The Shakespeare Bed and Breakfast
96 St. Leonards Gate
Lancaster LA1 1NN
England
01524 841 041
by Henrietta Crumpet
Not long ago I took time out from my very busy and important life teaching homeless people to train cats to stand on their shoulders and experienced a Wedding Weekend consisting of two expressions of conjugal bliss at opposite ends of the country. Now before you ask, dear reader, if either of these were mine, I ask you to consider your positions on bigamy and Mormonism and let me know if you wouldn’t mind sharing your nether regions with a partner who shares their nether regions.
I am, of course, still unmarried.
These celebrations, being as they were in Lancaster and Dorset - the north preceding the south by twenty four hours - required myself and my erstwhile companion to travel at an un-holy hour of the morning after the one in order to get to the other. Not being familiar with all Lancaster has to offer I popped along to the Internet and had a little browse. Choosing a small, unassuming place with some marvellous reviews, I rang to book a night there. Sally, who was to be our attentive host, rang me back with a rather worried tone to her voice ‘You left a message saying you were booking because you had read all of our nice reviews, well, Fred and I don’t want you to expect too much or think that it will be as nice as they say.’ With this endorsement ringing in our ears we promptly booked, and set off.
I offer you this preamble in order to impress upon you two things: the antisocial hour of our departure at 6am in order to get to Dorset for the second ceremonial coupling of the weekend, and the demeanour of our hostess. I had already explained that despite a penchant for breakfast and a particular fondness for the B & B buffet option, I was expecting to have to forgo this pleasure in order to stumble groggily onto a train on time. Our hostess was horrified. ‘We’ll leave you a bit of Continental out,’ She said, ‘Is 5.45 alright?’ ‘Lovely,’ I said, ‘perfectly wondrous.’ Five minutes later she was back. ‘So how would you like your eggs? Scrambled, fried or boiled?’ There was a slight pause. ‘We can’t send you off without a cooked breakfast now can we?’
And so, very tired and a little worse for wear the next day we rolled ourselves into the living room for a full cooked breakfast. Sally and Fred were up, already unfeasibly cheerful, and had laid out for us everything they could possibly think of that could be called Breakfast. There were cereals in mini boxes, bowls of fruit, cheese and ham, small, pleasingly squidgy packets of butter and tiny jars of jam. Tea and coffee were proffered alongside glasses of orange juice and just as I was about to start panicking that this was too much too early and I was therefore probably still asleep and about to miss my train, turn up late to the second wedding, crash into the bride on my way in causing her to fall and chip a tooth and thus ruin the whole day, the cooked breakfast arrived.
I cannot in all honesty proclaim this as the best breakfast I have ever had. The beans were slightly too runny for my liking and the tomato sliced to such a thickness that the lovely goo on the outside does not permeate its raw interior, but the bacon was meaty and flavoursome and the eggs cooked to perfection – yolk that cascades over the shiny surface of your knife but has started to cook just a few millimetres from the white, leaving you in no doubt that the milky exterior will be fit for consumption. It was a breakfast of kings at a time when the royal head is definitely ordinarily still nuzzling into its well-fluffed pillow. If you ever find yourself in Lancaster, I can think of no better place for breakfast after bed, but don’t tell Sally and Fred I sent you, it will only make them worry.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Workers Cafe, Islington
Workers Cafe
172 Upper Street
Islington
N1 1RG
020 7226 3973
by Henrietta Crumpet
Ah, The Workers Cafe, bastion of socialist Islington, beacon of light for the Marx-reading, poll tax rioting, Labour voting reds from the time when builders were builders, new developments with loft living were factories, and all local primary schools were run by women who read Germaine Greer whilst chain smoking outside the school gates. Those were the days.
I have been a local at The Workers since that fateful day in 1987 when, on a lightly hazy summer morning, Thatcher was re-elected for the third time and I arrived at school to find mothers silently weeping in the playground. I was a local when my father ruined my own mother’s favourite red lipstick by writing ‘WE WON!’ in giant, jubilant capitals on the bathroom mirror on May Day ten years later. And I’m still a local now, when Edward’s Machinery has long gone, Bella’s and Smokes have disappeared from the high street, and the cafe’s interior is no longer concealed in a haze of cigarette smoke.
My breakfast habits have broadened a little since I was six and would only order fried tomatoes on two white toasts (the tomatoes to be served separately) accompanied by a Snapple iced tea. I even eat mushrooms now. The Worker’s horizons have broadened too. Gone are the faded yellow Formica tables with round red seats affixed, the bad instant coffee and the lakes of grease gently pooling around your chosen morning fare. Worried about the impending doom the smoking ban could have wreaked on their loyal clientele, they’ve installed a coffee machine, seats that move, and at-seat ordering, making it the best place to grab a quick cup of reasonably priced coffee on Upper St. It’s still run by the same extended family, a variation on the socialist worker’s collective that the name suggests, and is delightfully devoid of pretension (and music).
And so to breakfast. For a small number of English Pounds (£4.95) there are breakfast selections including a traditional English, a Vegetarian and a Turkish, all with toast and tea or coffee. For that price I’m not expecting hand-selected sausages from Borough Market or Portobello mushrooms, and I don’t get them. What I do get is a really good greasy spoon breakfast at any time of the day or night. This is breakfast with sliced white or brown bread covered with lashings of margarine, pork sausages with a high bread content and unsmoked bacon. But it does exactly what you want it to. No more, no less. The thinly sliced mushrooms are nicely sizzled without being over-greasy, the tomatoes are browned and caramelised, the hash browns crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside and the eggs – served any way you want them – are cooked through: no sloppy white but a soldier-ready yolk. So put on your Vote Labour badge; grab a paper from the newsagent’s next door; smile at the local characters, the builders on their tea breaks, the council workers, and most importantly, the charming family busily shouting at each other in the open kitchen; and bed down. I can think of no better place for a no nonsense fry-up. And they still have a fridge full of Snapple iced tea.
172 Upper Street
Islington
N1 1RG
020 7226 3973
by Henrietta Crumpet
Ah, The Workers Cafe, bastion of socialist Islington, beacon of light for the Marx-reading, poll tax rioting, Labour voting reds from the time when builders were builders, new developments with loft living were factories, and all local primary schools were run by women who read Germaine Greer whilst chain smoking outside the school gates. Those were the days.
I have been a local at The Workers since that fateful day in 1987 when, on a lightly hazy summer morning, Thatcher was re-elected for the third time and I arrived at school to find mothers silently weeping in the playground. I was a local when my father ruined my own mother’s favourite red lipstick by writing ‘WE WON!’ in giant, jubilant capitals on the bathroom mirror on May Day ten years later. And I’m still a local now, when Edward’s Machinery has long gone, Bella’s and Smokes have disappeared from the high street, and the cafe’s interior is no longer concealed in a haze of cigarette smoke.
My breakfast habits have broadened a little since I was six and would only order fried tomatoes on two white toasts (the tomatoes to be served separately) accompanied by a Snapple iced tea. I even eat mushrooms now. The Worker’s horizons have broadened too. Gone are the faded yellow Formica tables with round red seats affixed, the bad instant coffee and the lakes of grease gently pooling around your chosen morning fare. Worried about the impending doom the smoking ban could have wreaked on their loyal clientele, they’ve installed a coffee machine, seats that move, and at-seat ordering, making it the best place to grab a quick cup of reasonably priced coffee on Upper St. It’s still run by the same extended family, a variation on the socialist worker’s collective that the name suggests, and is delightfully devoid of pretension (and music).
And so to breakfast. For a small number of English Pounds (£4.95) there are breakfast selections including a traditional English, a Vegetarian and a Turkish, all with toast and tea or coffee. For that price I’m not expecting hand-selected sausages from Borough Market or Portobello mushrooms, and I don’t get them. What I do get is a really good greasy spoon breakfast at any time of the day or night. This is breakfast with sliced white or brown bread covered with lashings of margarine, pork sausages with a high bread content and unsmoked bacon. But it does exactly what you want it to. No more, no less. The thinly sliced mushrooms are nicely sizzled without being over-greasy, the tomatoes are browned and caramelised, the hash browns crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside and the eggs – served any way you want them – are cooked through: no sloppy white but a soldier-ready yolk. So put on your Vote Labour badge; grab a paper from the newsagent’s next door; smile at the local characters, the builders on their tea breaks, the council workers, and most importantly, the charming family busily shouting at each other in the open kitchen; and bed down. I can think of no better place for a no nonsense fry-up. And they still have a fridge full of Snapple iced tea.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Special Dispatch: Urban Angel, Edinburgh
Urban Angel
121 Hanover St
121 Hanover St
New Town
by Emma Ricano
Since hearing that dear, damnable Yvette had hit the big time starring in an NBC cop drama, I’d been raising my game like a poker player jacked up on 94 espressos. I wanted my own pool of light, the colour of a thousand limes, which was how I found myself at this year’s Edinburgh Festival trying my hand at stand-up comedy.
But I soon discovered that pithy one-liners about Dungeons & Dragons weren’t going to cut it with The Common People. I needed new material if I was going to be a self-proclaimed Prophet of Laughter, so I did what I always do when I need an inspiration injection. I breakfasted.
I chose Urban Angel in New Town which I’d visited once before when Edinburgh’s rain damn nearly drowned me. I recalled its sourdough – large and tasty portions with not nearly enough unsalted butter and preserve to cover a single slice; cappuccino that tasted like Nescafe but with a healthy foam hairpiece made from the creamiest of organic milk. In short, it had potential - exactly like me and my future as a stand-up comedian.
I sought out this warm and innocuous looking deli plus restaurant, again. It was much busier than I recalled but had the same range of choices I knew would keep me busy.
On the first of several inspiration missions, I spied some game looking twins dressed in kimonos and platforms who looked like they might have a story or two. I pulled up a chair and we breakfasted on Eggs Florentine. They talked animatedly about their careers in fashion and analysed my own choice of tartan slacks, as I bit down onto a springy mattress of muffin, spinach and oozing poached egg. Alas, I soon noticed the hollandaise was as vinagery as a party in a Sarson's factory and it unbalanced the whole. I swiftly ordered an antidote in the form of a chocolate double whammy - a quite outstanding chocolate muffin which was more choc chip than sponge, twinned with a hot chocolate with chocolate on top. I ate with slapping chops and gusto as the twins declared me a Fashion No-Fly Zone.
The next day I joined a lady in sensible shoes tucking into a pedestrian looking bowl of porridge. But by jiminy what those oats lacked in looks they certainly made up for in taste – I was transported to the clover, salty air, heather and fresh breezes of my otherwise turbulent family holidays in the Scottish highlands. But the portion was small and I was left both physiologically and conversationally starved as the woman in sensible shoes chose not to answer any of my questions.
By the weekend I was feeling desperate and honed in on a man with a face as sad as a clown. He said he wanted to be alone but I insisted. We both ordered the pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. I took some of his bacon. He spooned some of the syrup off my plate. I slapped his wrists. I took his napkin. He took my fork. Then we enjoyed our heavenly meal with its pancakes like pillows and all the excitement and drama that the combination of maple syrup and good quality bacon bring to a person’s life. By the end of breakfast he was bitch-slapping the table in glee as I recounted my days as a young buck in marketing. Who knew a story about a Sandra from accounts and a piece of Brie could be so entertaining? I’d say Live At The Apollo is just around the corner for a girl like me.
But I soon discovered that pithy one-liners about Dungeons & Dragons weren’t going to cut it with The Common People. I needed new material if I was going to be a self-proclaimed Prophet of Laughter, so I did what I always do when I need an inspiration injection. I breakfasted.
I chose Urban Angel in New Town which I’d visited once before when Edinburgh’s rain damn nearly drowned me. I recalled its sourdough – large and tasty portions with not nearly enough unsalted butter and preserve to cover a single slice; cappuccino that tasted like Nescafe but with a healthy foam hairpiece made from the creamiest of organic milk. In short, it had potential - exactly like me and my future as a stand-up comedian.
I sought out this warm and innocuous looking deli plus restaurant, again. It was much busier than I recalled but had the same range of choices I knew would keep me busy.
On the first of several inspiration missions, I spied some game looking twins dressed in kimonos and platforms who looked like they might have a story or two. I pulled up a chair and we breakfasted on Eggs Florentine. They talked animatedly about their careers in fashion and analysed my own choice of tartan slacks, as I bit down onto a springy mattress of muffin, spinach and oozing poached egg. Alas, I soon noticed the hollandaise was as vinagery as a party in a Sarson's factory and it unbalanced the whole. I swiftly ordered an antidote in the form of a chocolate double whammy - a quite outstanding chocolate muffin which was more choc chip than sponge, twinned with a hot chocolate with chocolate on top. I ate with slapping chops and gusto as the twins declared me a Fashion No-Fly Zone.
The next day I joined a lady in sensible shoes tucking into a pedestrian looking bowl of porridge. But by jiminy what those oats lacked in looks they certainly made up for in taste – I was transported to the clover, salty air, heather and fresh breezes of my otherwise turbulent family holidays in the Scottish highlands. But the portion was small and I was left both physiologically and conversationally starved as the woman in sensible shoes chose not to answer any of my questions.
By the weekend I was feeling desperate and honed in on a man with a face as sad as a clown. He said he wanted to be alone but I insisted. We both ordered the pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. I took some of his bacon. He spooned some of the syrup off my plate. I slapped his wrists. I took his napkin. He took my fork. Then we enjoyed our heavenly meal with its pancakes like pillows and all the excitement and drama that the combination of maple syrup and good quality bacon bring to a person’s life. By the end of breakfast he was bitch-slapping the table in glee as I recounted my days as a young buck in marketing. Who knew a story about a Sandra from accounts and a piece of Brie could be so entertaining? I’d say Live At The Apollo is just around the corner for a girl like me.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Guy Fawkes Inn, York
Guy Fawkes Inn
25 High Petergate
York YO1 7HP
www.gfyork.com
01904 623 716
by OJ Simpson
Why must we remember the 5th of November
For gunpowder treason and plot?
It’s much more pleasing to order two teas and
Sit down to eat something hot.
Guy Fawkes in York
Was where we went,
To see where Guy was born, and then,
To break our fast and ease the woe,
With slices of hot toasted dough.
By God's providence this she match'd,
With egg and haddock freshly catch’d.
Holloa Boys, Holloa boys, I chose fried things,
Holloa Boys, Holloa Boys, fit for a King!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Tomatoes, mushroom, two eggs poached,
Black pudding, beans and bacon,
A pot of tea to rinse it down,
Until you’re filled to bursting.
Much tastier this way by far,
To celebrate a blazing star.
Don’t burn his body, toast your bread.
Then we'll say: ol' hunger’s dead.
25 High Petergate
York YO1 7HP
www.gfyork.com
01904 623 716
by OJ Simpson
Why must we remember the 5th of November
For gunpowder treason and plot?
It’s much more pleasing to order two teas and
Sit down to eat something hot.
Guy Fawkes in York
Was where we went,
To see where Guy was born, and then,
To break our fast and ease the woe,
With slices of hot toasted dough.
By God's providence this she match'd,
With egg and haddock freshly catch’d.
Holloa Boys, Holloa boys, I chose fried things,
Holloa Boys, Holloa Boys, fit for a King!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Tomatoes, mushroom, two eggs poached,
Black pudding, beans and bacon,
A pot of tea to rinse it down,
Until you’re filled to bursting.
