Burger King, Waterloo

Burger King
Waterloo Station
Waterloo Rd
Waterloo
SE1 8SE
020 7261 9492
www.burgerking.co.uk

By Hashley Brown

I think a Spanish man just used his bad English as an excuse to chat me up on the train. Get over yourself, Hashley, I can hear you think, but hell it's been a long morning. So it starts like this: not enough sleep, wake up at 5 to get on a bus to get to Waterloo to go to a wedding. Bus breaks down, twice. Get a taxi. Plus, it's really cold. And all this time the little spark of hope, of longing even, is for the reward, the carrot to the early morning's stick, of a warm satisfying breakfast somewhere en route.

What delusions I harboured. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but somehow I imagined there being a little caff tucked away in Waterloo station, a vendor selling freshly crisped bacon sandwiches and a sturdy cup of tea, in a mug. Phhhhrp. Idiot, Hashley. This is England, where all travel starts with culinary mediocrity. With the chain outlet, but one that's only ever found in train stations. Mmm, Whistlestop, Pumpkin, Delice de France, generic 'pub' that looks as if it hosts half of the BNP list and err, Burger King. Seriously people, this was not a choice I wanted to make. But I hate those little kiosks with their insipid baguettes more than life itself. The bastards bombard every regional rail passenger with dressed up cheese rolls of such horrifying dullness that they surely warp travellers expectations of 'continental' cuisine to the point that they join UKIP. No wonder we haven't really become part of Europe.

So there I was ordering a bacon and egg butty value meal in Burger King. The bacon was thick cut something but tasted only of artificial 'smoky' flavour, the scrambled egg disc had a texture like upholstery foam, and the butty was of that spineless corn-dusted sort whose extreme softness endears it only to the elderly and teething children. It did come with a portion of mini hash-browns which were greasily satisfying and the ketchup at least was Heinz, but it was a thoroughly underwhelming experience.

At least the tea, served bag in, was nice.

La Liaison, South Kensington

La Liaison
Gloucester Road Underground Station
Gloucester Rd
South Kensington
SW7 4SF
020 7370 3189

by Bob El Ensquique

Me and the day got off on the wrong foot. I woke up late, had nothing clean to wear, and mice had burrowed into my last few slices of Hovis. To top it off, I missed my stop on the underground. It was as I reluctantly arrived at Gloucester Road that I noticed the cafe embedded into the side of the station. I had nothing to lose. After having my face nestled in a stranger's armpit, it seemed the perfect place for a pit stop from the rat race.

As I waited at the counter, I found myself being awkwardly drawn in to a conversation between the proprietor and a regular about Morrocans and Peruvians. They kept catching my eye as they spoke, as if expecting me to contribute. So I piped up: "Tangiers is somewhere I'm quite keen to visit". The pair rolled their eyes. Whoops.

Having ruined their chat, I decided to get on with ordering. With no veggie option chalked on the menu board, I asked whether I could have a Full English sans-meat. "Certainly, sir!" chirped the elderly boss, having obviously forgiven me. "I can do you two scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast. Would you like white or brown? And a drink?" What a lovely man, I thought.

I perched on a stool and took in the scene. It became apparent that La Liaison serves as a pitstop for London cabbies. "Have you heard about the new American national anthem?" "Zippity Doo Da! Haha!" What followed was a great deal of discussion about Fulham goalkeepers and the long ball technique.

Then my breakfast arrived. Served on what appeared to be antique china, the meal was perfectly presented. It also passed the taste test, fluffy scrambled eggs complimented by steaming baked beans. The piping hot half-tomatoes and buttered mushrooms sat well on the warm toast. Outside, Ken Livingstone scuttled by in an oversized scarf, and the cabbies became highly animated.

Going up to pay, I felt considerably better than I had earlier. La Liaison didn't fix my dirty shirt, but for £4.95 it eased my hunger, and made me consider changing where I get off the tube.

