swiss-nationalist coloured Nokia). It blinks up at me: “Guerilla Craft in Walthamstow. 26th April. Davina.”
Later, basket affixed and streamers streaming I pedal down and pick Davina up on the corner of First Avenue. We do one of those excited little waves that friends who haven’t seen each other for a while do.
Davina and me used to be ‘Wired Women’ and we’d see each other all the time. Together with our theremin-wielding Grrrrl friends we went around burning out plug sockets and making music venues (really) angry with our colourful crew of cheerleaders – and their repertoire of chants about masturbation.
Today, sunny Café Deli is our destination for a leisurely breakfast. Normalities like beany-eggs fast breaking are replaced with European cousins like paninis, wraps, baguettes and pastries. Salmon and capers with creamy cheese in a toasted baguette takes my fancy. Mozzarella and SD-tomatoes wrapped for D. We have standard in a bag herbal tea, no more to say there.
The food’s cheap and tasty – just a fiver each including tip. It’s coupled with a good chunk of side salad. Vegetables delivered in the form of crisps and an al fresco surround give it a breakfasty picnic theme.
The service is particularly good. I tend to over-tip after an experience with my boyfriend here last week. We had a moment, as couples do. He was being particularly indecisive, couldn’t choose between chocolate and pecan - a trait I deplore. It was going on for some time. I remarked on his flustering to the waitress. She peered over the counter and in her strong West Indian way said: “Boy, you gotta make your own decisions. Don’t rely on others, just ain’t fair”. What a marvellous woman, I remember thinking.
We toddle off to the Guerilla Craft – which wasn’t that radical but more of a cutesy, home stitched do: fluffy cats strewing themselves over chaise lounges, pin cushions and lavender pillows. But it's a winning combo - the breakfast, as my pa would say, ‘set me up for the day’ and the craft fair gives me a nudge to root out my old needles and yarn. I settle back into my cottage chair for lovely afternoon of pearl, stitch and bitch. Delightful.
69 Orford Rd
Walthamstow
E17 9NJ
by Cathy Latte
“Peep peep”. I rummage around in my bag and find Alpine Sport (my Swiss-nationalist coloured Nokia). It blinks up at me: “Guerilla Craft in Walthamstow. 26th April. Davina.”
Later, basket affixed and streamers streaming I pedal down and pick Davina up on the corner of First Avenue. We do one of those excited little waves that friends who haven’t seen each other for a while do.
Davina and me used to be ‘Wired Women’ and we’d see each other all the time. Together with our theremin-wielding Grrrrl friends we went around burning out plug sockets and making music venues (really) angry with our colourful crew of cheerleaders – and their repertoire of chants about masturbation.
Today, sunny Café Deli is our destination for a leisurely breakfast. Normalities like beany-eggs fast breaking are replaced with European cousins like paninis, wraps, baguettes and pastries. Salmon and capers with creamy cheese in a toasted baguette takes my fancy. Mozzarella and SD-tomatoes wrapped for D. We have standard in a bag herbal tea, no more to say there.
The food’s cheap and tasty – just a fiver each including tip. It’s coupled with a good chunk of side salad. Vegetables delivered in the form of crisps and an al fresco surround give it a breakfasty picnic theme.
The service is particularly good. I tend to over-tip after an experience with my boyfriend here last week. We had a moment, as couples do. He was being particularly indecisive, couldn’t choose between chocolate and pecan - a trait I deplore. It was going on for some time. I remarked on his flustering to the waitress. She peered over the counter and in her strong West Indian way said: “Boy, you gotta make your own decisions. Don’t rely on others, just ain’t fair”. What a marvellous woman, I remember thinking.
We toddle off to the Guerilla Craft – which wasn’t that radical but more of a cutesy, home stitched do: fluffy cats strewing themselves over chaise lounges, pin cushions and lavender pillows. But it's a winning combo - the breakfast, as my pa would say, ‘set me up for the day’ and the craft fair gives me a nudge to root out my old needles and yarn. I settle back into my cottage chair for lovely afternoon of pearl, stitch and bitch. Delightful.
Friday, September 05, 2008
S & M Cafe, Spitalfields
S & M Cafe
48 Brushfield St
Spitalfields
E1 6AG
020 7247 2552
www.sandmcafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
Friday morning in Spitalfields, East London. It’s 9am to be precise.
The very last delivery truck is leaving, and as far as my eye can see are hoards of fruit and vegetables, piled high into flamboyant pyramid-shaped displays. A flat-capped trader struts across the road, booting a grubby, discarded old apple as he goes and... Oh! Sorry, my mistake. Look how low his trousers are: he’s a local hipster. And in fact, on closer inspection, the truck is from an artisan bakery. They’ve just dropped off a few designer tarts at Patisserie Valerie. But of course – it’s 2008, not 1958, and actually nothing I can see even remotely resembles a pyramid of fruit. No excuse for that one.
S & M Cafe must be acting like a pair of 50s-tinted spectacles, all those mock-gingham plastic tablecloths and framed adverts for Bird’s Custard. A Winston Churchill plate on the wall, ducks-in-flight plates too. They really have pulled out all the stops to synthesise a bygone version of England, one that is now of course completely extinct, unless you go to Rossi round the corner.
The pastiche even sort of extends to the food, which hits the exact average of every full English ever served by any caff anywhere. The fried egg is a pin-up model (and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t know it) and her boyfriend the sausage is as handsome as you’d expect from a popular sausage outlet. Sadly they are let down by the company they keep: the beans being tepid, the bacon being that strange purple-ish bacon you get sometimes, the bubble and squeak being just a bit too true to the 1950s.
The radio is playing Oasis and outside a blues band sets up their kit.
48 Brushfield St
Spitalfields
E1 6AG
020 7247 2552
www.sandmcafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
Friday morning in Spitalfields, East London. It’s 9am to be precise.
The very last delivery truck is leaving, and as far as my eye can see are hoards of fruit and vegetables, piled high into flamboyant pyramid-shaped displays. A flat-capped trader struts across the road, booting a grubby, discarded old apple as he goes and... Oh! Sorry, my mistake. Look how low his trousers are: he’s a local hipster. And in fact, on closer inspection, the truck is from an artisan bakery. They’ve just dropped off a few designer tarts at Patisserie Valerie. But of course – it’s 2008, not 1958, and actually nothing I can see even remotely resembles a pyramid of fruit. No excuse for that one.
S & M Cafe must be acting like a pair of 50s-tinted spectacles, all those mock-gingham plastic tablecloths and framed adverts for Bird’s Custard. A Winston Churchill plate on the wall, ducks-in-flight plates too. They really have pulled out all the stops to synthesise a bygone version of England, one that is now of course completely extinct, unless you go to Rossi round the corner.
The pastiche even sort of extends to the food, which hits the exact average of every full English ever served by any caff anywhere. The fried egg is a pin-up model (and I’ll be damned if she doesn’t know it) and her boyfriend the sausage is as handsome as you’d expect from a popular sausage outlet. Sadly they are let down by the company they keep: the beans being tepid, the bacon being that strange purple-ish bacon you get sometimes, the bubble and squeak being just a bit too true to the 1950s.
The radio is playing Oasis and outside a blues band sets up their kit.
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