Much tastier this way by far,
To celebrate a blazing star.
Don’t burn his body, toast your bread.
Then we'll say: ol' hunger’s dead.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Roast, Borough
Roast
The Floral Hall
Stoney Street
Borough
SE1 1TL
0845 034 7300
www.roast-restaurant.com
by T.N. Toost
Malcolm recognized me from my pictures online, shouting “Mr. Toost!” when I passed the London Bridge newsstand. We embraced and walked through Borough Market to Roast. Its cathedral-like dining room was populated with businesspeople and dealmakers and one other guy who looked out of place, like us.
“I’m glad someone else is wearing a t-shirt,” I whispered, and Malcolm grinned.
It was somewhat awkward to peruse the menu and try to keep a conversation going at the same time, but we managed, making small talk about the options. Ten-year-old tea what? That sounds Chinese and I thought this is a purely English establishment. It either makes no sense orrrr there’s 10-year-old tea on the menu and it’s not a purely English establishment... There was no point, really, as there was no question as to what we would be ordering.
“Full English, please.” £15.00. He wasn’t a cheap date.
“And one for myself as well, thanks.” Neither was I.
It’s a distinct feature of this generation that people can correspond for years without ever meeting face-to-face and, when it finally happens, real conversation can be awkward. There were at least two points at which I wished we’d had computers; emailing would have felt more normal. Proper conversation over proper coffee is a precious commodity, though, and soon everything started to feel more normal.
Besides, we didn’t have much time for awkwardness; the food came out before we’d had time to take three sips of coffee.
“Fantastic,” I said as I saw the waitress approaching.
“Shit,” Malcolm said after she’d left.
What he had immediately realized was that serving speed is not a virtue here as it is in the States, where we want things fast and damn the consequences. Speed means that the food was reheated rather than cooked to order. If you shell out £15 for a full English, you should be served just-picked tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade sausage, beans hand-selected and matched for aesthetic consistency, bacon cut from a live pig and eggs still smelling like a hen’s hooha.
Which is not what we got. The eggs were warm, bordering on hot. The bacon yielded flaccidly to my teeth. In a £15 breakfast, the mushroom should make you hallucinate; we got a non-descript portobello. The sausage had a crisp outer shell but the inside cloyed to our gums and cheeks. The blood sausage was admittedly delicious, but knowing that Roast is widely considered to serve the best breakfast in London, this was a consolation as lukewarm as the food.
We left; I think Malcolm felt a bit embarrassed at having taken me there. He had said that he needed a special occasion to go to Roast, and that my visit was it. I hope he doesn't invite me there next time, as that would be an elaborate insult of the kind that email can never convey.
The Floral Hall
Stoney Street
Borough
SE1 1TL
0845 034 7300
www.roast-restaurant.com
by T.N. Toost
Malcolm recognized me from my pictures online, shouting “Mr. Toost!” when I passed the London Bridge newsstand. We embraced and walked through Borough Market to Roast. Its cathedral-like dining room was populated with businesspeople and dealmakers and one other guy who looked out of place, like us.
“I’m glad someone else is wearing a t-shirt,” I whispered, and Malcolm grinned.
It was somewhat awkward to peruse the menu and try to keep a conversation going at the same time, but we managed, making small talk about the options. Ten-year-old tea what? That sounds Chinese and I thought this is a purely English establishment. It either makes no sense orrrr there’s 10-year-old tea on the menu and it’s not a purely English establishment... There was no point, really, as there was no question as to what we would be ordering.
“Full English, please.” £15.00. He wasn’t a cheap date.
“And one for myself as well, thanks.” Neither was I.
It’s a distinct feature of this generation that people can correspond for years without ever meeting face-to-face and, when it finally happens, real conversation can be awkward. There were at least two points at which I wished we’d had computers; emailing would have felt more normal. Proper conversation over proper coffee is a precious commodity, though, and soon everything started to feel more normal.
Besides, we didn’t have much time for awkwardness; the food came out before we’d had time to take three sips of coffee.
“Fantastic,” I said as I saw the waitress approaching.
“Shit,” Malcolm said after she’d left.
What he had immediately realized was that serving speed is not a virtue here as it is in the States, where we want things fast and damn the consequences. Speed means that the food was reheated rather than cooked to order. If you shell out £15 for a full English, you should be served just-picked tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade sausage, beans hand-selected and matched for aesthetic consistency, bacon cut from a live pig and eggs still smelling like a hen’s hooha.
Which is not what we got. The eggs were warm, bordering on hot. The bacon yielded flaccidly to my teeth. In a £15 breakfast, the mushroom should make you hallucinate; we got a non-descript portobello. The sausage had a crisp outer shell but the inside cloyed to our gums and cheeks. The blood sausage was admittedly delicious, but knowing that Roast is widely considered to serve the best breakfast in London, this was a consolation as lukewarm as the food.
We left; I think Malcolm felt a bit embarrassed at having taken me there. He had said that he needed a special occasion to go to Roast, and that my visit was it. I hope he doesn't invite me there next time, as that would be an elaborate insult of the kind that email can never convey.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
The Counter Cafe, Hackney Wick
The Counter Cafe
4a Roach Rd
Hackney Wick
E3 2PA
07952 696 388
www.thecountercafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
I had never really spent any time in Hackney Wick, at least not deliberately. Based on its reputation I was imagining an outland of free expression, a place where creativity could run untethered and naked. Monkeys playing accordions on the streets, men in berets judging my scale with gnawed thumbs. But deep down I knew I’d find a handful of timber depots plus the occasional person in a sleeveless flannel top.
When we finally glimpsed our target, alarm bells rang – those internal alerts we each install when we realise hipsters don’t run or frequent good food businesses.
For here they were both sides of the counter: girls with short bleached hair and billowing ethnic-print trousers; men with long hair, longer beards, NHS glasses, orange gingham shirts. A waiter’s cartoon-bear T-shirt, tucked into his tiny polyester shorts. Another’s braces hand-made from an unravelled length of blue packaging rope. Shouty folk music on the speakers and psychedelic art on the walls. Guardian newspapers everywhere. Hardly were those sights met when I closed my eyes and was troubled by a vast image: a stoned chef and a passive aggressive owner, pissing away a trust fund. In the background flashed mood-words such as ‘screenplay’, ‘site-specific theatre’ and ‘guerrilla gardening’. I braced myself for a bad breakfast.
Then my Big Breakfast (£8) arrived and it was really, really good. As good as the breakfast in Bistrotheque or Caravan, perhaps better for the genuine shock. The yolk of my fried egg? As golden as the voice of St Gregory of Nazianzus, mingling harmoniously with the baritone carbs - the jolly potato cake and ebullient buttered Vogel toast. Bacon and sausages were fit for a duke, and the beans, oh my, they were a rarity - homemade yet worth the effort: butter beans in a salacious sauce of tomato, rosemary, garlic and lemon. A large, succulent mushroom, a ramekin of tangy inhouse relish and good coffee completed the picture.
As if by magic a canal bridge made itself visible, enabling us to leave without retracing our steps. The Olympic Stadium loomed over us as if it wanted to say – there, now you know the truth about 2012. It’s whatever’s important to you. Follow your dream, my dear Malcolm. Yeah whatevs, I replied.
4a Roach Rd
Hackney Wick
E3 2PA
07952 696 388
www.thecountercafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
I had never really spent any time in Hackney Wick, at least not deliberately. Based on its reputation I was imagining an outland of free expression, a place where creativity could run untethered and naked. Monkeys playing accordions on the streets, men in berets judging my scale with gnawed thumbs. But deep down I knew I’d find a handful of timber depots plus the occasional person in a sleeveless flannel top.
When we finally glimpsed our target, alarm bells rang – those internal alerts we each install when we realise hipsters don’t run or frequent good food businesses.
For here they were both sides of the counter: girls with short bleached hair and billowing ethnic-print trousers; men with long hair, longer beards, NHS glasses, orange gingham shirts. A waiter’s cartoon-bear T-shirt, tucked into his tiny polyester shorts. Another’s braces hand-made from an unravelled length of blue packaging rope. Shouty folk music on the speakers and psychedelic art on the walls. Guardian newspapers everywhere. Hardly were those sights met when I closed my eyes and was troubled by a vast image: a stoned chef and a passive aggressive owner, pissing away a trust fund. In the background flashed mood-words such as ‘screenplay’, ‘site-specific theatre’ and ‘guerrilla gardening’. I braced myself for a bad breakfast.
Then my Big Breakfast (£8) arrived and it was really, really good. As good as the breakfast in Bistrotheque or Caravan, perhaps better for the genuine shock. The yolk of my fried egg? As golden as the voice of St Gregory of Nazianzus, mingling harmoniously with the baritone carbs - the jolly potato cake and ebullient buttered Vogel toast. Bacon and sausages were fit for a duke, and the beans, oh my, they were a rarity - homemade yet worth the effort: butter beans in a salacious sauce of tomato, rosemary, garlic and lemon. A large, succulent mushroom, a ramekin of tangy inhouse relish and good coffee completed the picture.
As if by magic a canal bridge made itself visible, enabling us to leave without retracing our steps. The Olympic Stadium loomed over us as if it wanted to say – there, now you know the truth about 2012. It’s whatever’s important to you. Follow your dream, my dear Malcolm. Yeah whatevs, I replied.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Joe Allen, Covent Garden
Joe Allen
13 Exeter Street
Covent Garden
WC2E 7DT
www.joeallen.co.uk
020 7836 0651
by Rhys Chris Peese
INT. JOE ALLEN - MORNING
Dark wood-panelled walls are covered with posters of long-forgotten musicals. On one side of the room is a well-stocked bar. It looks like it’s around 3am: it always looks like that in here, away from the natural light.
JAMES, a screenwriter, is typing on a Macbook. A waiter comes to refill his coffee. He grunts acknowledgement. He is the only customer: others have come and gone. Pull out to take in the door to the street. As it opens we realise that it’s actually 10am: daylight silhouettes RHYS, who walks in and joins JAMES. He speaks in a British accent.
RHYS
Sorry I’m late. Traffic in Kennington.
JAMES
No problem.
We take in the posters – all of which are for London productions. This confirms that we’re not in New York at all. The WAITER comes over: immaculately dressed, he looks like a younger Russell Crowe.
WAITER
Are you ready to order?
RHYS
I’ll have the full English please, with
scrambled eggs. And coffee.
JAMES
I’ll have the same.
The WAITER goes. RHYS stares at the table. JAMES leafs through Variety. Silence.
RHYS
I am massively hungover.
JAMES nods. Fade out.
Fade up. The WAITER returns with two plates and puts them in front of JAMES and RHYS. They each have two pale sausages, some bacon, scrambled eggs, black pudding, properly grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and half an English muffin. JAMES and RHYS set to eating.
JAMES
This is the best black pudding I’ve ever
tasted.
RHYS
The mushrooms are a bit watery.
JAMES
I don’t like mushrooms anyway. Do you
want mine?
RHYS
Yeah. OK.
The WAITER returns and refills their coffee. He leaves.
RHYS
Next time I might try the broiled
grapefruit.
Fade. End.
13 Exeter Street
Covent Garden
WC2E 7DT
www.joeallen.co.uk
020 7836 0651
by Rhys Chris Peese
INT. JOE ALLEN - MORNING
Dark wood-panelled walls are covered with posters of long-forgotten musicals. On one side of the room is a well-stocked bar. It looks like it’s around 3am: it always looks like that in here, away from the natural light.
JAMES, a screenwriter, is typing on a Macbook. A waiter comes to refill his coffee. He grunts acknowledgement. He is the only customer: others have come and gone. Pull out to take in the door to the street. As it opens we realise that it’s actually 10am: daylight silhouettes RHYS, who walks in and joins JAMES. He speaks in a British accent.
RHYS
Sorry I’m late. Traffic in Kennington.
JAMES
No problem.
We take in the posters – all of which are for London productions. This confirms that we’re not in New York at all. The WAITER comes over: immaculately dressed, he looks like a younger Russell Crowe.
WAITER
Are you ready to order?
RHYS
I’ll have the full English please, with
scrambled eggs. And coffee.
JAMES
I’ll have the same.
The WAITER goes. RHYS stares at the table. JAMES leafs through Variety. Silence.
RHYS
I am massively hungover.
JAMES nods. Fade out.
Fade up. The WAITER returns with two plates and puts them in front of JAMES and RHYS. They each have two pale sausages, some bacon, scrambled eggs, black pudding, properly grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and half an English muffin. JAMES and RHYS set to eating.
JAMES
This is the best black pudding I’ve ever
tasted.
RHYS
The mushrooms are a bit watery.
JAMES
I don’t like mushrooms anyway. Do you
want mine?
RHYS
Yeah. OK.
The WAITER returns and refills their coffee. He leaves.
RHYS
Next time I might try the broiled
grapefruit.
Fade. End.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
La Casita, Streatham
La Casita
122 Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16 1BW
020 8664 6033
Breakfast served from 9am - 3pm (at time of writing)
by Cherie Funghi
Waking up late with gin breath requires immediate action: breakfast. And I’m certainly not talking about any of your muesli or fruit stuffs. Wretched and dehydrated, we dragged our broken bodies to La Casita.
A sign boasting fresh ground coffee excited my caffeine-thirsty eyes, but my mug arrived with the sad, undissolved remnants of instant granules. I swallowed my disappointment, too tired to argue, before our confused looking waiter informed us that there were no continental breakfasts, no city breakfasts and no tomatoes. At all.
A city breakfast, in case it isn’t obvious, is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a bagel. That is what people in cities have for breakfast. But not this morning. No. We had the choice of a Vegetarian, a full English, or a La Casita breakfast - the same plus chips. I went for the full English, which turned out to be quite a serious plate-a-food. Two massive bangers, a generous helping of mushrooms, griddled smoked bacon, a hash brown, piles of buttered toast, beans and half a grilled tomato. Hello.
The sugar sachets came with 2 tsp-worth of sugar in them. I failed to notice and added two to my coffee. It made for a disgusting error of judgment, but I persevered. The scrambled eggs were dry and rubbery so I ate them first to get them out the way, washed down with the coffee-syrup. What a mistake! I’d left no room for the best bits. I managed to force down the pleasingly thick-cut smoked bacon and inoffensively average hash brown, but the delicious buttery, herby mushrooms and meaty pork sausages were a stomach-stretch too far and were left practically untouched. It was a regrettable personal failure and this unhappy turn of events is proof that the best shouldn’t always be saved until last.
122 Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16 1BW
020 8664 6033
Breakfast served from 9am - 3pm (at time of writing)
by Cherie Funghi
Waking up late with gin breath requires immediate action: breakfast. And I’m certainly not talking about any of your muesli or fruit stuffs. Wretched and dehydrated, we dragged our broken bodies to La Casita.
A sign boasting fresh ground coffee excited my caffeine-thirsty eyes, but my mug arrived with the sad, undissolved remnants of instant granules. I swallowed my disappointment, too tired to argue, before our confused looking waiter informed us that there were no continental breakfasts, no city breakfasts and no tomatoes. At all.
A city breakfast, in case it isn’t obvious, is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a bagel. That is what people in cities have for breakfast. But not this morning. No. We had the choice of a Vegetarian, a full English, or a La Casita breakfast - the same plus chips. I went for the full English, which turned out to be quite a serious plate-a-food. Two massive bangers, a generous helping of mushrooms, griddled smoked bacon, a hash brown, piles of buttered toast, beans and half a grilled tomato. Hello.