Dottie's True Blue Café, San Francisco

Dottie's True Blue Café
522 Jones St
San Francisco, CA 94102
USA
(+1) (415) 885-2767

by Emma Ricano

I'm having difficulty tapping into my voice, said Yvette. What say you pay me a visit stateside and we'll go for another life changing breakfast? Yvette had been so inspired by our last meal together (see Cafe Boheme) that she'd packed in her marketing job to compete with Angelina Jolie on the American west coast audition circuit. It was quite a hike for a Saturday morning meet up but Yvette sounded less stable than the pound and I needed to get out of the house.

Head thick with jet lag, I struggled not to roll down the steep hill where Dottie's True Blue Café was located in San Francisco's Tenderloin district. Yvette exercised her range of flirtatious facial expressions to jump the queue and almost fainted when she came face to face with the Hollywood High Priestesses who had inspired them. Inside, every inch of wall and table surface was covered in images of Katharine Hepburn, Grace Kelly and Lana Turner circa 1950. This decade permeated everything from the vintage coffee machines to the waiters and waitresses who batted between open grill and table with the relaxed air of a less economically depressed age.

As Yvette paid homage by plastering her hair into a 1950s wave my jaws dripped at the stacks of banana loaves and fresh corn bread being whipped out of the oven by someone who looked liked the Fonz. My eyes popped at a glass case of honey oat scones, muffins and strawberry crumble cake and when I caught sight of the specials board promising such delights as fennel sausage, spinach and feta frittata, well, I damn near broke out into song. As so often happens in America, I was overwhelmed with choice and the accompanying anxiety that comes with missing out so I ordered "The Open Road", the biggest combination my jet lagged stomach could handle. I took a slug from my unlimited coffee mug and beheld a plate of Breakfast Nirvana: Eggs (sunny side up), bacon (crispy yet not dry), fried potatoes (some scallions, hold the ketchup) and two huge (massive, man-sized) cinnamon pancakes with maple syrup (gallons of). As I shoveled mouthfuls of egg, pancake, bacon and syrup my spirits lifted and my energy soared beyond all time zones. High on caffeine and America, I shed tears of joy. As I hoovered my plate clean I caught Yvette's astonished expression. Well, she said, I had no idea you were so adept at accessing your emotions. You'd be a hit on the audition circuit, in fact you should come and join me. If it means that I can breakfast like this everyday then I might just give it some thought. It could be a case of Emma Ricano by name, Emma Ricano by nature.

Food Van, Kingsland Waste Market

Food Van
Kingsland Waste Market
Kingsland Road
Kingsland
E8 4AA (map)

by Hashley Brown

For one night only the LRB team was Jazz. Never had there been such a confluence of breakfasting prowess and free-form improv since, well, Louis was snapped charming some juice out of a New York waitress.

Anyway, in stark contrast to the velveteen interior of Ronnie's, I found myself only hours later hungry, fallen out of bed and in the Kingsland waste market. In many ways a spiritual home this motley assortment of (possibly) stolen power tools, romantic comedy videos and old mens' shoes that lines the Kingsland Road every Saturday morning has all the appeal of a trashy carboot sale, with none of the uncertainty or trudging to Edmonton.

Breakfast is provided by Alan and his wife. At least I think he's called Alan and I'm guessing she's his wife. They sit in a van on the corner, and provide that staple of carboots, amateur sporting events, and any other impromptu gathering: hot, fried solace for waking up so early to get there.

I plumped for that old favourite, the bacon and egg butty, but noticing the option of bubble, added that in on top. I've always been a fan of the double carb sandwich - something the Scots do so well - and with a jazz hangover it seemed somehow apt to bulk up. I sat on the white patio furniture put out for customers, and watched the November sky turn a menacing colour. Alan laughed at me as his wife squeezed all the ingredients into a bun. "How's he meant to eat that?" he chuckled. "To be honest that's not my problem," she laughed back. Tucking in with the hub-bub of the market around me, and bits of fried potato sticking in my beard, I felt full, unwashed, and problem free too.

