***G MURATORI HAS NOW CLOSED***
G Muratori
162 Farringdon Road
Clerkenwell
EC1R 3AS
020 7837 4015
by Hashley Brown
Two days with no letters. If I was a postman I'd stay in bed. Imagine! It's not the kind of profession with many lie-ins, although I guess industrial action isn't about having fun, more about standing in a line outside your office (and, you know, defending a vital industry against unprecedented change, harassment and bullying). But in any case there wasn't really any protest when I arrived at the Mount Pleasant depot last Friday morning for another frontline LRB despatch - in fact there wasn't really anyone. So, in the absence of any inside scoop on a disgruntled postie's choice of pork products, I turned to the proprietor of the nearest cafe. The man in First Class Cafe, on Mount Pleasant itself, seemed very pleased: the union fund the bacon sarnie and cups of tea habits of the picketers, which is good for them and certainly good for him. "I send 'em a bill at the end. One man's misery, is... well you know..." he trailed off.
I needed a sit down to contemplate the complex economics at play, and although the 'First Class' may have won prizes for its topical nomenclature, it didn't really have any seats, so a retreat was in order. Just down the hill, and round the back of the business end of the Royal Mail's sorting office, sits the Muratori cafe. It's wonderfully brown, and run by an Italian lady of advancing years called Vita, who dispatches the cups of tea on the steadier side of very slowly. Vita's been there for 50 years, and as I nervously told her that I'd like to order off-piste from their small but well worn menu, she encouraged me to order what I liked, with enough warmth and affection for me to feel like a regular already, only pausing in taking my order to yell, 'Toast burning!' across the room, in some olfactory pavlovian reaction to the first tendrils of smoke creeping out from the kitchen.
The Muratori is a cabbie's favourite, but looks out on the bustling cycling freeway that is Margery Street. I've often wondered whether the cab drivers are sizing up their opponents over their egg and chips, or just as I was, marvelling at the variety of London's bicycle pushers. Neither probably, but over my sausage, bubble, egg, black pudding and toast I kept a wary eye out for the cabbie who had called me a 'silly c*nt' as I pedalled home the night before. The indignity of sharing a breakfast table with one's 4-wheeled nemesis may have been pushing things a bit too far. Anyhow, the food was great. Fat jolly sausages, generous black pudding, a bubble with a healthy but not over-zealous green to white ratio, and a perfect egg. The tea was good and strong, and the toast not in the least bit burnt - this place really did live up to Vita's claims. "Remember, where the taxi drivers are, the food is the best!". I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Foyer, BBC Television Centre, Shepherd's Bush
The Foyer
BBC Television Centre
Wood Lane
Shepherd's Bush
W12 7RJ
www.bbc.co.uk
(open to staff and their guests only)
by Eggy Mair
Spare a thought for the philosophical problems of the night shift worker. Breakfast: is it the bowl of cereal you grab after stumbling out of bed in the middle of the afternoon, while still several hours shy of your recommended daily allowance of sleep? Is the meal you put away at the crack of dawn actually dinner, or is it just breakfast in another time zone? Can a breakfast really be considered "all day" when the outlet serving it is only open from midnight till 5pm?
Your intrepid correspondent finds himself considering these dilemmas, while midway through a gruelling week of nights spent in Television Centre. During the day, several thousand people work there, but overnight, a forgotten few are hidden away in its labyrinth of curved corridors, writing the morning's news, keeping services for insomniacs on air, and dusting and polishing Mark Thompson's throne. Making sure all these people can do their jobs smoothly relies on the relentlessly cheerful duo in the Foyer Cafe.
For £2.15, I think it's fair to assume that the 'all-day' breakfast on offer is either subsidised, or made from pretty poor quality ingredients. Having tried most of its combinations, I think your licence fee is probably safe. The bacon is salty, and often so crispy as to preclude cutting with the supplied plastic cutlery. The sausage is bland; its vegetarian counterpart a cylinder of Quorny nothingness. The fried egg can be a saving grace, but only if you can get it back to your office before it solidifies. I tried the poached option one day, and was baffled to find that it tasted of water, not egg.