The sugar sachets came with 2 tsp-worth of sugar in them. I failed to notice and added two to my coffee. It made for a disgusting error of judgment, but I persevered. The scrambled eggs were dry and rubbery so I ate them first to get them out the way, washed down with the coffee-syrup. What a mistake! I’d left no room for the best bits. I managed to force down the pleasingly thick-cut smoked bacon and inoffensively average hash brown, but the delicious buttery, herby mushrooms and meaty pork sausages were a stomach-stretch too far and were left practically untouched. It was a regrettable personal failure and this unhappy turn of events is proof that the best shouldn’t always be saved until last.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Benjys Restaurant, Earl's Court
Benjys Restaurant
157 Earls Court Road
Earl's Court
London
SW5 9RQ
020 7373 0245
by Terry Teagleton
A fried English breakfast has to my mind one of two essential purposes - to line the stomach in preparation for a day's drinking; or to bring the comforts of stodgy, chewy grease to a body which has spent a yesterday drinking. We are here today for the first of these reasons and this caff - the first we came across on leaving Earl's Court tube - performs its task more than adequately.
Benjys gives the impression of a proper no-nonsense London establishment. The laminated menu supplies just three main breakfast options, a terse list of extras confined only to the absolute essentials (no fancy-schmancy hash browns here and even, to my great disappointment, no black pudding) plus tea, coffee and orange juice. In view of the profligate ingurgitations ahead of me, I opt for the builder's breakfast with extra fried mushrooms. Steve foolishly just has chips - a decision which is ill advised not for the lack of substance (Steve is a better drinker than me and anyway has already eaten) but because of the penny-filching minimum food cost of £3.90 per person in the menu's smallprint which will now catch him out.
Our food arrives in short order. The sausages are close to perfection - neither soggy nor dry, their unidentifiable contents pleasantly coating the mouth in greasy goodness and sliding effortlessly down the gullet. The same sadly cannot be said about the bacon, which has been incinerated almost into nonexistence and then, bizarrely, hidden *in between* the egg (on top) and the beans (underneath) as though the chef was rightly ashamed of his endeavour. The egg itself is uninspiring - not badly cooked, but one presumes produced by a chicken with little interest in life; and the beans are as beans are as beans always are - the great ubiquitous invariant of the breakfast plate.
Most of the other components are proficiently delivered but require little comment - there are chips, mushrooms and toast. The one remaining piece of the assembly is however noteworthy; it is the tomato. Benjys have eschewed the standard fried vegetable for an uncooked plum tomato forked out of a tin. I love the effrontery, the sheer chutzpah, of places which do this - we all know how cheap it is to buy a value tin of plum tomatoes from Tesco and how little effort is invoked in the opening of said tin and fishing out of said tomatoes, and yet it is a solution which Just Works, often better than a fried tomato which is frankly difficult for even the best of breakfasteers to make exciting. As I bite into my raw plum tomato a jet of bright red juice is sent spurting out right onto Steve’s shirt, adding to my general sense of satisfaction with the world.
The place is certainly popular, with intrepid tourists out of Earl's Court hotels rubbing shoulders with standard greasy spoon denizens - drifting urban wastrels and labouring men - to almost fill the place. But despite this the lone waitress manages to take orders and deliver plates of food and free refills of tea and coffee promptly and with a breezy professionalism. As we slowly finish our final coffees and get ready to pay and leave, I reflect that in spite of its several quirks Benjys has succeeded - it has produced a solid, ample, unashamedly physical fry up; a fry up to engage oneself with, to take one's time over - in other words, the very breakfast I needed.
157 Earls Court Road
Earl's Court
London
SW5 9RQ
020 7373 0245
by Terry Teagleton
A fried English breakfast has to my mind one of two essential purposes - to line the stomach in preparation for a day's drinking; or to bring the comforts of stodgy, chewy grease to a body which has spent a yesterday drinking. We are here today for the first of these reasons and this caff - the first we came across on leaving Earl's Court tube - performs its task more than adequately.
Benjys gives the impression of a proper no-nonsense London establishment. The laminated menu supplies just three main breakfast options, a terse list of extras confined only to the absolute essentials (no fancy-schmancy hash browns here and even, to my great disappointment, no black pudding) plus tea, coffee and orange juice. In view of the profligate ingurgitations ahead of me, I opt for the builder's breakfast with extra fried mushrooms. Steve foolishly just has chips - a decision which is ill advised not for the lack of substance (Steve is a better drinker than me and anyway has already eaten) but because of the penny-filching minimum food cost of £3.90 per person in the menu's smallprint which will now catch him out.
Our food arrives in short order. The sausages are close to perfection - neither soggy nor dry, their unidentifiable contents pleasantly coating the mouth in greasy goodness and sliding effortlessly down the gullet. The same sadly cannot be said about the bacon, which has been incinerated almost into nonexistence and then, bizarrely, hidden *in between* the egg (on top) and the beans (underneath) as though the chef was rightly ashamed of his endeavour. The egg itself is uninspiring - not badly cooked, but one presumes produced by a chicken with little interest in life; and the beans are as beans are as beans always are - the great ubiquitous invariant of the breakfast plate.
Most of the other components are proficiently delivered but require little comment - there are chips, mushrooms and toast. The one remaining piece of the assembly is however noteworthy; it is the tomato. Benjys have eschewed the standard fried vegetable for an uncooked plum tomato forked out of a tin. I love the effrontery, the sheer chutzpah, of places which do this - we all know how cheap it is to buy a value tin of plum tomatoes from Tesco and how little effort is invoked in the opening of said tin and fishing out of said tomatoes, and yet it is a solution which Just Works, often better than a fried tomato which is frankly difficult for even the best of breakfasteers to make exciting. As I bite into my raw plum tomato a jet of bright red juice is sent spurting out right onto Steve’s shirt, adding to my general sense of satisfaction with the world.
The place is certainly popular, with intrepid tourists out of Earl's Court hotels rubbing shoulders with standard greasy spoon denizens - drifting urban wastrels and labouring men - to almost fill the place. But despite this the lone waitress manages to take orders and deliver plates of food and free refills of tea and coffee promptly and with a breezy professionalism. As we slowly finish our final coffees and get ready to pay and leave, I reflect that in spite of its several quirks Benjys has succeeded - it has produced a solid, ample, unashamedly physical fry up; a fry up to engage oneself with, to take one's time over - in other words, the very breakfast I needed.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The brekkies: 10 of the best breakfasts available to humanity
by Malcolm Eggs
Exactly five years have passed since a morning when – in no small part to stave off the need to get up, have a shower and do something useful – I logged onto a blogging website and wrote something rousing about how a semi-invented ‘we’ was incredibly passionate about breakfast. It was surprising that the ‘we’ became a self-fulfilling overblown claim: no less than 80 individuals have joined my mission to cut out the gristle of lazy and disdainful breakfast-serving with the simple fork of truth and the trusty knife of literary pretension.
Five years in seems like a fitting moment to do something new, and compile a list of some of the best breakfasts we’ve sampled along the way. For the sake of usefulness I’m only including places that (a) are still open and (b) I’m reasonably confident have maintained their standards. A big apology goes to Konstam, recently closed in what is a tragedy both personal and regional – they consistently served some of the finest breakfasts we’d encountered and we miss them very much.
Here is the list, in alphabetical order. As always, we apologise for the East London bias.
Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson St, Bethnal Green E2
"It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning."
(Full review here)
Caravan, 11-13 Exmouth Market, Clerkenwell EC1R
"The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot"
(Full review here)
Hawksmoor, 157 Commercial St, Spitalfields E1
"The very definition of an event breakfast."
(Full review here)
Mess, 38 Amhurst Rd, Hackney E8
"Breakfast for two for just shy of a tenner - full marks for both, and happy tummies all round."
(Full review here)
Muratori, 162 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell EC1R
[Closed in early 2012] "I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast."
(Full review here)
Regency Cafe, 17-19 Regency St, Pimlico SW1P
"Explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness."
(Full review here)
The Uplands Cafe, 21 Upland Rd, East Dulwich SE22
"The kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?"
(Full review here)
The Walpole, 35 St Mary's Rd, Ealing W5
"A hearty, old-fashioned Full English."
(Full review here)
The Wapping Project, Wapping Wall, Wapping E1
"It was a good breakfast."
(Full review here)
York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, Camden Town NW1
"A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg…"
(Full review here)
Exactly five years have passed since a morning when – in no small part to stave off the need to get up, have a shower and do something useful – I logged onto a blogging website and wrote something rousing about how a semi-invented ‘we’ was incredibly passionate about breakfast. It was surprising that the ‘we’ became a self-fulfilling overblown claim: no less than 80 individuals have joined my mission to cut out the gristle of lazy and disdainful breakfast-serving with the simple fork of truth and the trusty knife of literary pretension.
Five years in seems like a fitting moment to do something new, and compile a list of some of the best breakfasts we’ve sampled along the way. For the sake of usefulness I’m only including places that (a) are still open and (b) I’m reasonably confident have maintained their standards. A big apology goes to Konstam, recently closed in what is a tragedy both personal and regional – they consistently served some of the finest breakfasts we’d encountered and we miss them very much.
Here is the list, in alphabetical order. As always, we apologise for the East London bias.
Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson St, Bethnal Green E2
"It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning."
(Full review here)
Caravan, 11-13 Exmouth Market, Clerkenwell EC1R
"The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot"
(Full review here)
Hawksmoor, 157 Commercial St, Spitalfields E1
"The very definition of an event breakfast."
(Full review here)
Mess, 38 Amhurst Rd, Hackney E8
"Breakfast for two for just shy of a tenner - full marks for both, and happy tummies all round."
(Full review here)
Muratori, 162 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell EC1R
[Closed in early 2012] "I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast."
(Full review here)
Regency Cafe, 17-19 Regency St, Pimlico SW1P
"Explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness."
(Full review here)
The Uplands Cafe, 21 Upland Rd, East Dulwich SE22
"The kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?"
(Full review here)
The Walpole, 35 St Mary's Rd, Ealing W5
"A hearty, old-fashioned Full English."
(Full review here)
The Wapping Project, Wapping Wall, Wapping E1
"It was a good breakfast."
(Full review here)
York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, Camden Town NW1
"A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg…"
(Full review here)
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Table, Southwark
The Table
83 Southwark Street
London
Southwark
SE1 0HX
020 7401 2760
www.thetablecafe.com
by Sadie Frosties
The menu at The Table states confidently that they serve ‘the best hollandaise on Southwark Street’. And I believe it, if not partly because I know nowhere else on Southwark Street that serves anything with hollandaise on or near it. I ordered the buttermilk pancakes with streaky bacon, organic maple syrup and caramelised banana, and settled down for my weekly blank stare at the Guardian Cryptic Crossword.
Crossword abandoned in record time, and immersed in an informative article about Dizzee Rascal, I'd barely noticed the time passing when the waiter appeared with my breakfast challenge. You may have noticed, as I had, the plural in my breakfast descriptor. But there were no 'pancakes' here. This was one, single, giant, humungoid, super pancake, easily twice the size of my face (maybe) and an accomplished centimetre in thickness. Also absent was the expected ceramic pot of maple syrup – in its place a free-pour of the continental bar variety, a syrupy ocean lapping at the shore of my pancake island. And it was delectable - the pancake fluffy, the syrup plentiful, the bananas soft and sticky. Actually everything was sticky. And delicious. Granted, it is likely that a shoe, or a copy of Grazia, would also be delicious slathered in enough maple syrup.
The bacon however, highlighted an error in my menu reading skills, which has occurred more than once in my breakfasting career, namely the subconscious reading of the word ‘streaky’ to mean ‘crispy’. Streaky it was, crispy it was not. A frightful shame considering the bacon was otherwise smoky and salty in all the correct proportions.
My advice to you? Visit The Table - the menu is great. My advice to The Table? Cook your bacon a little longer – I never finish the cryptic.
83 Southwark Street
London
Southwark
SE1 0HX
020 7401 2760
www.thetablecafe.com
by Sadie Frosties
The menu at The Table states confidently that they serve ‘the best hollandaise on Southwark Street’. And I believe it, if not partly because I know nowhere else on Southwark Street that serves anything with hollandaise on or near it. I ordered the buttermilk pancakes with streaky bacon, organic maple syrup and caramelised banana, and settled down for my weekly blank stare at the Guardian Cryptic Crossword.
Crossword abandoned in record time, and immersed in an informative article about Dizzee Rascal, I'd barely noticed the time passing when the waiter appeared with my breakfast challenge. You may have noticed, as I had, the plural in my breakfast descriptor. But there were no 'pancakes' here. This was one, single, giant, humungoid, super pancake, easily twice the size of my face (maybe) and an accomplished centimetre in thickness. Also absent was the expected ceramic pot of maple syrup – in its place a free-pour of the continental bar variety, a syrupy ocean lapping at the shore of my pancake island. And it was delectable - the pancake fluffy, the syrup plentiful, the bananas soft and sticky. Actually everything was sticky. And delicious. Granted, it is likely that a shoe, or a copy of Grazia, would also be delicious slathered in enough maple syrup.
The bacon however, highlighted an error in my menu reading skills, which has occurred more than once in my breakfasting career, namely the subconscious reading of the word ‘streaky’ to mean ‘crispy’. Streaky it was, crispy it was not. A frightful shame considering the bacon was otherwise smoky and salty in all the correct proportions.
My advice to you? Visit The Table - the menu is great. My advice to The Table? Cook your bacon a little longer – I never finish the cryptic.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Special Dispatch: St Giles Café, Oxford
St Giles Café
52 St. Giles
City Centre
Oxford
OX1 3LU
01865 552 110
by Brian Sauce
I descend upon the city of dreaming spires, scene of a gilded, mis-spent youth, to witness the marriage of an old friend with my wife in tow. My alma mater, which pretends to teach students for a few weeks out of the year, is actually a glorified conference centre and bed and breakfast, and it is to this august establishment that we repair once totally drunk in order to pass out.
There is, however, no question of having breakfast there. In fact, as I stumble along the park railings pointing out local attractions to my long suffering bride in the dead of night, I beg her to eschew our all-included college slops and to visit the St Giles Café with me the following day.
Entering the next morning, slightly the worse for wear but wreathed in smiles of nostalgia and anticipation, I am aghast to see that the place has had an ‘American Diner’ style makeover. However, this must have been a while ago because it is thankfully now as grubby as ever it was. Happy to report also, that the staff are the same, and consistently rude.
My wife is fixating on the beautiful setting of my idle youth, the medieval splendour, the lavish rooms, the Quidditch hoop… but I am gripped by breakfast. Political Correctness has gone mad to the extent that chips are not now served before noon. Or perhaps I never visited this early in days of yore. However a splendid platter of bacon, sausage, eggs, beans and toast arrives in minutes. Or rather, I am shouted at to come and get it.
Beans: firm. Eggs: perfectly runny. Toast: white sliced, pre-larded with salty butter. Sausage: superior supermarket variety. Bacon: the best bit, all crispy fat and wide, thick flavour. By God, Health and Safety have also been at the sachets, warning me not to eat too much salt, shut up. A liberal spray of ketchup is all I wanted anyway.
Are you going to finish that, dear? If there’s one thing better than a big breakfast it’s having one with my wife i.e. a bonus rasher at the end. Love her!
