The Empress of India
130 Lauriston Rd
Victoria Park
E9 7LH
020 85335123
www.theempressofindia.com
by Blake Pudding
I’m currently researching smoked fish for the forthcoming LRB book (available in all good bookshops and hopefully supermarkets some time in 2011) and have been forbidden from eating a proper cooked breakfast. So at the Empress I ordered the kipper with a poached egg but cleverly persuaded my girlfriend to have the full English so that I could have her black pudding. Our breakfasts arrived and after some juggling to fit the over-sized crockery onto the absurdly small tables we started to eat. A couple of mouthfuls in the future Mrs Pudding noted that her plate did not have any black pudding on it. We called over the waitress and she went away to investigate.
She came back and casually said that the all the black pudding had been thrown away. I was a bit taken aback by this but was distracted by the enormous plate of bacon she brought over to compensate. This waitress obviously knew me.
After scoffing the lot, I pondered Columbo-like why they had binned everything. Hmmmmm. I marshalled my deductive powers, examined the evidence and then it came to me: everything was cooked in advance and not that recently either. Of course! Why and that would explain the generally poor state of all the food. It was like breakfast at a down-market hotel. The bacon was swimming in grease, my kipper was dense with dirty butter, the beans were in a ramekin with a congealed crust and the hash brown was soggy and lukewarm. It was a shame as all the ingredients were good quality; the eggs were freshly prepared and delicious. The Empress of India stops serving breakfast at noon. We arrived at quarter to twelve. If we had arrived at ten we may have had a breakfast worth the money. We may even have had some black pudding.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Canteen, Southbank
Canteen
Royal Festival Hall
Belvedere Rd
SE1 8XX
0845 686 1122
www.canteen.co.uk
by Sadie Frosties
Recently it has seemed impossible to mention Canteen without prompting serious debate. Perhaps it is to do with the rate at which this Spitalfields start-up has grown since first opening its doors in 2005. Or perhaps the feeling of unease stems from the geographical locations in which one can now find a branch of Canteen – do we secretly fear that, one day in the future, branches will open in Chelsea and Brixton, thus creating an upside-down five-pointed star, and giant walls will rise up from the dirt and we will be entombed forever more within a Canteen fortress, ruled by a dictatorship of additive-free pies? Well I don’t. Nor have I spent a disproportionate amount of my time plotting the locations on Google Maps.
Actually, the Royal Festival Hall branch of Canteen is one of my favourite places to supper. I’ve never been disappointed with the food, and my consistent ordering of the smoked haddock, spinach and mash, I believe, classifies my opinion more as scientific fact than subjective review. But during my most recent visit my eyes glazed over and widened as they settled on the first column on the menu. Breakfast is served all day. Why haven’t I noticed this before? Has haddock-vision denied me life-enriching breakfast experiences?
At precisely 8:55pm I decided to throw caution to the wind and live as dangerously as one can after 14 days of living, post-tonsil extraction, on a diet of liquid food and Spanish cinema. I ordered the bacon, fried egg and bubble and squeak.
Service was swift and pleasant, and I was met with two very happy eggs, fried to perfection, and allowed the freedom during cooking to form whichever eggy shape they so desired. Disappointingly the bacon, although of the streaky variety, was vastly under-cooked in two of the three examples on my plate. However, the bubble and squeak was satisfyingly lumpy in a way that you could believe it was created by man not machine, and measured in at an almost obscene circumference.
There was something intensely satisfying about the act of eating this dish after 9pm, while everyone around me ate ‘proper’ suppers. I then ordered Eton mess, which seemed so fitting after breakfast I wondered why other breakfast menus don’t include a dessert course too.
So now, a few days on, as I settle down to my supper of cabernet sauvignon and jam tarts I wonder, why are we so bound by such strict meal timetabling? Why shouldn’t we be able to have dessert with breakfast? Is it really so unacceptable to eat baked potatoes at dawn, and bacon and eggs at dusk? Now, if it came to breakfast-time at Canteen, I think I’d have the haddock.
