The Bruncheon Club, Hackney

The Bruncheon Club
A Secret Location
Hackney
Sittings occur once a month
Reservations essential
thebruncheonclub.blogspot.com

by Malcolm Eggs

All around the garden, people watched with baited breath. I flung the boule in my trademark style, which I'm sure at least one person would have silently christened ‘the stoat’. It was seven points all. The dense little sphere arced into the air, landed about a metre away from the jack then rolled downslope into a patch of weeds.

We were at the first ever Bruncheon Club, a socio-culinary venture dreamt up by two friends, Gregg and Maya. It’s a hangover-soothing addition to London's new wave of what they’re calling ‘underground restaurants’. These shadowy eateries are a cross between dinner parties and those underground raves in the 80s and 90s, where you’d call a secret number to get the address of a freshly infiltrated warehouse off a slip road somewhere. Twenty years on, I’m sure it must be many of the same people who now go to a private house or flat, eat a home-cooked set menu then pay a suggested donation at the end.

The boules came after three courses served at a garden table, washed down by oft-replenished coffee and water and seasoned with congenial conversation and heaps of newspaper supplements. The atmosphere was that of going to a friend’s house for an 'event breakfast' such as on the morning after a mild win on the premium bonds. Our suggested £12 donation got us bloody maries, fresh strawberries and warm croissants, but the magnum opus was an eggs royale in which duck eggs took all the egg roles. It was one of the eggiest things I have ever seen: impossible amounts of the boldest possible yellowy-orangey yolk gushing out across the smoked salmon, then mingling gloriously with duck-egg-hollandaise, then quickly entering my mouth. The poor muffin halves came nowhere near being able to mop everything up.

After my disappointing throw of the boule my team, hurriedly and a little cringingly titled 'De Beauvoir Rovers', was engaged in a tribute to British sporting patterns: the strong start followed by the pointless unforced errors, the nailbiting war of attrition, the whittling, entropy-like journey towards failure. But, actually, there’s nothing like mutual defeat to help you bond with a group of complete strangers - so my one suggestion to the Bruncheon Club is this: keep the leisure sports, but move them to the start of proceedings. Or indeed replace the leisure sports with hard techno, the food with uppers and hold the whole thing at night in an old business park near Bracknell.

Breakfasts and Beds: The W and The James, Chicago

The W
644 North Lakeshore Drive
Chicago
IL 60611
USA
++1 312 943 9200

The James
55 E Ontario St
IL 60611
Chicago
USA
++1 800 745 8883

by Shreddie Kruger

Americans approach breakfast with the gusto us Brits reserve for grumbling about the weather and joining promising looking queues. So when choosing a hotel in America the only important factor is what their breakfast is like. Everything else is insignificant. A hotel with no beds and rats scurrying around is fine by me if it serves a sensational breakfast.

So… if you are visiting Chicago you must avoid the W at all costs. Their room service breakfasts had me seething with irritation. Not only does a modest breakfast of muffins, tea, juice and granola cost $33, but it also comes without milk, is wrapped in Clingfilm and is utterly miserable. Their cooked breakfast is more expensive. And to make matters worse… worse. Eggs are over cooked and lack the illicit trickling of yolk that we all need to set our days off on the right track. I left the W vowing never to return.

With the W spurned the James stepped in. The contrast couldn’t have been more stark. Breakfast is served in David Burke’s Primehouse restaurant, at the base of the hotel, where they age their beef for up to 90 days in a room clad in Himalayan salt. So expectations were high. On the first day my enormous blueberry pancakes with maple sauce instantly turned me into the Cheshire Cat. I giggled all the way to our meeting and spent the rest of morning flying on a sugar high until I spiraled out of control with a migraine as the syrup wore off!

The next morning things got silly. Not content with eggs Benedict, I couldn’t resist ordering a dish titled “fill your own doughnuts”. How could you? It’s impossible. A small cardboard box arrived filled with sugared, hot doughnuts the size of golf balls and two squirty pipettes laced with vanilla cream and butterscotch. Wow. Now, this is what breakfast is all about. Before you could say the word “coronary” I had filled two doughnuts full of gunge and was running around the restaurant like a banshee who’s just injected taurine into his eyeballs.