The St Giles Café has enjoyed many continuous years salving the hangovers of stupid children and corpulent construction workers and does one of the better five pound breakfasts you will eat – certainly the best in this provincial setting.
52 St. Giles
City Centre
Oxford
OX1 3LU
01865 552 110
by Brian Sauce
I descend upon the city of dreaming spires, scene of a gilded, mis-spent youth, to witness the marriage of an old friend with my wife in tow. My alma mater, which pretends to teach students for a few weeks out of the year, is actually a glorified conference centre and bed and breakfast, and it is to this august establishment that we repair once totally drunk in order to pass out.
There is, however, no question of having breakfast there. In fact, as I stumble along the park railings pointing out local attractions to my long suffering bride in the dead of night, I beg her to eschew our all-included college slops and to visit the St Giles Café with me the following day.
Entering the next morning, slightly the worse for wear but wreathed in smiles of nostalgia and anticipation, I am aghast to see that the place has had an ‘American Diner’ style makeover. However, this must have been a while ago because it is thankfully now as grubby as ever it was. Happy to report also, that the staff are the same, and consistently rude.
My wife is fixating on the beautiful setting of my idle youth, the medieval splendour, the lavish rooms, the Quidditch hoop… but I am gripped by breakfast. Political Correctness has gone mad to the extent that chips are not now served before noon. Or perhaps I never visited this early in days of yore. However a splendid platter of bacon, sausage, eggs, beans and toast arrives in minutes. Or rather, I am shouted at to come and get it.
Beans: firm. Eggs: perfectly runny. Toast: white sliced, pre-larded with salty butter. Sausage: superior supermarket variety. Bacon: the best bit, all crispy fat and wide, thick flavour. By God, Health and Safety have also been at the sachets, warning me not to eat too much salt, shut up. A liberal spray of ketchup is all I wanted anyway.
Are you going to finish that, dear? If there’s one thing better than a big breakfast it’s having one with my wife i.e. a bonus rasher at the end. Love her!
The St Giles Café has enjoyed many continuous years salving the hangovers of stupid children and corpulent construction workers and does one of the better five pound breakfasts you will eat – certainly the best in this provincial setting.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Special Dispatch: Not Manic Organic, Glastonbury Festival
Not Manic Organic
Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
This is an apology where a review should be. I'm filing it to my editor, Malcolm Eggs, and it will be up to him whether he runs it or not [I think the public needs to hear this - Ed]. All I can say is that with the the clarity that only comes with hindsight, I now realise that perhaps Manic Organic and I will never be united in breakfasting glory. For the third year running, I have tried, and failed, to review their vegan breakfast. This year, I made the mistake of promising myself a Manic breakfast on the last day, the Sunday. In the preceding days I would sample other delights, or cook my own breakfasts to save money. Manic Organic would be a treat, I had told myself. I passed the stall every day and beamed at it, giving it a little knowing nod. I even took a photo and sent it to the LRB's esteemed editor when he got in touch to see how I was getting on. It was all in hand, he had nothing to worry about: 2010 would be the year it happened. I had no reason to doubt that it would.
Now that I'm home, I've had the time to meditate on the facts. I even discussed it with my Breakfast Spiritual Advisor - she who puts a bowl of muesli and a jug of milk on her bedside table the night before in order to take her first course the minute she wakes. BSA suspects that perhaps Manic Organic and I have some kind of mutual karmic block. Bad blood. Unresolved issues from past lives. She says I need to make peace with the place before the universe will allow me to get there. She's suggested I go to their Cafe in Birmingham with an offering before Glastonbury 2011.
And so, to the facts, dear reader:
- I awoke on Sunday at 11am.
- I had a shower, got changed and shook off my hangover with a cup of tea and a slice of orange and walnut cake from Queen Deliah's veggie cafe two doors over from Manic. The cake was delicious and orangey - somewhere between cake and an undercooked brownie. The tea was a little watery for my liking.
- Afterwards, I decided to go and see a friend I had kept missing all weekend, about a 25 minute walk away. I was full from the cake and tea and thought I would leave it an hour or so and come back for my Manic feast with a clear head.
- At about 4pm, I was called by Mr Jamm in a state of panic. He sent me on a mission collecting much needed footage for a video that was being shot and edited on-site. I had to find famous people and interview them for it.
- My assignment meant that I had to spend the next hours sweet-talking musicians' weedy managers into letting me chat to them after they came off stage. All the while, I was very aware that Manic Organic is getting further and further away from me.
- By the time I finished said assignment, I dropped the camera off at the production office and ran (RAN!) to catch Stevie Wonder at the Pyramid stage.
- The rest, in all honesty, is a hazy mixture of rum, friends, joy and laughter. No Manic breakfast.
- Monday morning was spent packing up. I had breakfast made for me. I made the foolish assumption that Manic Organic would be packing up, too. We passed it as we drove away, a small queue of die-hard fans stood waiting for their last breakfast of the festival. I shed a tear, and pawed at the window as we passed. Sad times.
And that is what happened. I now know that I should have been brave and taken breakfast at Manic Organic, instead of tea and cake at Queen Delilah's. I now know that I need to make a pilgrimage to Birmingham to make peace. Then and only then will I get that review to you all next year. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm sorry I failed you.
Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
This is an apology where a review should be. I'm filing it to my editor, Malcolm Eggs, and it will be up to him whether he runs it or not [I think the public needs to hear this - Ed]. All I can say is that with the the clarity that only comes with hindsight, I now realise that perhaps Manic Organic and I will never be united in breakfasting glory. For the third year running, I have tried, and failed, to review their vegan breakfast. This year, I made the mistake of promising myself a Manic breakfast on the last day, the Sunday. In the preceding days I would sample other delights, or cook my own breakfasts to save money. Manic Organic would be a treat, I had told myself. I passed the stall every day and beamed at it, giving it a little knowing nod. I even took a photo and sent it to the LRB's esteemed editor when he got in touch to see how I was getting on. It was all in hand, he had nothing to worry about: 2010 would be the year it happened. I had no reason to doubt that it would.
Now that I'm home, I've had the time to meditate on the facts. I even discussed it with my Breakfast Spiritual Advisor - she who puts a bowl of muesli and a jug of milk on her bedside table the night before in order to take her first course the minute she wakes. BSA suspects that perhaps Manic Organic and I have some kind of mutual karmic block. Bad blood. Unresolved issues from past lives. She says I need to make peace with the place before the universe will allow me to get there. She's suggested I go to their Cafe in Birmingham with an offering before Glastonbury 2011.
And so, to the facts, dear reader:
- I awoke on Sunday at 11am.
- I had a shower, got changed and shook off my hangover with a cup of tea and a slice of orange and walnut cake from Queen Deliah's veggie cafe two doors over from Manic. The cake was delicious and orangey - somewhere between cake and an undercooked brownie. The tea was a little watery for my liking.
- Afterwards, I decided to go and see a friend I had kept missing all weekend, about a 25 minute walk away. I was full from the cake and tea and thought I would leave it an hour or so and come back for my Manic feast with a clear head.
- At about 4pm, I was called by Mr Jamm in a state of panic. He sent me on a mission collecting much needed footage for a video that was being shot and edited on-site. I had to find famous people and interview them for it.
- My assignment meant that I had to spend the next hours sweet-talking musicians' weedy managers into letting me chat to them after they came off stage. All the while, I was very aware that Manic Organic is getting further and further away from me.
- By the time I finished said assignment, I dropped the camera off at the production office and ran (RAN!) to catch Stevie Wonder at the Pyramid stage.
- The rest, in all honesty, is a hazy mixture of rum, friends, joy and laughter. No Manic breakfast.
- Monday morning was spent packing up. I had breakfast made for me. I made the foolish assumption that Manic Organic would be packing up, too. We passed it as we drove away, a small queue of die-hard fans stood waiting for their last breakfast of the festival. I shed a tear, and pawed at the window as we passed. Sad times.
And that is what happened. I now know that I should have been brave and taken breakfast at Manic Organic, instead of tea and cake at Queen Delilah's. I now know that I need to make a pilgrimage to Birmingham to make peace. Then and only then will I get that review to you all next year. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm sorry I failed you.
Thursday, July 01, 2010
Andrews Café, Clerkenwell
Andrews Café
160 Gray's Inn Road
Clerkenwell
WC1X 8ED
020 7837 1630
by Gregg. E. Bread
As a lad I didn’t blink at the thought of a bowl of frosted shreddies or some such with hot milk for lunch. ‘Yes please Mother, that would be splendid, I love you’. Nor did I talk like that, but the truth of a half-hearted ungrateful shrug of ‘okay whatever mum I’m busy with all these micro machines yeah’ is so much tougher on my bubble-wrap memory of good-son utopia.
As a man such casual freedom has tensed into restraint; breakfast like a personal Von Trier ego trip.
Thou shalt not have the choice of both baked beans and tomatoes.
Thou shalt segregate baked beans from all egg on pain of making a face.
Thou shalt not eat chips with breakfast.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's egg (out loud).
Above all, breakfast can extend into lunch only when breakfast has not first been consumed or: you can’t eat breakfast twice.
Okay so there is brunch. I know. Brunch is like getting the glad eye from a cutie; a shared suggestive toying with what COULD BE. But what could (but may never) be is a weekend pursuit. I’m talking about weekdays and WHAT IS. You know, the stuff Mummy dearest wants to hear about when she phones.
Well, I recently got a new mum-pleasing career. My head finally removed from the warm belly of part-time study to the rigid posture of the second career that I thought I wanted. Thankfully colleague acceptance came early in the form of initiation rite; an invitation to eat Set Menu No.3 at the local brekkie merchants on Friday lunchtime. Grease is the new booze.
And so I took my seat amongst the off-colour Seurat décor and had little to do but wait, my choice made for me in the grand tradition of tradition. So came Set 3 - Fried Egg, Bacon, Sausage, Beans, Chips, Toast and Tea.
Frankly, the chips got my ticker edgy from the get go. Surely they only gain entry to festival of fry-up via the ‘belly-buster’ back door? A calming wave broke as these chips turned out to be more frites than doorstop. A classic cup of builders, thin and crisp bacon and the complete fried egg – aka ‘The Inbetweener’ (a yolk of runny yet sticky gloop) – suggested a happy welcome.
Then the smiles abated – time for the paddled ass of the rite of passage – as I took a keenly chomped mouthful of sausage and beans. Oh but how low these good friends had fallen. The sausage - internally caked in a faux-pink rouge – was sickeningly scented with knock-off pork musk. The beans appeared hot with their jackets on but once stripped they lay lifeless between my teeth - old, bitter haricots. I sought salvation in trusty toast. But what was this? Like some Englishman lain asleep in the midday sun, I marvelled at a crisp back and a white squidgy top. Praise be then for brown sauce – making iffy breakfast palatable since my Mother started cooking.
So there, I made it Mum, I can afford to spend £5.30 on lunch again. I’d still take the micro machines and shreddies over this any day.
160 Gray's Inn Road
Clerkenwell
WC1X 8ED
020 7837 1630
by Gregg. E. Bread
As a lad I didn’t blink at the thought of a bowl of frosted shreddies or some such with hot milk for lunch. ‘Yes please Mother, that would be splendid, I love you’. Nor did I talk like that, but the truth of a half-hearted ungrateful shrug of ‘okay whatever mum I’m busy with all these micro machines yeah’ is so much tougher on my bubble-wrap memory of good-son utopia.
As a man such casual freedom has tensed into restraint; breakfast like a personal Von Trier ego trip.
Thou shalt not have the choice of both baked beans and tomatoes.
Thou shalt segregate baked beans from all egg on pain of making a face.
Thou shalt not eat chips with breakfast.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's egg (out loud).
Above all, breakfast can extend into lunch only when breakfast has not first been consumed or: you can’t eat breakfast twice.
Okay so there is brunch. I know. Brunch is like getting the glad eye from a cutie; a shared suggestive toying with what COULD BE. But what could (but may never) be is a weekend pursuit. I’m talking about weekdays and WHAT IS. You know, the stuff Mummy dearest wants to hear about when she phones.
Well, I recently got a new mum-pleasing career. My head finally removed from the warm belly of part-time study to the rigid posture of the second career that I thought I wanted. Thankfully colleague acceptance came early in the form of initiation rite; an invitation to eat Set Menu No.3 at the local brekkie merchants on Friday lunchtime. Grease is the new booze.
And so I took my seat amongst the off-colour Seurat décor and had little to do but wait, my choice made for me in the grand tradition of tradition. So came Set 3 - Fried Egg, Bacon, Sausage, Beans, Chips, Toast and Tea.
Frankly, the chips got my ticker edgy from the get go. Surely they only gain entry to festival of fry-up via the ‘belly-buster’ back door? A calming wave broke as these chips turned out to be more frites than doorstop. A classic cup of builders, thin and crisp bacon and the complete fried egg – aka ‘The Inbetweener’ (a yolk of runny yet sticky gloop) – suggested a happy welcome.
Then the smiles abated – time for the paddled ass of the rite of passage – as I took a keenly chomped mouthful of sausage and beans. Oh but how low these good friends had fallen. The sausage - internally caked in a faux-pink rouge – was sickeningly scented with knock-off pork musk. The beans appeared hot with their jackets on but once stripped they lay lifeless between my teeth - old, bitter haricots. I sought salvation in trusty toast. But what was this? Like some Englishman lain asleep in the midday sun, I marvelled at a crisp back and a white squidgy top. Praise be then for brown sauce – making iffy breakfast palatable since my Mother started cooking.
So there, I made it Mum, I can afford to spend £5.30 on lunch again. I’d still take the micro machines and shreddies over this any day.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Cafe Aion, Boulder, Colorado, USA
Cafe Aion
1235 Pennsylvania Avenue
Boulder, CO 80302-7095
United States
(303) 993-8131
www.cafeaion.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Boulder is one of America’s most interesting cities: like an experimental new age version of America. It’s nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a 40 minute drive from Denver which is known as Mile High City because of a stratospheric altitude that makes everything just a little bit tiring. Outdoor sports zealots mix with Colorado University students and hippies by the hemp sack-load. Walking around the immaculately clean streets meanwhile it’s not hard to imagine what it was like back in the days of real horsepower and saloon bars. Locals have to be careful of the wildlife that roams around town: dogs frequently get snatched by mountain lions and it’s very common to see deer stretching their legs around the leafier areas of town.
Whilst Boulder feels so different from mainstream America, thankfully it still excels at brunch. Only in America could you get away with eating braised short ribs first thing in the morning. At newly opened Café Aion, near Boulder’s University of Colorado campus, they serve them with shoe string fries and poached eggs on their sunny terrace. You eat and you watch a view of the Flat Iron Mountains, changing colour like a chameleon snoozing in front of a disco light. It makes you want to do a Paddington Bear and bottle the combination in a jam jar.
The short ribs were braised until tender and then grilled to add some charry flavour. The succulent meat was a perfect foil for the flawlessly poached eggs. But the shoe string fries were so thin and crispy that they were impossible to grapple with. Each time you tried to spear them with your fork they splintered into tinier and tinier pieces of carbo-shrapnel. Forget about any yolk absorbtion.
A bowl of granola, yoghurt and Moroccan stewed fruit made us feel more healthy whilst a Bellini cocktail seemed rude to refuse and let us linger for longer as we watched the natives of Boulder go about their lives: students tried to break into a car that had been abandoned in the middle of a main road; runners eased down the hill and struggled on the way back up; Enormous SUVs with tyres the size of Denver rumbled past like earthquakes on wheels; and sprinklings of aspiring writers tapped away at laptops no doubt watching us watching them in a seemingly infinite regression of observation.