I still don't know what they use to make the toast, but the plasticy texture and stripey pattern leads me to believe it may be a laminator - fried bread is a tastier, if deadlier choice. The mushrooms are generally too bland to merit a comment, and the hash browns notable mainly for their ability to melt through the polystyrene container. However, it's the presence of the takeaway box that causes a key problem with the dawn feast: baked beans, which can brighten any cooked breakfast, just swamp everything else in the box while in transit back to your desk. I have one colleague who will enthuse about this as a benefit to anyone who doesn't care to listen, but he's generally wrong about everything, and can be safely ignored. Substituting a grilled tomato is still a poor substitute for beans.
Nothing about the Foyer's breakfast is particularly satisfying, but the alternative is attempting the commute home on an empty stomach, and that's a potentially even less satisfying. Just another problem for the night shift worker.
BBC Television Centre
Wood Lane
Shepherd's Bush
W12 7RJ
www.bbc.co.uk
(open to staff and their guests only)
by Eggy Mair
Spare a thought for the philosophical problems of the night shift worker. Breakfast: is it the bowl of cereal you grab after stumbling out of bed in the middle of the afternoon, while still several hours shy of your recommended daily allowance of sleep? Is the meal you put away at the crack of dawn actually dinner, or is it just breakfast in another time zone? Can a breakfast really be considered "all day" when the outlet serving it is only open from midnight till 5pm?
Your intrepid correspondent finds himself considering these dilemmas, while midway through a gruelling week of nights spent in Television Centre. During the day, several thousand people work there, but overnight, a forgotten few are hidden away in its labyrinth of curved corridors, writing the morning's news, keeping services for insomniacs on air, and dusting and polishing Mark Thompson's throne. Making sure all these people can do their jobs smoothly relies on the relentlessly cheerful duo in the Foyer Cafe.
For £2.15, I think it's fair to assume that the 'all-day' breakfast on offer is either subsidised, or made from pretty poor quality ingredients. Having tried most of its combinations, I think your licence fee is probably safe. The bacon is salty, and often so crispy as to preclude cutting with the supplied plastic cutlery. The sausage is bland; its vegetarian counterpart a cylinder of Quorny nothingness. The fried egg can be a saving grace, but only if you can get it back to your office before it solidifies. I tried the poached option one day, and was baffled to find that it tasted of water, not egg.
I still don't know what they use to make the toast, but the plasticy texture and stripey pattern leads me to believe it may be a laminator - fried bread is a tastier, if deadlier choice. The mushrooms are generally too bland to merit a comment, and the hash browns notable mainly for their ability to melt through the polystyrene container. However, it's the presence of the takeaway box that causes a key problem with the dawn feast: baked beans, which can brighten any cooked breakfast, just swamp everything else in the box while in transit back to your desk. I have one colleague who will enthuse about this as a benefit to anyone who doesn't care to listen, but he's generally wrong about everything, and can be safely ignored. Substituting a grilled tomato is still a poor substitute for beans.
Nothing about the Foyer's breakfast is particularly satisfying, but the alternative is attempting the commute home on an empty stomach, and that's a potentially even less satisfying. Just another problem for the night shift worker.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Bob Bob Ricard, Soho
*****BOB BOB RICARD IS NO LONGER SERVING BREAKFAST*****
Bob Bob Ricard
1 - 3 Upper James St
Soho
W1F 9DF
020 3145 1000
www.bobbobricard.com
by Emma Ricano
Last week I was surprised to receive a call from an unknown gent claiming to know the whereabouts of dearest Yvette, who I’d not heard from since our trip to Dottie's. He suggested we meet for breakfast. I suggested Bob Bob Ricard. If my friend was swimming with the fishes I wanted to hear it someplace public.