Relish, Newington Green

Relish
44-45 Newington Green Road
Newington Green
N16 9QH
020 7354 4377

by Megan Bacon

Second only to the expensive, but well-loved French patisserie Belle Epoque, Relish is fast becoming Newington Green’s go-to place for middle-class mothers who wish they lived in Notting Hill. As we perused the café’s short-but-sweet menus, there was one such person at the next table, struggling with an impudent child who was demanding a babycino (a cappuccino sans coffee). Indeed, Relish is so yummy-mummy-friendly, that babycinos are on the house.

It’s rather a pretentious sort of place – it purports to be a deli and a bar as well as a café, and its airy, contemporary interior is more typical of Upper Street, only with more Ikea furniture and less customers. I’ve yet to see how the place qualifies as a bar, but the “deli” side is well-catered with an array of posh food to take away, from fresh pasta to lovely-looking hams. Back in 2005, I had chips thrown in my face in Newington Green; fast-forward a few years, and I can bankrupt myself on parma ham – praise be!

Feeling adventurous, we plumped for the regal-sounding Eggs Royale, which are like Eggs Benedict, but with smoked salmon instead of ham. Our cappuccinos – or adultcinos, should I say – were excellent, light and frothy, but sadly not on the house. The food, however, took almost half an hour to arrive, despite the place being virtually empty during our visit. Luckily, when it arrived, it was delectable: two perfect little pods of poached egg, delicately balanced on tiny little toasted buns and a generous layer of salmon, topped off with a zesty Hollandaise sauce.

But while the meal made me want to rush out and buy a jar of Hollandaise sauce, Relish’s eggs are set to be an occasional treat, particularly during these trying financial times. At £6.75, the price is on a par with the Wolseley in Piccadilly, where a similar dish can be had for the same price, in genuinely glamorous surroundings and with much better service. If Relish is going to survive the dreaded CC, its owners had better have a rethink, and sooner rather than later. Until then, my jar of Hollandaise is doing very nicely.

Cafe Floris, South Kensington

Cafe Floris
5b Harrington Rd
South Kensington
SW7 3ES
020 7589 3276

Bob El Ensquique

Although I could see the place was crammed, grey clouds and a hungry belly led me to try the Floris. After edging my way in I was swiftly escorted to the only available seat, on the same table as several other diners. To my right were American students nibbling on garlic bread topped with mozzarella cheese and to my left, business folk swilled cappuccinos and jabbered on BlackBerries.

Not long after ordering, my coffee arrived. It wasn't great. On my first sip I winced; it had a skin. Oh well, I let it slide.

Next, the vegetarian set was slid under my nose with a laboured smile. Although there was a tight precision to the way the knife and fork were wrapped in their napkin, the little plate was noticeably jumbled in its composition. In a classic case of plate-overpopulation the various fried foodstuffs appeared to be clambering over each other, eager for space - a bit like the Floris itself.

In I tucked. Untangling the sausage from a pile of chips revealed a member of the cylindrical potato-and-diced-veg variety, mechanical and flimsy to the fork; underseasoned and underwhelming.

The fried egg had been cooked sunny side up, but was served sunny side down. From my vantage point the yolk was totally eclipsed by the rubbery white. Taken alone, an upside-down egg, this situation would not normally be a concern. However, the upturned egg and its seeping yolk was served directly on top of a great slab of bubble and squeak. Lukewarm and now covered in sticky orange goo, the bubble lost its appeal.

Only the imposing mound of chips could save the dish, yet its resistance was broken by an incoming tide of tepid bean juice. With the various potato products facing a two-pronged yolk and bean sauce attack, a vegetarian bloodbath ensued. The passive aggressiveness of each breakfast component contrived to render the meal unapproachable and unfinished.

Afforded no toast to mop up the drowning debris, I abandoned ship, paid the £4.40 bill, and stepped back into the drizzly street to get on with my day.