Café Aion’s brunch was first class. It’s rare to find such an interesting menu, graced with a range of dishes you hardly ever see at breakfast time. And it’s worth a visit for the short ribs alone.
1235 Pennsylvania Avenue
Boulder, CO 80302-7095
United States
(303) 993-8131
www.cafeaion.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Boulder is one of America’s most interesting cities: like an experimental new age version of America. It’s nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a 40 minute drive from Denver which is known as Mile High City because of a stratospheric altitude that makes everything just a little bit tiring. Outdoor sports zealots mix with Colorado University students and hippies by the hemp sack-load. Walking around the immaculately clean streets meanwhile it’s not hard to imagine what it was like back in the days of real horsepower and saloon bars. Locals have to be careful of the wildlife that roams around town: dogs frequently get snatched by mountain lions and it’s very common to see deer stretching their legs around the leafier areas of town.
Whilst Boulder feels so different from mainstream America, thankfully it still excels at brunch. Only in America could you get away with eating braised short ribs first thing in the morning. At newly opened Café Aion, near Boulder’s University of Colorado campus, they serve them with shoe string fries and poached eggs on their sunny terrace. You eat and you watch a view of the Flat Iron Mountains, changing colour like a chameleon snoozing in front of a disco light. It makes you want to do a Paddington Bear and bottle the combination in a jam jar.
The short ribs were braised until tender and then grilled to add some charry flavour. The succulent meat was a perfect foil for the flawlessly poached eggs. But the shoe string fries were so thin and crispy that they were impossible to grapple with. Each time you tried to spear them with your fork they splintered into tinier and tinier pieces of carbo-shrapnel. Forget about any yolk absorbtion.
A bowl of granola, yoghurt and Moroccan stewed fruit made us feel more healthy whilst a Bellini cocktail seemed rude to refuse and let us linger for longer as we watched the natives of Boulder go about their lives: students tried to break into a car that had been abandoned in the middle of a main road; runners eased down the hill and struggled on the way back up; Enormous SUVs with tyres the size of Denver rumbled past like earthquakes on wheels; and sprinklings of aspiring writers tapped away at laptops no doubt watching us watching them in a seemingly infinite regression of observation.
Café Aion’s brunch was first class. It’s rare to find such an interesting menu, graced with a range of dishes you hardly ever see at breakfast time. And it’s worth a visit for the short ribs alone.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Campania Gastronomia, Shoreditch
Campania Gastronomia
95 Columbia Rd
Shoreditch
E2 7RG
020 7613 0015
by Malcolm Eggs
Campania is as authentic a rustic Italian café deli as it's humanly possible to be when you're based at the Shoreditch end of Hackney. There is ramshackle wooden furniture, a tall rack of sepia-tinted bottles and a tiny kitchen manned by a proud-looking cook. In a large, wide fridge sit hunks of meat, blocks of cheese and cans of amusingly named continental fizzy drinks.
But the breakfast menu is about as Italian as Castlemaine XXXX is Australian. Take my 'benerica': fried eggs in olive oil, Neopolitan sausages, pancetta, rocket. A British fry-up, basically, viewed through Rossini-tinted glasses - the chicken tikka masala of fare colazione.
But is this a terrible thing? As we've pointed out before, Italy is known for many things, and many of these are culinary, but none of them are breakfast. It has always been thus: evidence from Pompeii suggests mornings powered merely by bread and water, but at least there was food. Barring remarkable luck, today's breakfasting tourist must learn to get by on dense espresso washed down with strong cigarette.
Give me a Campania breakfast any day of the week - unctuous, dense sausages and tasty pancetta satisfyingly laced with ovals of unyielding fat. My faultless eggs had a healthy - virtually Deep South - olive oil glow. You'll be wondering about the rocket, because rocket on a breakfast plate is always weird: it was true here too, but given that proviso it played its role strangely well - a deft junior partner in an oddball coalition.
Looking around smugly after an excellent double macchiato I noticed an even more telling East London tic: a chandelier. But hey, I reflected, if the breakfasts are this good, I wouldn't care if the whole place turned out to be run by Vice magazine, who it transpired had been bought by Café Rouge, who in turn were a subsidiary of Nestlé. That would be fine, I realised cheerily.
95 Columbia Rd
Shoreditch
E2 7RG
020 7613 0015
by Malcolm Eggs
Campania is as authentic a rustic Italian café deli as it's humanly possible to be when you're based at the Shoreditch end of Hackney. There is ramshackle wooden furniture, a tall rack of sepia-tinted bottles and a tiny kitchen manned by a proud-looking cook. In a large, wide fridge sit hunks of meat, blocks of cheese and cans of amusingly named continental fizzy drinks.
But the breakfast menu is about as Italian as Castlemaine XXXX is Australian. Take my 'benerica': fried eggs in olive oil, Neopolitan sausages, pancetta, rocket. A British fry-up, basically, viewed through Rossini-tinted glasses - the chicken tikka masala of fare colazione.
But is this a terrible thing? As we've pointed out before, Italy is known for many things, and many of these are culinary, but none of them are breakfast. It has always been thus: evidence from Pompeii suggests mornings powered merely by bread and water, but at least there was food. Barring remarkable luck, today's breakfasting tourist must learn to get by on dense espresso washed down with strong cigarette.
Give me a Campania breakfast any day of the week - unctuous, dense sausages and tasty pancetta satisfyingly laced with ovals of unyielding fat. My faultless eggs had a healthy - virtually Deep South - olive oil glow. You'll be wondering about the rocket, because rocket on a breakfast plate is always weird: it was true here too, but given that proviso it played its role strangely well - a deft junior partner in an oddball coalition.
Looking around smugly after an excellent double macchiato I noticed an even more telling East London tic: a chandelier. But hey, I reflected, if the breakfasts are this good, I wouldn't care if the whole place turned out to be run by Vice magazine, who it transpired had been bought by Café Rouge, who in turn were a subsidiary of Nestlé. That would be fine, I realised cheerily.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Lucile's, Boulder, USA
Lucile's
2124 14th Street
Boulder, CO 80302-4804
United States
001 (303) 442-4743
www.luciles.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Gaunt and be-shorted men, women and children loitered around the wooden creole house like addicts gagging for a shot of methadone to sooth them through the sticky morning. Names were called out and faces blossomed as their turn was announced. Being British, the sight of a queue got us hooked and within a skipped heartbeat we were jostling for position wondering what all the fuss was about.
Once invited inside it became clear that the emaciated people around us weren’t druggies. They were just far leaner than their normal American compatriots, which isn’t surprising seeing as most of Boulder lives off lentils, hemp and a healthy intake of medicinal marijuana.
Lucile’s is a creole restaurant housed inside a New Orleans style weatherboard building with a brunch menu that is enough to give you jaw ache just from looking at it. Whilst sipping grapefruit juice we gawped at the food being devoured around us and ordered the most unusual things we could see.
My “Eggs Pontchartrain” arrived with a thud: Colorado mountain trout and two poached eggs slathered in béarnaise sauce and flanked by both grits and sautéed potatoes. The eggs were so perfectly soft that they ran all over the trout like a flash flood, while the béarnaise sauce was so naughty that it had probably just put drawing pins on its teacher’s chair whilst giving its brother a Chinese burn. The white trout flesh flaked sensuously under the weight of the eggs to create a flavour combination not a million miles away from that British summer lunchtime treat of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce garnished with dill.
Washed down with some bitter chicory coffee, it was as delicious as it was filling and unusual. Next door a creole breakfast with stewed beans, spicy sausage, poached eggs and sautéed potatoes was every bit as gut busting – so much so that we were unforgivably unable to order their famous beignets, watching sadly as the sugar dusted square doughnuts wafted past on trays.
Lucile’s is rightly revered as one of Colorado’s leading breakfast institutions and deserves a visit if you are near Mile High City. After just one hit I am gagging for more.
2124 14th Street
Boulder, CO 80302-4804
United States
001 (303) 442-4743
www.luciles.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Gaunt and be-shorted men, women and children loitered around the wooden creole house like addicts gagging for a shot of methadone to sooth them through the sticky morning. Names were called out and faces blossomed as their turn was announced. Being British, the sight of a queue got us hooked and within a skipped heartbeat we were jostling for position wondering what all the fuss was about.
Once invited inside it became clear that the emaciated people around us weren’t druggies. They were just far leaner than their normal American compatriots, which isn’t surprising seeing as most of Boulder lives off lentils, hemp and a healthy intake of medicinal marijuana.
Lucile’s is a creole restaurant housed inside a New Orleans style weatherboard building with a brunch menu that is enough to give you jaw ache just from looking at it. Whilst sipping grapefruit juice we gawped at the food being devoured around us and ordered the most unusual things we could see.
My “Eggs Pontchartrain” arrived with a thud: Colorado mountain trout and two poached eggs slathered in béarnaise sauce and flanked by both grits and sautéed potatoes. The eggs were so perfectly soft that they ran all over the trout like a flash flood, while the béarnaise sauce was so naughty that it had probably just put drawing pins on its teacher’s chair whilst giving its brother a Chinese burn. The white trout flesh flaked sensuously under the weight of the eggs to create a flavour combination not a million miles away from that British summer lunchtime treat of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce garnished with dill.
Washed down with some bitter chicory coffee, it was as delicious as it was filling and unusual. Next door a creole breakfast with stewed beans, spicy sausage, poached eggs and sautéed potatoes was every bit as gut busting – so much so that we were unforgivably unable to order their famous beignets, watching sadly as the sugar dusted square doughnuts wafted past on trays.
Lucile’s is rightly revered as one of Colorado’s leading breakfast institutions and deserves a visit if you are near Mile High City. After just one hit I am gagging for more.
Monday, May 17, 2010
British Airways breakfast, somewhere over northern Portugal
British Airways breakfast
(somewhere over northern Portugal)
by hAshley Brown
Altitude: 32000 feet, Speed: 532 mph, Outside temp: -55 C.
It's 5.32am (time at destination) and somewhere between an ashcloud and an impending strike, flight BA246 hopes to land at Heathrow sooner rather than later. Rumour has it that whilst we've been in the air (en route from Buenos Aires via Sao Paolo) Heathrow has closed and may well reopen again. But right now, in the cycle of false dusks and dawns regulated by the steely yet good-humoured will of the air stewardesses, the fitful mid night slumbers of my cabin compadres has been forcefully truncated by cabin lights and an offer of breakfast.
It's full English breakfasts, or cheese croissants, that are hidden alluringly below the foil lids and have been tucked up warm since we left Brazil. My stewardess assures me that all the cheese croissants will go, as Brazilians don't really 'get' the bacon and eggs. It's a heavy responsibility for our national carrier: for many, their first taste of our national dish may come on a little tray and be eaten with branded plastic cutlery. (The irony being of course that this pivotal meal is never assembled on home shores. I imagine they have good reason for not calling this one the full Brazilian.)
Considering the challenges faced by anyone trying to keep a breakfast warm and decent-tasting for 12 hours, this meal certainly tries. A fattier cut of streaky bacon, once grilled, now taking on a braised demeanour, is full of flavour if somewhat oversalted. A little sausage lurks behind a pile of baked tomato slices, the tomato prone to blandness, the sausage coarse cut and lightly spiced. But there is a blot on the horizon, like the belching Eyjafjallajökull - a pile of scrambled eggs, ruining everything for everyone. With a granularity not dissimilar to that of looming ashcloud, these eggs are not of this world and certainly not from any chicken i've ever met.
Elsewhere on the tray - a fruit medley of papaya, pineapple and over-eager melon join some brazillian orange juice, the ubiquitous plain muffin (prizes to whoever can get it out of the plastic wrapper with glazed muffin top intact), and some perfunctory coffee.
It's not the greatest breakfast, yet the novelty of its arrival, and the lucky-break in airspace restrictions that followed, makes it taste all the better.
(somewhere over northern Portugal)
by hAshley Brown
Altitude: 32000 feet, Speed: 532 mph, Outside temp: -55 C.
It's 5.32am (time at destination) and somewhere between an ashcloud and an impending strike, flight BA246 hopes to land at Heathrow sooner rather than later. Rumour has it that whilst we've been in the air (en route from Buenos Aires via Sao Paolo) Heathrow has closed and may well reopen again. But right now, in the cycle of false dusks and dawns regulated by the steely yet good-humoured will of the air stewardesses, the fitful mid night slumbers of my cabin compadres has been forcefully truncated by cabin lights and an offer of breakfast.
It's full English breakfasts, or cheese croissants, that are hidden alluringly below the foil lids and have been tucked up warm since we left Brazil. My stewardess assures me that all the cheese croissants will go, as Brazilians don't really 'get' the bacon and eggs. It's a heavy responsibility for our national carrier: for many, their first taste of our national dish may come on a little tray and be eaten with branded plastic cutlery. (The irony being of course that this pivotal meal is never assembled on home shores. I imagine they have good reason for not calling this one the full Brazilian.)
Considering the challenges faced by anyone trying to keep a breakfast warm and decent-tasting for 12 hours, this meal certainly tries. A fattier cut of streaky bacon, once grilled, now taking on a braised demeanour, is full of flavour if somewhat oversalted. A little sausage lurks behind a pile of baked tomato slices, the tomato prone to blandness, the sausage coarse cut and lightly spiced. But there is a blot on the horizon, like the belching Eyjafjallajökull - a pile of scrambled eggs, ruining everything for everyone. With a granularity not dissimilar to that of looming ashcloud, these eggs are not of this world and certainly not from any chicken i've ever met.
Elsewhere on the tray - a fruit medley of papaya, pineapple and over-eager melon join some brazillian orange juice, the ubiquitous plain muffin (prizes to whoever can get it out of the plastic wrapper with glazed muffin top intact), and some perfunctory coffee.
It's not the greatest breakfast, yet the novelty of its arrival, and the lucky-break in airspace restrictions that followed, makes it taste all the better.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Towpath, De Beauvoir Town
Towpath
Regent's Canal Towpath by DeBeauvoir Bridge
42 De Beauvoir Crescent
De Beauvoir Town
N1 5SB
Open from 8am, Mon - Fri; 10am Sat; 11am Sun
by Joyce Carol Oats
Porridge: at once the most hated of breakfast foods and one of the most beloved. Porridge done well is amazing, while porridge done badly (the default of too many chefs) can result in a culinary ennui that might put one off eating breakfast for ever. With a name like Oats (of the Dumfries Oatses), you’ll not be surprised to learn that I take my porridge with salt, with honey or maple syrup, and very seriously. Such is the passion of my love affair with porridge that I'll rarely relinquish control over my morning grains to anyone.
But there was just something promising about the porridge at the Towpath, a little cafe tucked into a former canalboat house on the Regent’s Canal towpath (surprise!), now serving breakfast and lunch and cake and coffee to hipsters of a certain age under a modicum of shelter. The seats face outwards, in the manner of the best French cafes, perfect for watching people and dogs and birds go by. The service at the Towpath is shambolic, but this is suited to the shabby-chic (burlap sacks, mismatched cutlery) aesthetic: the staff are friendly and cute and seem capable, but ill-equipped to handle volume. They get testy behind their small counter and you begin to feel a bit nervous that one of them might chuck another one into the canal. This would also be suited to the shabby-chic aesthetic.