So if you are on a business trip to Chicago go to the James and make the most of their stupendously good breakfast. And avoid the W at all costs – they put the W into Woeful.

Fluffy Rock Cafe, Glastonbury Festival

Fluffy Rock Cafe
Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset

by Cher E. Jamm

Glastonbury 2008 was the year I learnt that one should never to get on the wrong side of a vegan. After last year's debacle with cafe names at Glastonbury, I promised myself that I'd go and sample the real Manic Organic's vegan breakfast and report back to you. You see, last year, in my post-festival haze, I  attributed eggs to them in a review for this fine organ, when really, the eggs belonged to Cafe Tango. They didn't like it one bit. I apologised and we'll never quite know if they accepted. Eggs are apparently a big deal when you're a vegan.

So this year, I braced myself and trotted towards Manic Organic with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. I stood patiently, edging forward in the long queue (a good sign!), watching people enjoy their expensive vegan breakfast in silence, wondering if it was going to be as revelatory as I hoped it would be. I reached for the tenner in my purse only to find a two pound coin.  Two pounds doesn't buy many alfalfa sprouts, my friends.

I left the Manic Organic queue and started to make my way to the Cashpoint queue. The sheer amount of queueing was weighing heavily on my heart by now. Starving, bleary-eyed and in need of immediate sustenance, I stumbled across what at first looked like a mirage. A yellow and green tent with a small sign stating: Fried Egg Bap - £1.50. I stood staring at the sign for some time. I worried that if I looked away it would disappear. I had to make a move soon.

With much trepidation, I edged into the tent and towards the counter. "May I have a fried egg bap please?". The lovely hippy girl behind the counter smiled and said "yes, yes you may", then skipped out back and came back with my breakfast. The egg was fresh and freshly fried. The bap was white, soft and floury. I helped myself to brown sauce and salt and pepper from the counter. I handed over my two pound coin. She handed me fifty pence back.  Another hippy girl came out with a cup of tea and handed it to me. "It's free - looks like you need a good cuppa". I thanked her. My eyes welled up at the kindness of it all. The hippy girls in the Fluffy Rock Cafe saved me that morning. I even forgave the fact that they watered down their brown sauce. I took a bite. And another. 

Perhaps the vegans are right; I never knew eggs could be such a big deal. 

Breakfasts and Beds: The White Bar, Chic and Basic, Barcelona

The White Bar
Chic and Basic Hotel, Born
Princesa, 50
08003 Barcelona,
España

by Kiwi Herman

Music festivals and breakfast don’t mix.

That’s unless well into your 30s like me, you prefer to couple spontaneous hedonism with premeditated comfort (ie. sack off camping in mudbaths for boutique hotels in the Med).

Commissioned to write a review of Barcelona’s Sonar Festival, I decided to lord it up at the Chic and Basic Hotel in my favourite district, Born - and made damn sure I got up for breakfast (after all who knew when I might eat again?).

Sonar: let’s just say if Glastonbury is medieval, like people going to war, then Sonar is more tribal, like people going to dance, make love… and then eat.

Ever seen a 61 year old Amazonian, once muse to Andy Warhol, hula-hoop in a thong swimsuit? Thanks to Spain’s 3 day electronic music mecca and the scariest lady on the planet - Grace Jones, I have.

But that’s actually all I saw (or remember seeing) because Barcelona has too much else to get involved in – like tapas. Apparently there’s an art to eating them, ‘tapeo’. Well, if it’s artistic to stuff your face at every given opportunity – little and often – then give me a montadito and call me El Gordo.

The hotel: Literally one of the most bizarre places I’ve ever stayed in – like living in an iPod. I now affectionately refer to it as the ‘disco spunk’ hotel.

You enter the century-old building under what looks like a giant jellyfish-slash-womb. Then there’s the corridors – massive plastic tentacles come down from the ceiling and change colour via LEDs every few minutes. It’s all a bit “beam me up, Scottie”. Oh, the photo opportunities that can be had after indulging in too much cava (andthentherest).

