by La Soya Jackson
A lone organism navigates a hostile world, every circumstance threatens its survival... trust none but yourself, act fast, think faster... 'Eat me' reads the label on the bran and blueberry muffin... what harm can one small bite do?
Don't make the mistake of thinking that a vegetarian and a vegan are in any way alike. They are as different as black pudding and marmalade. A vegan demands to read the box the vegetarian sausage came in, needs you to remember not to spread flora on their toast, requires their mushrooms to be fried in a different pan from the other mushrooms (which you're lovingly sautéing in butter and fresh parsley). A vegan cannot be fobbed off with an extra egg. But the most important and crucial thing is that a vegan will not under any circumstances be satisfied with fruit (or muesli).
A vegan has been through an extreme and sometimes violent reprogramming process, has been unplugged from the matrix of breakfast enjoyment. The temptation and magic they used to feel is a distant memory (with unpleasant connotations). A piece of over-processed tofu impregnated with natural beetroot colouring and cut into the shape of a 'bacon rasher' is not what they seek. They aren't trying to simulate a meat/dairy experience: they are creating their own new universe. Above all of the vegan's survival skills the most crucial is the ability to read beyond the menu.
That and communication.
At first communication will be a highly traumatic experience for the vegan and all those who have the misfortune to breakfast with them. Embarrassing stand offs over soya milk, politically offensive claims to debilitating allergies, over-complicated descriptions about the rainforests, animal liberation and offsetting your carbon emissions, tears, apologies, regrets. Singularly any of these will curdle good porridge and an inexperienced breakfasting vegan may face all in the one sitting.
Fortunately this phase doesn't last for long. A vegan soon learns to stand on their own wobbly gelatine-free jelly legs and embark on the experimental delights which lie between choices three and four on the specials board. The dining car is serving breakfast, the train is ready for boarding, please go to platform 9¾.
Vegan breakfast ordering is an art. It requires subtle but firm precision, gentle manipulation, and incredible foresight. A Vegan requires an expert insight into the mind of the chef, the ability to freeze time, telepathic powers, conflict resolution training, practice, perseverance and commitment.
So begin by drawing a circle around your table. Use ground pepper if it's available - ketchup will do otherwise. Summon the five sacred animal friends, the spirit guides which will accompany you through the choices you will face, carefully arrange your cutlery in the shape of a five pointed star and form the likeness of your spirit companions in salt at each magical tip.
When the waiter approaches don't ever declare yourself as a vegan. They won't understand, they will try to give you fish or refuse to give you toast. Begin as if everything is going to be very straightforward... order the vegetarian breakfast then take a deep breath. State clearly that you don't want an egg. If this goes well you can move on to tell them casually that you don't eat dairy products, inquisitively ask if they cook the mushrooms in butter, oil or dry fry, and if the answer is butter ask cautiously if they could possibly cook them in oil for you. All good? Now go for the big ask... They most certainly won't know if the vegetarian sausages contain eggs or dairy, but approach the question as if they will. When they look at you as if you'd just asked them to lay the egg, remain centred, repeat some deep breaths and return the exact same gaze. Normally this works but if nothing happens, ask if they could go and check with the chef.
When they return you're on the home straight. Firmly tell them you don't want any butter on your toast (avoid any conversation about margarine, they rarely have a tub of omega 3 linseed spread out back). Now just before they walk away, if you're feeling really lucky, go for it! Smiling appreciatively ask if they could possibly provide you with a little olive oil on the side.
A job well done, treat yourself to a decaf soya latte. Go on, be a devil and have a brown sugar in that. Now sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labour. The new world order is about to arrive.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
McDonald's, Painesville, Ohio, USA
McDonald’s
95 Richmond St
Painesville
OH 44077
USA
www.mcdonalds.com
by T.N. Toost
I wept. It started when McCain gave his concession speech, far more gracious and mature than Hillary had been. Then, Barack strode to the podium, with the strong set behind him, Leni’s spotlights rising above the perfect flags, his words of victory passionate and portioned and pure, raucous, crazed crowds chanting the same words over and over again. My girlfriend, who is not a citizen and could not vote, held my hand while her sister, who is a citizen and did not vote, sat across the table and watched. The bar broke out in cheers at certain points; it was pseudo-revolutionary, after eight years of oppression by the Republicans, to suddenly find ourselves so totally in control of the government. There were tears, passionate embraces between absolute strangers and gangs of youth running down the street cheering.
I wondered if the rest of the world felt the same way.
The next morning I drove to Painesville, an economically depressed area in northeast Ohio, and parked between two massive trucks – a Chevy and a Ford, both loaded with some manner of construction gear and both beds higher than the roof of my car. Small groups of old people clustered around, but then it seemed they always did that out here. I walked in and was clearly the youngest person in the room and the only one in slacks and a button-up shirt. There was camouflage, there were grease-stained jeans and paint-stained boots, there was a tiny girl just learning to walk and smile at strangers. I walked to the counter and waited in line – waited for the voices to rise, for indignation, for violent political denouncements and vows of revenge, for my chance to order.