With an appetite the size of Nelson’s column (and the fuzz on speed dial) I stepped into BBR, just off Regent Street. I made a mental note of the turquoise and gold wallpaper. One day my living space will be as camp as this.
I was ushered to a booth, in which I perched near the edge; I wanted privacy, but also visibility in case the gent decided to abduct me too. I checked my rouge in the reflection of our personal toaster (one is provided at every table) and knocked back a silver pot of English Breakfast tea. It was just the right strength to take the edge off my nerves, but tea is not to be treated like tequila and my throat was seared like tuna.
Tall, dark and wearing a cravat, he arrived. He ordered the BBR Pink lemonade. A satisfied smile played across his lips and he’d drained the glass before uttering a word. I braced myself, for a ransom demand at the very least.
Then he told me that Yvette was doing so well in an NBC cop drama that she’d decided to cut all ties with the UK. What a Judas, I cried.
Small mercy I’d ordered a comforting BBR Morning Toaster selection. I fed soft muffin halves into the jaws of my personal toaster, slamming my hand on the ejection button every five seconds to purge my anger at being both abandoned and much less successful. It wasn’t long before my mood was lifted by lashings of unsalted butter, sloshes of tea and the finest BBR lemon curd I’d tasted this side of the green belt. My friendship with Judas Yvette may have withered on the vine but that buttery, tangy, zesty curd gave me a lust for life I hadn’t felt since discovering sticklebricks.
Emboldened by these victuals, conversation began to flow. He was charming, but I found myself distracted by the plump, poached eggs of his Florentine, which I wanted to stab, like a psycho. Finally the urge grew too much. I distracted him by pointing out the curious pink outfits worn by the waiters, went in for the kill and was rewarded with a sparktastic spinach-and-egg explosion in my mouth.
And then it happened. As I was toasting my last muffin slice, our fingers met on the ejection button. There was an electrical spark, and it wasn’t caused by a badly wired appliance. In that moment I realised I’d found someone who shared my ADD when it comes to toasters, and an exciting future lay before us - such as a full English, with extra bacon.
Bob Bob Ricard
1 - 3 Upper James St
Soho
W1F 9DF
020 3145 1000
www.bobbobricard.com
by Emma Ricano
Last week I was surprised to receive a call from an unknown gent claiming to know the whereabouts of dearest Yvette, who I’d not heard from since our trip to Dottie's. He suggested we meet for breakfast. I suggested Bob Bob Ricard. If my friend was swimming with the fishes I wanted to hear it someplace public.
With an appetite the size of Nelson’s column (and the fuzz on speed dial) I stepped into BBR, just off Regent Street. I made a mental note of the turquoise and gold wallpaper. One day my living space will be as camp as this.
I was ushered to a booth, in which I perched near the edge; I wanted privacy, but also visibility in case the gent decided to abduct me too. I checked my rouge in the reflection of our personal toaster (one is provided at every table) and knocked back a silver pot of English Breakfast tea. It was just the right strength to take the edge off my nerves, but tea is not to be treated like tequila and my throat was seared like tuna.
Tall, dark and wearing a cravat, he arrived. He ordered the BBR Pink lemonade. A satisfied smile played across his lips and he’d drained the glass before uttering a word. I braced myself, for a ransom demand at the very least.
Then he told me that Yvette was doing so well in an NBC cop drama that she’d decided to cut all ties with the UK. What a Judas, I cried.
Small mercy I’d ordered a comforting BBR Morning Toaster selection. I fed soft muffin halves into the jaws of my personal toaster, slamming my hand on the ejection button every five seconds to purge my anger at being both abandoned and much less successful. It wasn’t long before my mood was lifted by lashings of unsalted butter, sloshes of tea and the finest BBR lemon curd I’d tasted this side of the green belt. My friendship with Judas Yvette may have withered on the vine but that buttery, tangy, zesty curd gave me a lust for life I hadn’t felt since discovering sticklebricks.