Royal Festival Hall
Belvedere Rd
SE1 8XX
0845 686 1122
www.canteen.co.uk
by Sadie Frosties
Recently it has seemed impossible to mention Canteen without prompting serious debate. Perhaps it is to do with the rate at which this Spitalfields start-up has grown since first opening its doors in 2005. Or perhaps the feeling of unease stems from the geographical locations in which one can now find a branch of Canteen – do we secretly fear that, one day in the future, branches will open in Chelsea and Brixton, thus creating an upside-down five-pointed star, and giant walls will rise up from the dirt and we will be entombed forever more within a Canteen fortress, ruled by a dictatorship of additive-free pies? Well I don’t. Nor have I spent a disproportionate amount of my time plotting the locations on Google Maps.
Actually, the Royal Festival Hall branch of Canteen is one of my favourite places to supper. I’ve never been disappointed with the food, and my consistent ordering of the smoked haddock, spinach and mash, I believe, classifies my opinion more as scientific fact than subjective review. But during my most recent visit my eyes glazed over and widened as they settled on the first column on the menu. Breakfast is served all day. Why haven’t I noticed this before? Has haddock-vision denied me life-enriching breakfast experiences?
At precisely 8:55pm I decided to throw caution to the wind and live as dangerously as one can after 14 days of living, post-tonsil extraction, on a diet of liquid food and Spanish cinema. I ordered the bacon, fried egg and bubble and squeak.
Service was swift and pleasant, and I was met with two very happy eggs, fried to perfection, and allowed the freedom during cooking to form whichever eggy shape they so desired. Disappointingly the bacon, although of the streaky variety, was vastly under-cooked in two of the three examples on my plate. However, the bubble and squeak was satisfyingly lumpy in a way that you could believe it was created by man not machine, and measured in at an almost obscene circumference.
There was something intensely satisfying about the act of eating this dish after 9pm, while everyone around me ate ‘proper’ suppers. I then ordered Eton mess, which seemed so fitting after breakfast I wondered why other breakfast menus don’t include a dessert course too.
So now, a few days on, as I settle down to my supper of cabernet sauvignon and jam tarts I wonder, why are we so bound by such strict meal timetabling? Why shouldn’t we be able to have dessert with breakfast? Is it really so unacceptable to eat baked potatoes at dawn, and bacon and eggs at dusk? Now, if it came to breakfast-time at Canteen, I think I’d have the haddock.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Lead Station, Chorlton, Manchester
The Lead Station
99 Beech Rd
Chorlton
Manchester
M21 9EQ
0871 434 8872
by Grease Witherspoon
It is rare that I am thrown into a situation that I am not able to foresee to some degree. Obviously, it is impossible to predict the future, but I do a pretty good job based mostly on forward planning, generalisation and stereotyping. In fact, I’m fairly flawless. Provided, therefore, with the following components- a Mancunian suburb, an English ‘summer’ morning, a shabby pub and an irritable temperament (hunger), I made a quick assessment: this wasn’t going to be a breakfast to write home about.
We arrived at The Lead Station not so much out of choice, but out of necessity- it was the only place open that particular Sunday morning in Chorlton. We were lead through the main body of the empty pub towards the back to a bright sun-trapped garden, filled with families and gossiping friends, spread out supplements and all smiles. Tea and coffee flowed, provided by amiable staff fully prepared for free top-ups and who proved more attentive than one of those waitresses with the little aprons in Hollywood film diners. I had to do several comedy double takes. Wasn’t it meant to be grim up north?