The menu was the same. Number Two had one sausage McMuffin, one hash brown and a small coffee. I’d been craving a McMuffin since the previous Friday, when I had actually driven to Chicago and stood near Grant Park; it was perfect. The English muffin was chewy, the sausage spiced and the egg actually tasted real and substantial. The hash brown was still way too salty; the coffee, with two creams and two sugars, was still coffee with two creams and two sugars. Low, indecipherable music hummed in the background and voices were subdued.
When I got into the office, the manager was haranguing a secretary about how Obama would raise the estate tax at the first opportunity, and a paralegal was talking to the only Muslim employee about how a Muslim was elected because of the “backward hillbilly” vote. (She didn’t know he was Muslim.) Then I looked at my McDonald’s receipt; a notice at the top said that they’re hiring for all shifts. It seems that the poor, and the ignorant, will always be with us – and that they will also always have jobs, and opinions, and the same right to vote as every other citizen. In short, despite all of the challenges of our time, our democracy will continue.
95 Richmond St
Painesville
OH 44077
USA
www.mcdonalds.com
by T.N. Toost
I wept. It started when McCain gave his concession speech, far more gracious and mature than Hillary had been. Then, Barack strode to the podium, with the strong set behind him, Leni’s spotlights rising above the perfect flags, his words of victory passionate and portioned and pure, raucous, crazed crowds chanting the same words over and over again. My girlfriend, who is not a citizen and could not vote, held my hand while her sister, who is a citizen and did not vote, sat across the table and watched. The bar broke out in cheers at certain points; it was pseudo-revolutionary, after eight years of oppression by the Republicans, to suddenly find ourselves so totally in control of the government. There were tears, passionate embraces between absolute strangers and gangs of youth running down the street cheering.
I wondered if the rest of the world felt the same way.
The next morning I drove to Painesville, an economically depressed area in northeast Ohio, and parked between two massive trucks – a Chevy and a Ford, both loaded with some manner of construction gear and both beds higher than the roof of my car. Small groups of old people clustered around, but then it seemed they always did that out here. I walked in and was clearly the youngest person in the room and the only one in slacks and a button-up shirt. There was camouflage, there were grease-stained jeans and paint-stained boots, there was a tiny girl just learning to walk and smile at strangers. I walked to the counter and waited in line – waited for the voices to rise, for indignation, for violent political denouncements and vows of revenge, for my chance to order.
The menu was the same. Number Two had one sausage McMuffin, one hash brown and a small coffee. I’d been craving a McMuffin since the previous Friday, when I had actually driven to Chicago and stood near Grant Park; it was perfect. The English muffin was chewy, the sausage spiced and the egg actually tasted real and substantial. The hash brown was still way too salty; the coffee, with two creams and two sugars, was still coffee with two creams and two sugars. Low, indecipherable music hummed in the background and voices were subdued.
When I got into the office, the manager was haranguing a secretary about how Obama would raise the estate tax at the first opportunity, and a paralegal was talking to the only Muslim employee about how a Muslim was elected because of the “backward hillbilly” vote. (She didn’t know he was Muslim.) Then I looked at my McDonald’s receipt; a notice at the top said that they’re hiring for all shifts. It seems that the poor, and the ignorant, will always be with us – and that they will also always have jobs, and opinions, and the same right to vote as every other citizen. In short, despite all of the challenges of our time, our democracy will continue.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Half Moon Café, Hammersmith
Half Moon Café
125 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith
W6 8JA
by Brian Sauce
Exiting via Accident and Emergency I shuffle onto the Fulham Palace Road. Commuter vehicles clog an unpromising strip of shut pubs and kebab shops, slightly reeking in the crisp morning air. Sunlight hurts my head, I’m hungry as hell.
A hundred feet from the hospital, a sandwich board outside the Half Moon Café proffers breakfast, hot meals and 60p tea. I glance at the grey faced old men and Sun-reading builders inside before crossing to get cash and buy a paper. Nearly buying a tabloid to fit in, I decide instead on a broadsheet. Tests and X-rays take time.
Front of house at Half Moon is a dismal looking fat-faced Spurs fan who turns out to be quite nice when she flirts with the builders. Bacon, sausage, fried eggs, hash browns, beans, black pudding, toast, and coffee costs £6.
Service is as quick as thought. God, it’s nice not being at work, even if I’m exhausted and Dad is trying to kill himself. Oh look, coffee. The Guardian is boring; I wish I had a Sun now. Heavens, here comes my two-plate breakfast.