As if that’s not psychedelic enough, you can change the colour of your very white room via remote control (and make it flash like a disco – ‘chromo-therapy’ apparently), the glass shower is in the middle of the bedroom (my researcher and I now have no secrets), and the manager knows the perving hotspots on the beach to check out fit Spaniards (what a shame I’m not really their type on these particular beaches).

The breakfast: At the hotel’s ‘White Bar’. Imagine all the above, then add a disco buffet bar made of mirrored tiles (surpassed in kitsch only by the disco boat I’ve spotted on Regent’s Canal by Broadway Market), ‘Streetlife’ coming through the speakers, Guinness bottles lining the walls and another jellyfish thingumejig on the ceiling.

For 8.50E you get all that, plus an all-you-can-eat Catalan buffet of croissants (er, aren’t they French?), cheese and meats. Weirdly there were also Coco Pops (or Spanish equivalent, er… Caca Poopoos?).

Screw cereal, I’d eat gazpacho for breakfast every day if I could (might as well start the day stinking of garlic as you mean to carry on). The White Bar offered the next best thing - a big bowl of fresh tomato pulp mixed with olive oil, garlic and sea salt – ready and waiting to be added to rustic bread to make ‘pan con tomate’, the ubiquitous 19th Century Catalan dish. Simple - but also the best thing that's ever been done to bread. Or to a tomato for that matter. Thanks again Spain for bringing the veg, damnit, fruit, to Europe.

Chic and Basic’s ‘White Bar’ had me at the pan con tomate.

It’s chic. It’s basic. It’s camp - and I’m never camping at a festival again.

Car Park and Cafe, Bethnal Green

Car Park and Cafe
Malcolm Rd
Bethnal Green
E1 something or other

by Joyce Carol Oats

You walk past Car Park and Cafe every morning: it’s the halfway point on your way to the Tube, after the council estate and the railroad bridge, before the drunks sitting on the park benches. Sometimes you walk past it when it is raining; sometimes you walk past it in the sunshine; sometimes you walk past it when you are looking forward to getting to your office and sometimes you walk past it when you are feeling very grumpy and not looking forward to work at all. You are, in general, a moody girl, but Car Park and Cafe has never evoked any emotion from you. You decide to investigate.

You take your flatmate Ben. You and Ben crunch over the gravel in Car Park and you see Cafe: it’s in a corrugated industrial caravan. As you walk towards the entrance, a giant black Doberman leaps at you in a hungry way. It’s fenced in a pen, with a dog house and a lot of large tins of Chum. You feel worried about the dog.

Inside Cafe, a pallid man stands behind a counter. The wall is festooned with pieces of fluorescent card with menu items. The room is full of acrid smoke from the grill. You think about asking for something vegetarian. You think better of it. You and Ben sit at a table as far away from the smoke as possible, which happens to be next to a one-armed bandit, which happens to not be very far from the grill, not really, because it is, after all, an industrial caravan. Ben hands you a tabloid newspaper. You find out what a topless model thinks about the MP expenses scandal (she disapproves).

You drink instant coffee. The food arrives. Fried eggs, fried bacon, fried tomatoes. Fried baked beans. Fried bread which is something you have not eaten since you were a much younger moody girl, on holiday with your parents at a B&B in the North of England: by the fourth day of fried bread, you cried and refused to eat any more. But here, at Car Park and Cafe, it is devilishly good. You are not sure if it is actually good, though, or just better than the sausages, which are two perfectly smooth extruded tubes of phallic meat product.

The man who is charge of the frying is now playing with the one armed bandit. He pumps coins into it from the cash register; he loses; he goes back to the cash register; he pumps in more coins. He loses some more. The one-armed bandit makes cha-ching noises. You finish your fried bread. You look at Ben. He looks at you. The acrid smoke in the room is thicker. Your eyes are watering, or maybe you are just crying. You and Ben agree to leave. He pays because you cannot see in to your wallet. You walk past the hungry dog. It barks. Your stomach churns. You see your reflection in a window: your tears have carved a thick black line down your cheek. You cannot, you realise, endorse Car Park and Cafe under any circumstance, not even an ironic one. You also realise that you are wearing too much makeup.