The breakfast menu is brief, perhaps because of the limitations of a tiny kitchen, but the porridge stands out: not unreasonably priced (£3), topped with poached pears, something that even this self-described porridge professional had never encountered. And it was pure poetry. Served in twee, chintzy porcelain, the oats themselves were substantial, with just a touch of chewiness, cooked in milk but not too creamy, and with the essential touch of salt that my people (the Scottish ones, anyway) insist upon. The poaching of the pears was perfect: like the oats, they were soft but firm, not mushy, and they had been steeped in – wait for it – rosemary. I know! With a touch of brown sugar, which was supplied separately, this was only slightly short of orgasm-by-porridge. Did you not previously associate porridge with sex, dear reader? You will.
Regent's Canal Towpath by DeBeauvoir Bridge
42 De Beauvoir Crescent
De Beauvoir Town
N1 5SB
Open from 8am, Mon - Fri; 10am Sat; 11am Sun
by Joyce Carol Oats
Porridge: at once the most hated of breakfast foods and one of the most beloved. Porridge done well is amazing, while porridge done badly (the default of too many chefs) can result in a culinary ennui that might put one off eating breakfast for ever. With a name like Oats (of the Dumfries Oatses), you’ll not be surprised to learn that I take my porridge with salt, with honey or maple syrup, and very seriously. Such is the passion of my love affair with porridge that I'll rarely relinquish control over my morning grains to anyone.
But there was just something promising about the porridge at the Towpath, a little cafe tucked into a former canalboat house on the Regent’s Canal towpath (surprise!), now serving breakfast and lunch and cake and coffee to hipsters of a certain age under a modicum of shelter. The seats face outwards, in the manner of the best French cafes, perfect for watching people and dogs and birds go by. The service at the Towpath is shambolic, but this is suited to the shabby-chic (burlap sacks, mismatched cutlery) aesthetic: the staff are friendly and cute and seem capable, but ill-equipped to handle volume. They get testy behind their small counter and you begin to feel a bit nervous that one of them might chuck another one into the canal. This would also be suited to the shabby-chic aesthetic.
The breakfast menu is brief, perhaps because of the limitations of a tiny kitchen, but the porridge stands out: not unreasonably priced (£3), topped with poached pears, something that even this self-described porridge professional had never encountered. And it was pure poetry. Served in twee, chintzy porcelain, the oats themselves were substantial, with just a touch of chewiness, cooked in milk but not too creamy, and with the essential touch of salt that my people (the Scottish ones, anyway) insist upon. The poaching of the pears was perfect: like the oats, they were soft but firm, not mushy, and they had been steeped in – wait for it – rosemary. I know! With a touch of brown sugar, which was supplied separately, this was only slightly short of orgasm-by-porridge. Did you not previously associate porridge with sex, dear reader? You will.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Garufa Argentine Grill, Highbury
Garufa Argentine Grill
104 Highbury Park
Highbury
N5 2XE
020 7226 0070
www.garufa.co.uk
by Sigmund Fried
The idea of steak for breakfast is ostensibly ridiculous; bloody and parlous it’s synonymous with late nights, shouty conversations and red wine. In the context of a Saturday morning meal, which is all softly delineated regrets and coffee, it seems kind of wrong. But what the hell, I’d made a date with Hashley Brown and compared to his increasingly esoteric culinary forays into the world of the Leopold Bloom-esque breakfast (“Inner organs of beasts and fowls…”), steak was child’s play: a black livered, pastis-slurping French child perhaps, but child’s play nonetheless.
We’d decided on the Garufa Grill by virtue of it being about 30 seconds from Hashley’s house and because we’d had a pretty satisfying late dinner at this charming Argentinian restaurant two weeks previously with Mrs Brown and her visiting sister. So with Ed Benedict and a couple of others in tow we made it to Garufa bleary-eyed and ordered the “Full Argentine Breakfast” (£9.80). Except for Ed, that is, who as a veggie opted, much to his chagrin — and our amusement – for organic muesli with 'milk or yogurt' (£2.50). Still, despite the tears and cursing he seemed to like it, as we all did the numerous, delicious café lattes we mainlined.
Back to the main event, we were more than satisfied. The scrambled eggs were creamy, the Portobello mushroom juicy and garlicky, and the 150g Argentine rump steak an artery-clogging treat, but it was the “Argentine-style” sausage’s pleasing spiciness that garnered the biggest plaudits. And the grilled tomato and toast were as good a supporting cast as could be hoped for. Happily sated and surrounded by good friends, I made up my mind about the steak issue there and then. Would I have it again? Yes I said yes I will Yes.
104 Highbury Park
Highbury
N5 2XE
020 7226 0070
www.garufa.co.uk
by Sigmund Fried
The idea of steak for breakfast is ostensibly ridiculous; bloody and parlous it’s synonymous with late nights, shouty conversations and red wine. In the context of a Saturday morning meal, which is all softly delineated regrets and coffee, it seems kind of wrong. But what the hell, I’d made a date with Hashley Brown and compared to his increasingly esoteric culinary forays into the world of the Leopold Bloom-esque breakfast (“Inner organs of beasts and fowls…”), steak was child’s play: a black livered, pastis-slurping French child perhaps, but child’s play nonetheless.
We’d decided on the Garufa Grill by virtue of it being about 30 seconds from Hashley’s house and because we’d had a pretty satisfying late dinner at this charming Argentinian restaurant two weeks previously with Mrs Brown and her visiting sister. So with Ed Benedict and a couple of others in tow we made it to Garufa bleary-eyed and ordered the “Full Argentine Breakfast” (£9.80). Except for Ed, that is, who as a veggie opted, much to his chagrin — and our amusement – for organic muesli with 'milk or yogurt' (£2.50). Still, despite the tears and cursing he seemed to like it, as we all did the numerous, delicious café lattes we mainlined.
Back to the main event, we were more than satisfied. The scrambled eggs were creamy, the Portobello mushroom juicy and garlicky, and the 150g Argentine rump steak an artery-clogging treat, but it was the “Argentine-style” sausage’s pleasing spiciness that garnered the biggest plaudits. And the grilled tomato and toast were as good a supporting cast as could be hoped for. Happily sated and surrounded by good friends, I made up my mind about the steak issue there and then. Would I have it again? Yes I said yes I will Yes.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Volcanic Dispash: Cafe 1916, Palma, Mallorca
Cafe 1916
Plaza de España, 4
07002 Palma
Mallorca
Spain
++34 971 71 88 19
by Caff Kidston
Mallorcans are generally a happy bunch. Stranded Brits however are morose and sulky. It is suspected that this Hispanic cheerfulness can be attributed to the weather or the plentiful supplies of sun-burnt foreigners, but no, there is a more surprising reason: the Mallorcan breakfast.
This is no bacon or porridge fest. It consists of four basic items, one of them quite surprising. First, coffee; a macho 'solo' for the gents, so strong you can (and indeed for entertainment value probably should) stand a spoon in it. Added fun comes in its being served in a glass and thus impossible to pick up due to the volcanic (topical bit there) temperature. The weaker ladies get a 'con leche' as befits their more delicate nature.
Then, sumo de naranja - orange juice. For some reason this sweet sun-warmed nectar comes with optional sugar to add, presumably for those planning to fly home without a plane, powered solely by the glucose rush.
The carbs are provided by the ensaimada, a snail shaped (though not flavoured) pastry covered in icing sugar which ensures that you will carry the evidence of your breakfast with you on your shirt for the rest of the day.
But the crowning glory of this bracer for the day, the thing which made King Jaime I a true conqueror (nope, me neither), the factor which makes the Spanish mad enough to get into confined spaces with angry bovines is... the shot of Torres brandy which comes as a compulsory ' side dish'. No wonder every day is a sunny one. Viva Espana indeed.
Plaza de España, 4
07002 Palma
Mallorca
Spain
++34 971 71 88 19
by Caff Kidston
Mallorcans are generally a happy bunch. Stranded Brits however are morose and sulky. It is suspected that this Hispanic cheerfulness can be attributed to the weather or the plentiful supplies of sun-burnt foreigners, but no, there is a more surprising reason: the Mallorcan breakfast.
This is no bacon or porridge fest. It consists of four basic items, one of them quite surprising. First, coffee; a macho 'solo' for the gents, so strong you can (and indeed for entertainment value probably should) stand a spoon in it. Added fun comes in its being served in a glass and thus impossible to pick up due to the volcanic (topical bit there) temperature. The weaker ladies get a 'con leche' as befits their more delicate nature.
Then, sumo de naranja - orange juice. For some reason this sweet sun-warmed nectar comes with optional sugar to add, presumably for those planning to fly home without a plane, powered solely by the glucose rush.
The carbs are provided by the ensaimada, a snail shaped (though not flavoured) pastry covered in icing sugar which ensures that you will carry the evidence of your breakfast with you on your shirt for the rest of the day.
But the crowning glory of this bracer for the day, the thing which made King Jaime I a true conqueror (nope, me neither), the factor which makes the Spanish mad enough to get into confined spaces with angry bovines is... the shot of Torres brandy which comes as a compulsory ' side dish'. No wonder every day is a sunny one. Viva Espana indeed.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Bistrot Bruno Loubet, Clerkenwell
Bistrot Bruno Loubet
The Zetter
86-88 Clerkenwell Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
www.bistrotbrunoloubet.com
by Shreddie Kruger
With a name like Bruno Loubet you only have two choices in life: porn star or chef. Sadly for the sex industry Bruno Loubet opted for the latter, which is also great news for anyone who likes rich French bistrot grub.
His boudoir of a restaurant is nestled in the buxom bosom of Clerkenwell on the ground floor of the Zetter hotel. The bistrot has gained a fine reputation since its recent launch for its full on, card-carrying French food, including a hare dish that has the density and delicacy of a porn star’s vagina - so we expected a sensual breakfast of silky eggs and slippery butter.
Several waiters and waitresses danced around like fluffers awaiting orders before bringing us cappuccinos that would have been at their peak five minutes before they arrived on our table. Whilst this works perfectly for roasted meats, it doesn’t for coffee.
As for breakfast itself, we all know that classic Eggs Benedict is composed of a toasted English muffin, a layer of grilled ham, soft poached eggs and lashings of hollandaise sauce. But while the version that was presented to me featured a perfectly poached egg and good if slightly under-acidic hollandaise, I must object to the inclusion of bacon rather than grilled ham. I love bacon. But not with my Eggs Bennie thank you very much. The history of Eggs Benedict is worthy of a tome of biblical proportions. Some charlatans suggest that bacon should be used but many more prefer grilled ham. One item of historical relevance is a letter by Mabel C. Butler of Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts to The New York Times Magazine November 1967:
“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, when they lived in New York around the turn of the century, dined every Saturday at Delmonico's. One day Mrs. Benedict said to the maitre d'hotel, "Haven't you anything new or different to suggest?" On his reply that he would like to hear something from her, she suggested poached eggs on toasted English muffins with a thin slice of ham, hollandaise sauce and a truffle on top.”
The reason that ham works so well and bacon so poorly is twofold. The extra fat in the bacon pushes the dish's richness over edge – instead of taking one year off your life it detracts a full three and adds a heart bypass in for good measure as well. Secondly, the texture of this dish should be soft. You should be able to eat it without using your teeth, therefore allowing the brain to do other important tasks such as reading the paper and waking up.
But don’t let the cold coffee and bacony Eggs Benedict put you off. Bistrot Bruno Loubet also offers a fine array of fruits, juices, breads, yoghurts and people watching as well as other interesting offerings such as poached eggs on pea pancake with crisp pancetta, which was excellent, or fennel seed cured salmon, vegetable muffin and cottage cheese.
It’s a breakfast for both curious adventurers who want to experiment a little and of course amateur porn stars. We just wish they’d been less ham fisted on the bacon front
The Zetter
86-88 Clerkenwell Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
www.bistrotbrunoloubet.com
by Shreddie Kruger
With a name like Bruno Loubet you only have two choices in life: porn star or chef. Sadly for the sex industry Bruno Loubet opted for the latter, which is also great news for anyone who likes rich French bistrot grub.
His boudoir of a restaurant is nestled in the buxom bosom of Clerkenwell on the ground floor of the Zetter hotel. The bistrot has gained a fine reputation since its recent launch for its full on, card-carrying French food, including a hare dish that has the density and delicacy of a porn star’s vagina - so we expected a sensual breakfast of silky eggs and slippery butter.
Several waiters and waitresses danced around like fluffers awaiting orders before bringing us cappuccinos that would have been at their peak five minutes before they arrived on our table. Whilst this works perfectly for roasted meats, it doesn’t for coffee.
As for breakfast itself, we all know that classic Eggs Benedict is composed of a toasted English muffin, a layer of grilled ham, soft poached eggs and lashings of hollandaise sauce. But while the version that was presented to me featured a perfectly poached egg and good if slightly under-acidic hollandaise, I must object to the inclusion of bacon rather than grilled ham. I love bacon. But not with my Eggs Bennie thank you very much. The history of Eggs Benedict is worthy of a tome of biblical proportions. Some charlatans suggest that bacon should be used but many more prefer grilled ham. One item of historical relevance is a letter by Mabel C. Butler of Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts to The New York Times Magazine November 1967:
“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, when they lived in New York around the turn of the century, dined every Saturday at Delmonico's. One day Mrs. Benedict said to the maitre d'hotel, "Haven't you anything new or different to suggest?" On his reply that he would like to hear something from her, she suggested poached eggs on toasted English muffins with a thin slice of ham, hollandaise sauce and a truffle on top.”
The reason that ham works so well and bacon so poorly is twofold. The extra fat in the bacon pushes the dish's richness over edge – instead of taking one year off your life it detracts a full three and adds a heart bypass in for good measure as well. Secondly, the texture of this dish should be soft. You should be able to eat it without using your teeth, therefore allowing the brain to do other important tasks such as reading the paper and waking up.
But don’t let the cold coffee and bacony Eggs Benedict put you off. Bistrot Bruno Loubet also offers a fine array of fruits, juices, breads, yoghurts and people watching as well as other interesting offerings such as poached eggs on pea pancake with crisp pancetta, which was excellent, or fennel seed cured salmon, vegetable muffin and cottage cheese.
It’s a breakfast for both curious adventurers who want to experiment a little and of course amateur porn stars. We just wish they’d been less ham fisted on the bacon front
Monday, April 19, 2010
Greaseless Spoon Cafe, Holborn
Greaseless Spoon Cafe by Tefal
7-8 Little Turnstile
Holborn
WC1 7DX
Mon 19th – Fri 23rd April, 9am – 4pm daily
To book tickets on Facebook click here
by Stephen Fry-Up
What better way to spend a Sunday evening than at 32 Great Queen Street in the company of, among others, esteemed Lon Review of Breakfasts stalwarts Malcolm Eggs and Hashley Brown? The whole shindig was a celebration of the recent marriage of another LRB lynchpin, Blake Pudding, to his delightful wife, Mrs Blake Pudding. Monday morning in the office was something of a rude awakening – tweeted offers of morning sherry did little to improve things. The only solution – breakfast.
Thank goodness then for Tefal, who'd invited yours truly to come and experience their new pop-up cafe near Holborn. Now, as much as the phrase 'pop-up' fills me with dread (they really do seem to be popping everything up these days – even toast...) free breakfast is free breakfast. So off I popped.