Fussily, I tuck toasts under eggs and beans before slicing perfect runny yolks. Brown sauce, ketchup and mayo on tables is good, but even better is the food. Bacon well done, baked beans briefly cooked and fantastic black puddings are particular highlights. Real butter on the toast makes me forget my troubles. Hash browns are from a packet but I secretly love them.
A brilliant meal – just think, if he really dies I can stop coming to work altogether and eat breakfasts like this every day. I linger over coffee but The Guardian really is boring.
125 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith
W6 8JA
by Brian Sauce
Exiting via Accident and Emergency I shuffle onto the Fulham Palace Road. Commuter vehicles clog an unpromising strip of shut pubs and kebab shops, slightly reeking in the crisp morning air. Sunlight hurts my head, I’m hungry as hell.
A hundred feet from the hospital, a sandwich board outside the Half Moon Café proffers breakfast, hot meals and 60p tea. I glance at the grey faced old men and Sun-reading builders inside before crossing to get cash and buy a paper. Nearly buying a tabloid to fit in, I decide instead on a broadsheet. Tests and X-rays take time.
Front of house at Half Moon is a dismal looking fat-faced Spurs fan who turns out to be quite nice when she flirts with the builders. Bacon, sausage, fried eggs, hash browns, beans, black pudding, toast, and coffee costs £6.
Service is as quick as thought. God, it’s nice not being at work, even if I’m exhausted and Dad is trying to kill himself. Oh look, coffee. The Guardian is boring; I wish I had a Sun now. Heavens, here comes my two-plate breakfast.
Fussily, I tuck toasts under eggs and beans before slicing perfect runny yolks. Brown sauce, ketchup and mayo on tables is good, but even better is the food. Bacon well done, baked beans briefly cooked and fantastic black puddings are particular highlights. Real butter on the toast makes me forget my troubles. Hash browns are from a packet but I secretly love them.
A brilliant meal – just think, if he really dies I can stop coming to work altogether and eat breakfasts like this every day. I linger over coffee but The Guardian really is boring.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Kako, Camden Town
Kako
7 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7383 7707
by Nelson Griddle
London can be a bleak, unforgiving place. Especially at the onset of the worst financial crisis in living memory. And when the temperature’s below freezing. And when you haven’t had any breakfast yet.
It was under these testing conditions that I thought I’d give Kako a whirl. I was ushered in by a very charming waitress. There was no hint of the awfulness to come as I ordered eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, toast and coffee.
Yet disaster whispers its imminent arrival in the little things, such Kako’s rack of out-of-date papers. Who wants to read a four-day-old copy of the Star, after all? But then again, who wants to sit and wait 25 minutes for their breakfast?
Not that I knew it would be 25 minutes. You know how it is in this situation. You wait patiently. You wait a bit more. After ten minutes or so, you think “Well, they’re a bit busy. Let’s give them another five minutes. Then, being British, you give them another five minutes, because the waitress was very sweet, after all.
Yet finally I went to complain. What was going on? I asked the charming waitress. How long was this going to take? Where, after twenty-odd minutes, was my breakfast? Another five minutes, said the waitress, a little less charmingly, after a discussion in the kitchen.
Well, five minutes sounds fair enough, doesn’t it? But how long does it take to cook breakfast in the first place? Frying an egg, grilling bacon and making toast is accomplished in my kitchen in three minutes flat. So although I’d been sitting there for the best part of half an hour, they hadn’t even started on my order yet.
Enough! I walked out, unbreakfasted, to find sustenance in another café over the road.
One final puzzle: Where does Kako get its name? It’s opposite Koko, but is Koko really such a brilliant name that it deserves this homage? Possibly they’re inspired by the service at Koko: the last time I went there I had to queue up for 15 minutes to buy a bottle of St Miguel.
Never mind. If the “o” falls off, the name will fit perfectly.
7 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7383 7707
by Nelson Griddle
London can be a bleak, unforgiving place. Especially at the onset of the worst financial crisis in living memory. And when the temperature’s below freezing. And when you haven’t had any breakfast yet.
It was under these testing conditions that I thought I’d give Kako a whirl. I was ushered in by a very charming waitress. There was no hint of the awfulness to come as I ordered eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, toast and coffee.
Yet disaster whispers its imminent arrival in the little things, such Kako’s rack of out-of-date papers. Who wants to read a four-day-old copy of the Star, after all? But then again, who wants to sit and wait 25 minutes for their breakfast?
Not that I knew it would be 25 minutes. You know how it is in this situation. You wait patiently. You wait a bit more. After ten minutes or so, you think “Well, they’re a bit busy. Let’s give them another five minutes. Then, being British, you give them another five minutes, because the waitress was very sweet, after all.
Yet finally I went to complain. What was going on? I asked the charming waitress. How long was this going to take? Where, after twenty-odd minutes, was my breakfast? Another five minutes, said the waitress, a little less charmingly, after a discussion in the kitchen.