US Election Dispatch: Old Ebbitt Grill and Tunnicliff's Tavern, Washington DC, USA

Old Ebbitt Grill
675 15th Street, NW
Washington, DC 20005
USA
+1 202 347 4800
info@ebbitt.com
www.ebbitt.com

Tunnicliff’s Tavern
222 7th. Street, S.E.
Washington, D.C. 20003
USA
+1 202 544 5680
tunnicliffs@gmail.com
www.tunnicliffstaverndc.com

by T.N. Toost

The weekend jaunt came at a strange time. Talking in the car, it emerged that each of us had the sense of being in the calm before the storm, that our lives had not yet been as affected by the credit crunch as they would be, that we did not know of the horrors that awaited us – but we knew such horrors would come. I imagine it must have also felt like this for relatively affluent Americans in November 1929.

There is a good chance that relatively affluent Americans at that time casually ate breakfast in the Old Ebbitt Grill, one of the oldest restaurants in Washington. These days there are two ways to see the Ebbitt: as a great history-steeped venue for power breakfasts, or as a place that is kitschy and overdone, as if they’ve manufactured the restaurant’s past in order to impress patrons. Epic, patriotic paintings hang on the walls next to animals apparently shot by Theodore Roosevelt; mirrors, wood, subtle lighting and subtle darkness are all carefully orchestrated to give the impression of age and power and impressiveness.

The only other people present on the morning of our visit were an older man and a much, much younger woman. They were comfortably close on one side of the booth, a blackberry pressed to her ear while she talked self-importantly and he waited in his dark, tailored suit. It felt empty in more ways than one, like we were yet more tourists participating in a traditional tourist activity, gawking at the old stuff and trying to “feel” the history of the place.

The food came quickly. The waitress said that my Eggs Chesapeake was their top seller. The poached eggs were perfect, as were the crab cakes, but everything was too small. I was done with each egg/crabcake combination within three bites, and the home fries lasted almost a minute. I was hoping to be inspired by flavours, if not volume, and both ultimately failed. It was like the food was supposed to be satisfying merely because of the surroundings.

Early on Sunday, in contrast to the Ebbitt’s emptiness, Tunnicliff’s Tavern was packed and lively. Outside, several dogs joyfully barked near where their owners sat; inside it was a madhouse, with groups of people clustered around the door, waiting for open tables. Not being particular, we sat at the bar. Next to us was a still-drunk Southern boy with three plain girls, all tapping Blackberries. Somehow I got the impression that they were all in the know of something to different degrees, like the blind men and the elephant. The barmaid, a pretty and round-faced girl from Belarus, came over with our coffees and a Bloody Mary, which made the long wait for our food much easier.

When my farmer’s omelette arrived I was starving. Words cannot convey the inspired magic of the mashed potatoes wrapped in egg that was firmly cooked but neither greasy nor buttery. The side of home fries was, for the price, pitifully small, and a bit cold, but still better than Ebbitt’s. After I’d eaten three of the four pieces of toast, the waitress realized that she had forgotten to give me butter; she laughed, and said I should tell her if I wanted anything, and paused suggestively before walking away.

Looking around, I realized that this was the real place for power breakfasts because, in Washington, it’s the middlemen who hold the power. The pyramid on a dollar bill is an appropriate symbol: while it’s the politicians who get all the attention and applause, they would be nowhere without the support of the massive numbers of people at the base. At the same time, between the people and the politicians is a giant network of staff and secretaries and interns and lawyers who do the research, take the calls and read the bills that the congressmen vote on or the President signs. It’s like the signs you get hanging above secretaries’ desks saying, “Do you want to talk to the boss or to someone who actually knows what’s going on?” These people didn’t go to the Ebbitt for breakfast. They knew that the food was overpriced and that their friends wouldn’t be there. They knew that without other people there isn’t any power. They came to the long tables at Tunnicliff’s to forge bonds that would span administrations.

And it’s the bonds between people that really make the difference.