The whole thing is designed to promote Tefal's range of Nutricious and Delicious healthy cooking gadgets – they're offering customers all the glory of a full fry-up, with none of the guilt-inducing fatty stuff. That's the theory anyway.
Certainly the place looks how you might imagine – a cross between a proper greasy spoon (gingham tablecloths? Check) but with that slightly nauseating cleanliness also radiated by places like Giraffe. The menu is limited (no black pudding or hash browns or bubble) so I thought best to sample as much as possible by ordering the all-day breakfast.
The first thing that stuck me was the odd appearance of the poached egg – it looked like a sort of ceramic cylinder, and didn't taste particularly eggy. The sausages were fine – a cut above the usual, but nothing special, and they did have a rather odd texture. Beans and toast were beans and toast, tomato was tomato, and nowt to write home about there. Two stand-outs though: excellent mushrooms, and more butter than you could ever dream of scoffing. It was as if they were trying to make up for something...
And that something was a lack of grease. The whole point in a fry-up is that it's fatty and delicious. If you want healthy, eat a salad. Upon leaving the Greaseless Cafe I felt strange – somehow both full, and oddly empty. Rather like life then, I suppose: without grease and guilt, it just ain't worth living.
7-8 Little Turnstile
Holborn
WC1 7DX
Mon 19th – Fri 23rd April, 9am – 4pm daily
To book tickets on Facebook click here
by Stephen Fry-Up
What better way to spend a Sunday evening than at 32 Great Queen Street in the company of, among others, esteemed Lon Review of Breakfasts stalwarts Malcolm Eggs and Hashley Brown? The whole shindig was a celebration of the recent marriage of another LRB lynchpin, Blake Pudding, to his delightful wife, Mrs Blake Pudding. Monday morning in the office was something of a rude awakening – tweeted offers of morning sherry did little to improve things. The only solution – breakfast.
Thank goodness then for Tefal, who'd invited yours truly to come and experience their new pop-up cafe near Holborn. Now, as much as the phrase 'pop-up' fills me with dread (they really do seem to be popping everything up these days – even toast...) free breakfast is free breakfast. So off I popped.
The whole thing is designed to promote Tefal's range of Nutricious and Delicious healthy cooking gadgets – they're offering customers all the glory of a full fry-up, with none of the guilt-inducing fatty stuff. That's the theory anyway.
Certainly the place looks how you might imagine – a cross between a proper greasy spoon (gingham tablecloths? Check) but with that slightly nauseating cleanliness also radiated by places like Giraffe. The menu is limited (no black pudding or hash browns or bubble) so I thought best to sample as much as possible by ordering the all-day breakfast.
The first thing that stuck me was the odd appearance of the poached egg – it looked like a sort of ceramic cylinder, and didn't taste particularly eggy. The sausages were fine – a cut above the usual, but nothing special, and they did have a rather odd texture. Beans and toast were beans and toast, tomato was tomato, and nowt to write home about there. Two stand-outs though: excellent mushrooms, and more butter than you could ever dream of scoffing. It was as if they were trying to make up for something...
And that something was a lack of grease. The whole point in a fry-up is that it's fatty and delicious. If you want healthy, eat a salad. Upon leaving the Greaseless Cafe I felt strange – somehow both full, and oddly empty. Rather like life then, I suppose: without grease and guilt, it just ain't worth living.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Breakfast from America: The Cleveland Clinic, Ohio
The Cleveland Clinic
9500 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland
Ohio
OH 44195
+1 (800) 223-2273
www.clevelandclinic.org
by T.N. Toost
The Cleveland Clinic is ranked as one of the top in the America by the US News and World Report, and is often seen as one of the best in the world. President Obama visited it repeatedly to discuss the healthcare bill; myriad celebrities, Saudi royalty and even Prince Charles have passed through for their medical care. Some of the doctors and staff are internationally famous for their publications, and with this fame brings wealth: walking through the spacious marble hallways, past well-appointed guards, expensive corporate art and well-placed leather sofas, one might be excused for thinking that one was in a 5-star hotel or a private airport.
Scarlet Pumpernickel joined me at the Clinic one cold, cold morning. Girls make the best breakfast partners: if they’re quiet, it’s with the contemplative, distant-eyed silence that one doesn’t take personally, and when they’re talkative they will ramble on at length about nothing of consequence, which is a better accompaniment to a morning meal than orange juice and most types of tea. I got the eggs with cheese, hash browns and turkey sausage (a total of 769 calories), a blueberry muffin (144 - 266 calories) and hazelnut coffee (calories unknown); Scarlet got a dainty container of grits (143 calories). The grits were $1. My meal was much more expensive, but I would have switched with her any day of the week. The eggs were merely warm, and the cheese – packaged, shredded, American – didn’t melt into them, instead settling on almost like a spice. The hash browns were cold and flavorless, requiring salt, pepper and ketchup. The turkey sausage, also cold, tasted as if it had been mixed with plastic and then freezer-burned. The muffin was implausibly both oily and dry, with stale thrown in for good measure. The hazelnut coffee, the highlight of my meal, was merely passable, and that was mostly because it was warm. Scarlet’s grits were ok, but as she explained, “It’s really, really hard to fuck up grits.”
What left me with the worst taste in my mouth was the fact that my meal – a normal American breakfast, if a bit on the small side – ran to just under 1,000 calories. One would think hospitals would be temples of health, and that they would encourage their patients, visitors and employees to eat healthy food – that they would put as much thought into what went into people as they put into the expensive corporate art hanging on the walls. Instead, they serve garbage, and freely admit that it’s garbage – they post the nutritional information next to each item.
We left, walking through a long hallway filled with flat-screen televisions broadcasting the Clinic’s awards, and stopped by the Intercontinental Hotel (one of the poshest in Cleveland and built specifically for the families of wealthy patients). I hope I never have to stay in a hospital. If I do, though, it’ll likely be because of the kind of crap they serve in Cleveland Clinic cafeteria.
9500 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland
Ohio
OH 44195
+1 (800) 223-2273
www.clevelandclinic.org
by T.N. Toost
The Cleveland Clinic is ranked as one of the top in the America by the US News and World Report, and is often seen as one of the best in the world. President Obama visited it repeatedly to discuss the healthcare bill; myriad celebrities, Saudi royalty and even Prince Charles have passed through for their medical care. Some of the doctors and staff are internationally famous for their publications, and with this fame brings wealth: walking through the spacious marble hallways, past well-appointed guards, expensive corporate art and well-placed leather sofas, one might be excused for thinking that one was in a 5-star hotel or a private airport.
Scarlet Pumpernickel joined me at the Clinic one cold, cold morning. Girls make the best breakfast partners: if they’re quiet, it’s with the contemplative, distant-eyed silence that one doesn’t take personally, and when they’re talkative they will ramble on at length about nothing of consequence, which is a better accompaniment to a morning meal than orange juice and most types of tea. I got the eggs with cheese, hash browns and turkey sausage (a total of 769 calories), a blueberry muffin (144 - 266 calories) and hazelnut coffee (calories unknown); Scarlet got a dainty container of grits (143 calories). The grits were $1. My meal was much more expensive, but I would have switched with her any day of the week. The eggs were merely warm, and the cheese – packaged, shredded, American – didn’t melt into them, instead settling on almost like a spice. The hash browns were cold and flavorless, requiring salt, pepper and ketchup. The turkey sausage, also cold, tasted as if it had been mixed with plastic and then freezer-burned. The muffin was implausibly both oily and dry, with stale thrown in for good measure. The hazelnut coffee, the highlight of my meal, was merely passable, and that was mostly because it was warm. Scarlet’s grits were ok, but as she explained, “It’s really, really hard to fuck up grits.”
What left me with the worst taste in my mouth was the fact that my meal – a normal American breakfast, if a bit on the small side – ran to just under 1,000 calories. One would think hospitals would be temples of health, and that they would encourage their patients, visitors and employees to eat healthy food – that they would put as much thought into what went into people as they put into the expensive corporate art hanging on the walls. Instead, they serve garbage, and freely admit that it’s garbage – they post the nutritional information next to each item.
We left, walking through a long hallway filled with flat-screen televisions broadcasting the Clinic’s awards, and stopped by the Intercontinental Hotel (one of the poshest in Cleveland and built specifically for the families of wealthy patients). I hope I never have to stay in a hospital. If I do, though, it’ll likely be because of the kind of crap they serve in Cleveland Clinic cafeteria.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Hawksmoor, Spitalfields
***AUG 2012 UPDATE: BREAKFAST AT THE SPITALFIELDS BRANCH IS NOW ONLY THE HKMUFFIN. FULL BREAKFAST SERVED AT GUILDHALL BRANCH. BELOW REVIEW STILL SOMEWHAT RELEVANT TO THAT, BUT WILL TRY AND WRITE UP ONE DAY. SEE THEIR WEBSITE FOR DETAILS, TIMES AND SO ON.***
Hawksmoor
157 Commercial Street
Spitalfields
E1 6BJ
020 7247 7392
www.thehawksmoor.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
If Commercial Street was a 1990s wall poster it'd be the type that on first glance looked like particularly revolting wallpaper but would, when you defocused your eyes just so, reveal a 3D image of a howling wolf, an Aztec pyramid or a giant bowler hat containing a crying, hexagonal eye. Equally, this key transit route on the London Inner Ring Road looks on the face of it exactly like, well, a major transit road on the London Inner Ring Road. But squint and focus on the middle distance and other things fade into view: a luxury hair salon, a man in shorts and cowboy boots, a shop selling Banksy prints. Suddenly you are in a 'creative village'.
Keep concentrating. There's something else - a doorway flanked by a menu, barely signposted, almost camouflaged against the tangled shadows of this stupid analogy. It's Hawksmoor, the best steak and cocktail joint in London, now serving a brunch aimed squarely at the customer who demands evidence of his agreeable position in the food chain.
This service is resoundingly delivered by their magnum opus the Hawksmoor Breakfast, £30 for two to share. The sausages alone contain three verses - oink oink, baa baa and moo moo - of Old Macdonald Had a Farm. Then you discover bubble and squeak laced with tender short rib beef, toast soaked in dripping, beans infused with pulled pork, a large smoked bacon chop, a huge cut of black pudding, fried eggs, fleshy mushrooms, explosive roast tomatoes and a neat hunk of cow bone with the marrow exposed. I am, this breakfast tells me, king of the whole pigging world. It tastes good too. The sausage is, as John Torode might yell, "packed with flavour" and the bacon chop is like the core of a star made entirely from umami. A sole stumble is the slightly stiff, flavourless black pudding.
Their extensive brunch booze list meanwhile has not so much been compiled as curated: we share a gin Bloody Mary washed down with a detailed account of the drink's history, as recounted by a barman as oracular and hungover as his role strictly demands.
We pay our £50 and I reflect that I have found the very definition of an event breakfast: elsewhere on the menu are a slightly chastened Full English, a lavish reimagining of a sausage and egg McMuffin and a whole section dedicated to Longhorn steak and eggs. When I finally work out how to turn breakfast writing into hard cash you'll find me cackling over a 1.1kg Chateaubriand with two fried eggs and half a lobster, a mere snap at £159.
Hawksmoor
157 Commercial Street
Spitalfields
E1 6BJ
020 7247 7392
www.thehawksmoor.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
If Commercial Street was a 1990s wall poster it'd be the type that on first glance looked like particularly revolting wallpaper but would, when you defocused your eyes just so, reveal a 3D image of a howling wolf, an Aztec pyramid or a giant bowler hat containing a crying, hexagonal eye. Equally, this key transit route on the London Inner Ring Road looks on the face of it exactly like, well, a major transit road on the London Inner Ring Road. But squint and focus on the middle distance and other things fade into view: a luxury hair salon, a man in shorts and cowboy boots, a shop selling Banksy prints. Suddenly you are in a 'creative village'.
Keep concentrating. There's something else - a doorway flanked by a menu, barely signposted, almost camouflaged against the tangled shadows of this stupid analogy. It's Hawksmoor, the best steak and cocktail joint in London, now serving a brunch aimed squarely at the customer who demands evidence of his agreeable position in the food chain.
This service is resoundingly delivered by their magnum opus the Hawksmoor Breakfast, £30 for two to share. The sausages alone contain three verses - oink oink, baa baa and moo moo - of Old Macdonald Had a Farm. Then you discover bubble and squeak laced with tender short rib beef, toast soaked in dripping, beans infused with pulled pork, a large smoked bacon chop, a huge cut of black pudding, fried eggs, fleshy mushrooms, explosive roast tomatoes and a neat hunk of cow bone with the marrow exposed. I am, this breakfast tells me, king of the whole pigging world. It tastes good too. The sausage is, as John Torode might yell, "packed with flavour" and the bacon chop is like the core of a star made entirely from umami. A sole stumble is the slightly stiff, flavourless black pudding.
Their extensive brunch booze list meanwhile has not so much been compiled as curated: we share a gin Bloody Mary washed down with a detailed account of the drink's history, as recounted by a barman as oracular and hungover as his role strictly demands.
We pay our £50 and I reflect that I have found the very definition of an event breakfast: elsewhere on the menu are a slightly chastened Full English, a lavish reimagining of a sausage and egg McMuffin and a whole section dedicated to Longhorn steak and eggs. When I finally work out how to turn breakfast writing into hard cash you'll find me cackling over a 1.1kg Chateaubriand with two fried eggs and half a lobster, a mere snap at £159.
Friday, April 02, 2010
The Priory, Roehampton
The Priory
Priory Lane
Roehampton
SW15 5JJ
020 8876 8261
www.priorygroup.com
by Bloody Mary
So obviously mental hospitals aren’t famed for their food, but this one costs a small fortune, so it should be. The anorexics are fed elsewhere – well, unless only part of your problem is anorexia, in which case you have to cope with the other crazies looking at you as you sniff your apple. Any other food issues and you’re in with the rest of us, the mildly insane. Fortunately, the secure unit also are fed separately, behind the high wall around Scary Compound where they are locked away – so I cant vouch for their eating conditions – but lets hope, if they are to have any chance at all, that their food was better.
Loony bin cooks don’t want to upset the patients, but they don’t really want to waste anything on people who believe all glasses to be half-empty at the best of times. The Priory have clearly decided that a way to make the inmates happy and the restaurant staff happy is to give the former a rough facsimile of what they want to eat, but made so horrible they don’t hang about and annoy the latter.
Mornings aren’t good times for loons, in general, so it’s not the happiest breakfast you’ve ever seen. Sad faces slouch in, stare at the eggs, find the last cling-filmed muesli and a pear and slouch out again. But the manics make up for the silence with their nice loud laughing, the drunkies & junkies are relatively perky in the morning, and the lady who liked to play with food with her toes adds “colour”. Some kind nurse might have brought in the Metro, so you could read about crucial hairstyle changes for Peaches Geldof.
Fried food in vast oily vats are slapped down at 7 and left to harden until 10am. Congealed egg and chipolatas, fried potatoes the consistency of shoes and gritty little nipples of mushroom lie miserably next to each other like failed suicide attempts. The Priory fryery was so bad that I couldn’t indulge my schooldays fetish for crap fryups. I would press a crunchy sliver of streaky bacon, if it had not disintegrated, between two slices of brown bread and drown it in a bloodbath of ketchup. Then I too, would nick a pear and slouch out. The healthy table all looked so dry.