Well, five minutes sounds fair enough, doesn’t it? But how long does it take to cook breakfast in the first place? Frying an egg, grilling bacon and making toast is accomplished in my kitchen in three minutes flat. So although I’d been sitting there for the best part of half an hour, they hadn’t even started on my order yet.
Enough! I walked out, unbreakfasted, to find sustenance in another café over the road.
One final puzzle: Where does Kako get its name? It’s opposite Koko, but is Koko really such a brilliant name that it deserves this homage? Possibly they’re inspired by the service at Koko: the last time I went there I had to queue up for 15 minutes to buy a bottle of St Miguel.
Never mind. If the “o” falls off, the name will fit perfectly.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
The Coffee House, Philadelphia, USA
The Coffee House
113 W Girard Ave
Northern Liberties
Philadelphia, PA 19122
USA
+1 (215) 426-5889
by Des Ayuno
I woke abruptly, as one sometimes does after a heavy night, the debilitating hangover to come only a tinny echo in my head. The Sunday morning skies over Philly were of the uncanny sort that follows a heavy rain. An ultra-bright sun reverberated out of the watery, steel-grey air like a camera flash against a silk sheet; nimbus clouds skittered past…
D, the equally hungover but early-rising flatmate of my sleeping host (and hence my reluctant chauffeur for the day), pulled up outside Coffee House. A was puttering behind the counter, just as he’d said he’d be when we had bid wistful farewells a few hours earlier. D gruffly ordered a breakfast bagel; I nodded a second, not really caring. We retired to a front table with one of those huge, peculiarly American plastic flasks of coffee and a “small” (actually rather large) Earl Grey. Swiftly, two sandwiches appeared. Fat seed-encrusted bagels were heaped with bright yellow scrambled eggs; also piled on the plates was a plethora of ketchup sachets, salt and pepper mini envelopes, napkins, coffee stirrers and other accessories. It was all pretty much unnecessary. A quick squeeze of Heinz rendered this confidently buttered, crispy-crusted, fluffy-centred delight the juiciest and most satisfying breakfast sandwich of my life. The generous amount of fennel seeds on the bagel gave me pause at first, but by the third bite I’d decided they were the finest spice ever to be paired with eggs. It was only when I reached the final mouthful that I discovered the cheese. An entire slice of American seemed to have leaked into a remote pocket in the egg, waiting to be consumed in a single molten bite.
I had no time to relax in this cozy haven, though, for I had a flight to catch. D lurked grumpily outside, chain-smoking and flicking butts at passing cars. I joined him ten minutes later, sent on my way with a brush to the cheek of A’s soft stubble, a mouthful of curly black hair and a murmured promise to visit, or be visited, soon. No one ever says what they’re really thinking in those moments. “Thanks for the bagel” was as good as anything.
113 W Girard Ave
Northern Liberties
Philadelphia, PA 19122
USA
+1 (215) 426-5889
by Des Ayuno
I woke abruptly, as one sometimes does after a heavy night, the debilitating hangover to come only a tinny echo in my head. The Sunday morning skies over Philly were of the uncanny sort that follows a heavy rain. An ultra-bright sun reverberated out of the watery, steel-grey air like a camera flash against a silk sheet; nimbus clouds skittered past…
D, the equally hungover but early-rising flatmate of my sleeping host (and hence my reluctant chauffeur for the day), pulled up outside Coffee House. A was puttering behind the counter, just as he’d said he’d be when we had bid wistful farewells a few hours earlier. D gruffly ordered a breakfast bagel; I nodded a second, not really caring. We retired to a front table with one of those huge, peculiarly American plastic flasks of coffee and a “small” (actually rather large) Earl Grey. Swiftly, two sandwiches appeared. Fat seed-encrusted bagels were heaped with bright yellow scrambled eggs; also piled on the plates was a plethora of ketchup sachets, salt and pepper mini envelopes, napkins, coffee stirrers and other accessories. It was all pretty much unnecessary. A quick squeeze of Heinz rendered this confidently buttered, crispy-crusted, fluffy-centred delight the juiciest and most satisfying breakfast sandwich of my life. The generous amount of fennel seeds on the bagel gave me pause at first, but by the third bite I’d decided they were the finest spice ever to be paired with eggs. It was only when I reached the final mouthful that I discovered the cheese. An entire slice of American seemed to have leaked into a remote pocket in the egg, waiting to be consumed in a single molten bite.
I had no time to relax in this cozy haven, though, for I had a flight to catch. D lurked grumpily outside, chain-smoking and flicking butts at passing cars. I joined him ten minutes later, sent on my way with a brush to the cheek of A’s soft stubble, a mouthful of curly black hair and a murmured promise to visit, or be visited, soon. No one ever says what they’re really thinking in those moments. “Thanks for the bagel” was as good as anything.
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