When the breakfast arrived, it was so packed with ingredients it practically fell off the plate. The sausages provided a satisfyingly crisp crunch, oozing the right amount of grease. I was delighted to see the addition of a potato cake, that Lancashire speciality. The eggs were the only disappointment as they were just a tad too rubbery and overdone for my liking and the slightly limp tomatoes lacked the effort I would have liked to see. A miniscule pot of baked beans sat in a decorative attempt, which ultimately seemed a little unnecessary. But as I sat basking in the sun pretending I was on holiday, these things didn’t really bother me. Not when the black pudding was so rich and my breakfast companion let me polish off her vegetarian haggis, a well-seasoned mix of lentils and pearl barley.
Happily, there was an abundance of toast and as I sat watching my little foiled slab of butter melt in the sun I felt perfectly full and content. They let us sit there for another hour without so much as a hint of an evil glare, quite happy to pour more and more coffee. I decided I’d leave my crystal ball behind next time, as my lesson had been learned- all for £6.95.
99 Beech Rd
Chorlton
Manchester
M21 9EQ
0871 434 8872
by Grease Witherspoon
It is rare that I am thrown into a situation that I am not able to foresee to some degree. Obviously, it is impossible to predict the future, but I do a pretty good job based mostly on forward planning, generalisation and stereotyping. In fact, I’m fairly flawless. Provided, therefore, with the following components- a Mancunian suburb, an English ‘summer’ morning, a shabby pub and an irritable temperament (hunger), I made a quick assessment: this wasn’t going to be a breakfast to write home about.
We arrived at The Lead Station not so much out of choice, but out of necessity- it was the only place open that particular Sunday morning in Chorlton. We were lead through the main body of the empty pub towards the back to a bright sun-trapped garden, filled with families and gossiping friends, spread out supplements and all smiles. Tea and coffee flowed, provided by amiable staff fully prepared for free top-ups and who proved more attentive than one of those waitresses with the little aprons in Hollywood film diners. I had to do several comedy double takes. Wasn’t it meant to be grim up north?
When the breakfast arrived, it was so packed with ingredients it practically fell off the plate. The sausages provided a satisfyingly crisp crunch, oozing the right amount of grease. I was delighted to see the addition of a potato cake, that Lancashire speciality. The eggs were the only disappointment as they were just a tad too rubbery and overdone for my liking and the slightly limp tomatoes lacked the effort I would have liked to see. A miniscule pot of baked beans sat in a decorative attempt, which ultimately seemed a little unnecessary. But as I sat basking in the sun pretending I was on holiday, these things didn’t really bother me. Not when the black pudding was so rich and my breakfast companion let me polish off her vegetarian haggis, a well-seasoned mix of lentils and pearl barley.
Happily, there was an abundance of toast and as I sat watching my little foiled slab of butter melt in the sun I felt perfectly full and content. They let us sit there for another hour without so much as a hint of an evil glare, quite happy to pour more and more coffee. I decided I’d leave my crystal ball behind next time, as my lesson had been learned- all for £6.95.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Breakfasts and Beds: Hotel Cabinn City, Copenhagen, Denmark
Hotel Cabinn City
Mitchellsgade 14
Copenhagen 1568
Denmark
+45 3346 1616
www.cabinn.com
by Joyce Carol Oats
‘You cannot leave without me, Joyce,’ the chap who had been chasing me around the dance floor at my friend’s wedding declared in a husky gush of schnapps fumes. ‘Take me back to your hotel.’
‘Even if I fancied you,’ I replied, prising my forearm from his grip. ‘It would be impossible.’ I paused, gazed with meaning into his dilated pupils. ‘You would not fit. Into the room. The room! It is far too small.’
And that is why I am breakfasting alone this morning at the Cabinn City Hotel, the cheapest hotel in expensive Copenhagen. For about fifty quid, you get a miniature room with two narrow bunks and a bathroom where it is impossible to take a shower without soaking the toilet paper. There is a television and a chair if you like sitting. There are even some lights. And in the basement there is a cafeteria where they serve the breakfast buffet. The breakfast costs an additional sixty Danish kroner, which is about six pounds.