Emboldened by these victuals, conversation began to flow. He was charming, but I found myself distracted by the plump, poached eggs of his Florentine, which I wanted to stab, like a psycho. Finally the urge grew too much. I distracted him by pointing out the curious pink outfits worn by the waiters, went in for the kill and was rewarded with a sparktastic spinach-and-egg explosion in my mouth.
And then it happened. As I was toasting my last muffin slice, our fingers met on the ejection button. There was an electrical spark, and it wasn’t caused by a badly wired appliance. In that moment I realised I’d found someone who shared my ADD when it comes to toasters, and an exciting future lay before us - such as a full English, with extra bacon.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
The Wapping Project, Wapping
The Wapping Project
Wapping Hydraulic Power Station
Wapping Wall
Wapping
E1 3SG
020 7680 2080
www.thewappingproject.com
by Malcolm Eggs
A while ago I considered starting a political party. It was to be called The Cut and Run Democrats, its one policy being to pool all the money in the country and divide it equally between everybody. With around £100,000 each, we could then get the hell out of here to hotter, cheaper places. The rich wouldn’t have liked it, but being so far outnumbered they could never win an election. It could not have gone wrong.
Since then, the LRB millions have flowed in and my radical ideology has mellowed somewhat. I now think The Wapping Project – a glorious restaurant in a decaying power station – offers a more compelling and realistic vision for the future. Let’s forget the old effort, the old scrum of industry and focus on what we now do best: eating, with a special focus on breakfast.
We’ll leave in the gauges and levers, the cogs and the pulleys. Greened with age but still proud, they remind us of the sterling work put in by our mothers and fathers to get us here. But amongst all that we’ll place speakers playing endless guitar instrumentals. Our milkshakes will be speckled with the black of real vanilla, our conversation will be roused by the pep of proper coffee and our fry-ups will be as carefully composed as the ceilings of central Venice, which is just as well because the whole place is bathed in a radiant light that occasionally forms into a single beam, enlightening a plate of pancakes or a particularly celestial sausage. Everything will taste fantastic, the portions will be generous and, my brothers and sisters, there will be a good range of options on the menu.
We will march on Battersea. We will heat bacon on the nuclear ball thing at Sellafield. We will laugh at the fact that there is a power station called Eggington.
In summary, it was a fucking good breakfast.
Wapping Hydraulic Power Station
Wapping Wall
Wapping
E1 3SG
020 7680 2080
www.thewappingproject.com
by Malcolm Eggs
A while ago I considered starting a political party. It was to be called The Cut and Run Democrats, its one policy being to pool all the money in the country and divide it equally between everybody. With around £100,000 each, we could then get the hell out of here to hotter, cheaper places. The rich wouldn’t have liked it, but being so far outnumbered they could never win an election. It could not have gone wrong.
Since then, the LRB millions have flowed in and my radical ideology has mellowed somewhat. I now think The Wapping Project – a glorious restaurant in a decaying power station – offers a more compelling and realistic vision for the future. Let’s forget the old effort, the old scrum of industry and focus on what we now do best: eating, with a special focus on breakfast.
We’ll leave in the gauges and levers, the cogs and the pulleys. Greened with age but still proud, they remind us of the sterling work put in by our mothers and fathers to get us here. But amongst all that we’ll place speakers playing endless guitar instrumentals. Our milkshakes will be speckled with the black of real vanilla, our conversation will be roused by the pep of proper coffee and our fry-ups will be as carefully composed as the ceilings of central Venice, which is just as well because the whole place is bathed in a radiant light that occasionally forms into a single beam, enlightening a plate of pancakes or a particularly celestial sausage. Everything will taste fantastic, the portions will be generous and, my brothers and sisters, there will be a good range of options on the menu.
We will march on Battersea. We will heat bacon on the nuclear ball thing at Sellafield. We will laugh at the fact that there is a power station called Eggington.
In summary, it was a fucking good breakfast.
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