The price is an affront: the choices are cold: muesli with yogurt, cornflakes and puffed rice. There are three kinds of juice, including that very highly sweet kind of orange that tastes suspiciously like it contains some high fructose corn syrup. Tea and instant coffee, butter and jam, and then the breads. There are a wide range of breads: white and brown and those square seedy rolls that they have in northern Europe. I love those square seedy rolls, so I select one and grab some packets of butter and jam. I skip the ubiquitous northern European breakfast ham and salami, and then I see it: the cheese slicer.
It is a miraculous little machine: two bricks of cheese sit across from each other on a round board. In the centre is a sort of screw atop which sits a handle which attaches to a wire (I know, it is difficult to envision: this is because you have never seen such a cheese slicer). You spin the handle and the wire slices off a perfectly even slice of cheese from each block; a second round, and it slides down the central screw and slices two more. I am riveted, and not just because I am hungover: it is a thing of beauty, a masterpiece of Scandinavian design.
I join a long table full of other travellers, who are munching away with the bleary, dazed affect of people who have just suffered three hours of Carlsberg nightmares in a narrow bunk bed in a room with no air conditioning. I consider my selection: a seedy roll, marg, jam, and six slices of cheese because, well, I got a little carried away. The flavours are indifferent. The texture requires a fair bit of chewing. I wash it all down with the instant coffee. I take a sour green apple for the road. I attempt to take the cheese slicer, but it is too heavy. I wonder what my would-be suitor is eating for breakfast, and if it is more delicious. I decide I'm quite content not knowing.
Mitchellsgade 14
Copenhagen 1568
Denmark
+45 3346 1616
www.cabinn.com
by Joyce Carol Oats
‘You cannot leave without me, Joyce,’ the chap who had been chasing me around the dance floor at my friend’s wedding declared in a husky gush of schnapps fumes. ‘Take me back to your hotel.’
‘Even if I fancied you,’ I replied, prising my forearm from his grip. ‘It would be impossible.’ I paused, gazed with meaning into his dilated pupils. ‘You would not fit. Into the room. The room! It is far too small.’
And that is why I am breakfasting alone this morning at the Cabinn City Hotel, the cheapest hotel in expensive Copenhagen. For about fifty quid, you get a miniature room with two narrow bunks and a bathroom where it is impossible to take a shower without soaking the toilet paper. There is a television and a chair if you like sitting. There are even some lights. And in the basement there is a cafeteria where they serve the breakfast buffet. The breakfast costs an additional sixty Danish kroner, which is about six pounds.
The price is an affront: the choices are cold: muesli with yogurt, cornflakes and puffed rice. There are three kinds of juice, including that very highly sweet kind of orange that tastes suspiciously like it contains some high fructose corn syrup. Tea and instant coffee, butter and jam, and then the breads. There are a wide range of breads: white and brown and those square seedy rolls that they have in northern Europe. I love those square seedy rolls, so I select one and grab some packets of butter and jam. I skip the ubiquitous northern European breakfast ham and salami, and then I see it: the cheese slicer.
It is a miraculous little machine: two bricks of cheese sit across from each other on a round board. In the centre is a sort of screw atop which sits a handle which attaches to a wire (I know, it is difficult to envision: this is because you have never seen such a cheese slicer). You spin the handle and the wire slices off a perfectly even slice of cheese from each block; a second round, and it slides down the central screw and slices two more. I am riveted, and not just because I am hungover: it is a thing of beauty, a masterpiece of Scandinavian design.
I join a long table full of other travellers, who are munching away with the bleary, dazed affect of people who have just suffered three hours of Carlsberg nightmares in a narrow bunk bed in a room with no air conditioning. I consider my selection: a seedy roll, marg, jam, and six slices of cheese because, well, I got a little carried away. The flavours are indifferent. The texture requires a fair bit of chewing. I wash it all down with the instant coffee. I take a sour green apple for the road. I attempt to take the cheese slicer, but it is too heavy. I wonder what my would-be suitor is eating for breakfast, and if it is more delicious. I decide I'm quite content not knowing.
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