Drink? Well, the coffee at the Priory has no caffeine in it. Crazies aren’t allowed caffeine – so coffee becomes useless, sour fluid that burns your mouth. Milk is in little UHT cartons that cause spectacular ejaculations over depressives sticking thumbs in them. On the plus side, there’s a LOT of fresh juice and pre-made hot chocolate, and these are very good.
A more radiant, sparkly breakfast - blueberries and strawberries in the muesli, french toast cut into sunbeams, pastries with jam and honey and cream, fresh roasted coffee, shimmering poached eggs - might have helped us bust through the day, boosting our fragile immune systems and bringing joviality to the depressed. But admittedly there, the biggest improvement would have been caffeine.
Priory Lane
Roehampton
SW15 5JJ
020 8876 8261
www.priorygroup.com
by Bloody Mary
So obviously mental hospitals aren’t famed for their food, but this one costs a small fortune, so it should be. The anorexics are fed elsewhere – well, unless only part of your problem is anorexia, in which case you have to cope with the other crazies looking at you as you sniff your apple. Any other food issues and you’re in with the rest of us, the mildly insane. Fortunately, the secure unit also are fed separately, behind the high wall around Scary Compound where they are locked away – so I cant vouch for their eating conditions – but lets hope, if they are to have any chance at all, that their food was better.
Loony bin cooks don’t want to upset the patients, but they don’t really want to waste anything on people who believe all glasses to be half-empty at the best of times. The Priory have clearly decided that a way to make the inmates happy and the restaurant staff happy is to give the former a rough facsimile of what they want to eat, but made so horrible they don’t hang about and annoy the latter.
Mornings aren’t good times for loons, in general, so it’s not the happiest breakfast you’ve ever seen. Sad faces slouch in, stare at the eggs, find the last cling-filmed muesli and a pear and slouch out again. But the manics make up for the silence with their nice loud laughing, the drunkies & junkies are relatively perky in the morning, and the lady who liked to play with food with her toes adds “colour”. Some kind nurse might have brought in the Metro, so you could read about crucial hairstyle changes for Peaches Geldof.
Fried food in vast oily vats are slapped down at 7 and left to harden until 10am. Congealed egg and chipolatas, fried potatoes the consistency of shoes and gritty little nipples of mushroom lie miserably next to each other like failed suicide attempts. The Priory fryery was so bad that I couldn’t indulge my schooldays fetish for crap fryups. I would press a crunchy sliver of streaky bacon, if it had not disintegrated, between two slices of brown bread and drown it in a bloodbath of ketchup. Then I too, would nick a pear and slouch out. The healthy table all looked so dry.
Drink? Well, the coffee at the Priory has no caffeine in it. Crazies aren’t allowed caffeine – so coffee becomes useless, sour fluid that burns your mouth. Milk is in little UHT cartons that cause spectacular ejaculations over depressives sticking thumbs in them. On the plus side, there’s a LOT of fresh juice and pre-made hot chocolate, and these are very good.
A more radiant, sparkly breakfast - blueberries and strawberries in the muesli, french toast cut into sunbeams, pastries with jam and honey and cream, fresh roasted coffee, shimmering poached eggs - might have helped us bust through the day, boosting our fragile immune systems and bringing joviality to the depressed. But admittedly there, the biggest improvement would have been caffeine.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Cat & Cucumber, Bermondsey
The Cat & Cucumber
182 Tower Bridge Road
London
SE1 2AD
020 7407 2945
by Sadie Frosties
Working in the cobbled streets of Shad Thames it feels as if every day the concrete and glass blah of the More London development creeps ever closer, like a real-estate T1000. The glory of this area is that despite the obvious regeneration and Conran Cluster, the warehouses and elevated walkways remain, as do the original building names - cardamom, vanilla, sesame, tea, nutmeg - all a nod to the commodities they once housed.
I often fancy at the whimsical name of my favourite caff. How wonderful it would be that alongside the Vanilla Courts and the Wheat Wharfs this was once the centre of the cat and the cucumber trades, handily positioned beside the railway to enable the easy distribution of felines and cultivated gourds to the Kentish heartlands.
Perhaps this is just a ridiculous daydream of another bored office drone, or perhaps just a touch of this industrial atmosphere remains. Either way, the Cat & Cucumber is a Bermondsey institution. The format is one of strict order; one must approach the counter, order quickly from the vast menu and then find a seat, mindful all the while not to lose your numbered ticket. Your task is then to attempt to maintain a non-distracted conversation with your fellow diner while you keep an ear on the numbers bellowed from the counter, and an eye on the steady succession of plates being hurried past you.
I order bacon, eggs, bubble and mushrooms - in my mind the optimum breakfast combination - but on the particular day in question, in celebration of meeting with up with an old west-country comrade, I add a sausage. The fried eggs are of that glorious oil-basted, crisp-free quality, the bubble is laced with green cabbage, and the bacon cooked to catching point. I forget the mushrooms. The sausage – dear reader you will be more than familiar which such a sausage – is of the perfectly cylindrical variety so prevalent in the caff community. But just like those repugnant recovered chicken-face frankfurters you secretly buy from Lidl, everyone has a guilty pleasure. Sat in my office clothes and heels, ladling perfectly fried goods and questionable sausage towards my face, the Cat & Cucumber is my weekday Lidl frankfurter - and I shan’t hear a bad word said about it.
182 Tower Bridge Road
London
SE1 2AD
020 7407 2945
by Sadie Frosties
Working in the cobbled streets of Shad Thames it feels as if every day the concrete and glass blah of the More London development creeps ever closer, like a real-estate T1000. The glory of this area is that despite the obvious regeneration and Conran Cluster, the warehouses and elevated walkways remain, as do the original building names - cardamom, vanilla, sesame, tea, nutmeg - all a nod to the commodities they once housed.
I often fancy at the whimsical name of my favourite caff. How wonderful it would be that alongside the Vanilla Courts and the Wheat Wharfs this was once the centre of the cat and the cucumber trades, handily positioned beside the railway to enable the easy distribution of felines and cultivated gourds to the Kentish heartlands.
Perhaps this is just a ridiculous daydream of another bored office drone, or perhaps just a touch of this industrial atmosphere remains. Either way, the Cat & Cucumber is a Bermondsey institution. The format is one of strict order; one must approach the counter, order quickly from the vast menu and then find a seat, mindful all the while not to lose your numbered ticket. Your task is then to attempt to maintain a non-distracted conversation with your fellow diner while you keep an ear on the numbers bellowed from the counter, and an eye on the steady succession of plates being hurried past you.
I order bacon, eggs, bubble and mushrooms - in my mind the optimum breakfast combination - but on the particular day in question, in celebration of meeting with up with an old west-country comrade, I add a sausage. The fried eggs are of that glorious oil-basted, crisp-free quality, the bubble is laced with green cabbage, and the bacon cooked to catching point. I forget the mushrooms. The sausage – dear reader you will be more than familiar which such a sausage – is of the perfectly cylindrical variety so prevalent in the caff community. But just like those repugnant recovered chicken-face frankfurters you secretly buy from Lidl, everyone has a guilty pleasure. Sat in my office clothes and heels, ladling perfectly fried goods and questionable sausage towards my face, the Cat & Cucumber is my weekday Lidl frankfurter - and I shan’t hear a bad word said about it.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Little Portland Cafe, Fitzrovia
Little Portland Cafe
15 Little Portland St
Fitzrovia
W1W 8BW
020 7636 1439
by Malcolm Eggs
An email arrived from Catherine Carr, a reporter for the Radio 4 show You and Yours. A survey had found that the bacon sandwich at Claridge’s was, at £11.50, the most expensive in the country. Would I like to meet her there to discuss this in about half an hour?
My immediate response was to go and brush my teeth. I needed two minutes to think about it all: my toothbrush contains a timer and whatever I decided, I would need clean teeth. I started at the lower left, fretting that I would go on air in front of several million of my fellow citizens and come across like an oaf or a charlatan by nervously blurting out pompous, anachronistic terms like ‘oaf’ or ‘charlatan’. But by the top right molars, I was determined to give it a go. I figured there is only so far a man can go wrong when talking about bacon; and anyway, it sounded like a fucking good sandwich.
By the time I’d offered a response, Catherine had been turned down by Claridge’s, then the Dorchester, so the assignment had changed a little. She was to collect an almost as expensive sandwich from The Langham and I was to meet her at the Little Portland Cafe, all within sprinting distance of the BBC’s central London operation. I would sit down, try sandwiches from both places, and compare and contrast them in front of a large microphone. We met outside and she plunged in, recording the sounds of the affable owner, the beleaguered chef, the sizzling bacon and the chatting men (for they were all men). The room was packed. My sandwiches arrived.
To make a Little Portland bacon sandwich, they start the bacon in the oven then finish it off by frying it, before delivering it to the counter to be placed between two slices of white bread. The finished product costs £1.90. It’s a process replicated in greasy spoons across the land and it always makes something pretty delicious – the inherent divinity of bacon makes sure of that. This particular sandwich was at the top end of the spectrum, not a surprise after a wait spent observing table after table of incredible-looking fried breakfasts. As for The Langham, I'm afraid to say their £8.50 bacon and brioche number was dry and had a texture like Frazzles in a bath sponge. The sweet taste of the brioche fought needlessly with the over-crispy bacon.
I blathered something along those lines in the direction of the microphone. We thanked the owner and went our separate ways. I walked to the British Library, opened my laptop, and after an hour began Googling hysterically for some kind of public reaction. When none came, I think I was relieved.
15 Little Portland St
Fitzrovia
W1W 8BW
020 7636 1439
by Malcolm Eggs
An email arrived from Catherine Carr, a reporter for the Radio 4 show You and Yours. A survey had found that the bacon sandwich at Claridge’s was, at £11.50, the most expensive in the country. Would I like to meet her there to discuss this in about half an hour?
My immediate response was to go and brush my teeth. I needed two minutes to think about it all: my toothbrush contains a timer and whatever I decided, I would need clean teeth. I started at the lower left, fretting that I would go on air in front of several million of my fellow citizens and come across like an oaf or a charlatan by nervously blurting out pompous, anachronistic terms like ‘oaf’ or ‘charlatan’. But by the top right molars, I was determined to give it a go. I figured there is only so far a man can go wrong when talking about bacon; and anyway, it sounded like a fucking good sandwich.
By the time I’d offered a response, Catherine had been turned down by Claridge’s, then the Dorchester, so the assignment had changed a little. She was to collect an almost as expensive sandwich from The Langham and I was to meet her at the Little Portland Cafe, all within sprinting distance of the BBC’s central London operation. I would sit down, try sandwiches from both places, and compare and contrast them in front of a large microphone. We met outside and she plunged in, recording the sounds of the affable owner, the beleaguered chef, the sizzling bacon and the chatting men (for they were all men). The room was packed. My sandwiches arrived.
To make a Little Portland bacon sandwich, they start the bacon in the oven then finish it off by frying it, before delivering it to the counter to be placed between two slices of white bread. The finished product costs £1.90. It’s a process replicated in greasy spoons across the land and it always makes something pretty delicious – the inherent divinity of bacon makes sure of that. This particular sandwich was at the top end of the spectrum, not a surprise after a wait spent observing table after table of incredible-looking fried breakfasts. As for The Langham, I'm afraid to say their £8.50 bacon and brioche number was dry and had a texture like Frazzles in a bath sponge. The sweet taste of the brioche fought needlessly with the over-crispy bacon.
I blathered something along those lines in the direction of the microphone. We thanked the owner and went our separate ways. I walked to the British Library, opened my laptop, and after an hour began Googling hysterically for some kind of public reaction. When none came, I think I was relieved.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Op-Egg: Tinie Tempah's penchant for nice tea
by Blake Pudding
Rappers have a taste for the finer things in life and not only do they love luxury goods but they love telling us about their love of luxury goods. Cristal champagne is the most famous example but Courvoisier, Bentley and Rolex have all been praised by hip hop types. Now no one likes conspicuous consumption more than me, but isn’t it a little disappointing that they went for such obvious brands?
If I was in a position to influence popular tastes then I’d go for something more distinctive; something that speaks of taste without being pretentious. This must have been the thinking behind top grime artist Tinie Tempah’s (real name Patrick Okogwu) decision to plug Yorkshire Tea on twitter yesterday. His exact words were “Omdz move over PG Tips.” I’m not sure exactly what he means but the sentiment is clear – Mr Tempah is a discerning tea drinker and he is not afraid to shout about it. Not as discerning, however, as one of his fans who comments that he prefers Yorkshire Gold calling it “the Cristal of teas”.
Tinie Tempah is currently riding high in the charts with Pass Out. Let’s hope that Taylors of Harrogate, producers of Yorkshire Tea, will not now try to distance themselves from their place in popular music as the makers of Cristal did so disdainfully with American rappers. Perhaps they would like to sponsor his next tour with a special one off free gig at Bettys Tea Rooms in Northallerton.
Rappers have a taste for the finer things in life and not only do they love luxury goods but they love telling us about their love of luxury goods. Cristal champagne is the most famous example but Courvoisier, Bentley and Rolex have all been praised by hip hop types. Now no one likes conspicuous consumption more than me, but isn’t it a little disappointing that they went for such obvious brands?
If I was in a position to influence popular tastes then I’d go for something more distinctive; something that speaks of taste without being pretentious. This must have been the thinking behind top grime artist Tinie Tempah’s (real name Patrick Okogwu) decision to plug Yorkshire Tea on twitter yesterday. His exact words were “Omdz move over PG Tips.” I’m not sure exactly what he means but the sentiment is clear – Mr Tempah is a discerning tea drinker and he is not afraid to shout about it. Not as discerning, however, as one of his fans who comments that he prefers Yorkshire Gold calling it “the Cristal of teas”.
Tinie Tempah is currently riding high in the charts with Pass Out. Let’s hope that Taylors of Harrogate, producers of Yorkshire Tea, will not now try to distance themselves from their place in popular music as the makers of Cristal did so disdainfully with American rappers. Perhaps they would like to sponsor his next tour with a special one off free gig at Bettys Tea Rooms in Northallerton.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Dean Street Townhouse, Soho
Dean Street Townhouse
69-71 Dean Street
Soho
W1D 3SE
020 7434 1775
www.deanstreettownhouse.com
by Cher E. Jamm
It calls us over from across the street. 'Come in, come in' it says, with the call of a siren. We can't resist. It's been too long since we've spent a day together so we've decided to enjoy a secret day off. No-one will ever know; the possibilities are endless.
The sun isn't shining outside, but it may as well be inside. Think cosy country house hotel. Think slick 1950s French bistro. Then mesh the two together sort of, but not really. It's the type of place you want to move into. We're seated at a red banquet. It's hard to believe a branch of the Slug and Lettuce once stood here. The menu appears.
It's early, perhaps only just past half eight, but the place is buzzing with jolly breakfasters, mostly, it seems, made up of Soho's media contingent. This doesn't put us off - we're cocooned from this, in our own little booth, our hands thawing out as we pour steaming cups of tea from a shared pot.
He doesn't falter, and orders Full English as soon as the chirpy waiter trots over again. I hover over grilled kippers for a moment and then order the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Kippers seem too uncouth, too harsh, for today.
Breakfast arrives with neither fuss nor bother. An artful Full English: two eggs beaming like two small suns; the bacon is crisp and refined; the mushrooms, silky and somewhat obscene; the sausage lies puffed and glistening next to a grilled tomato, which, as usual, is nothing more than a grilled tomato; the black pudding is elegance on a plate.
He pushes the black pudding to one side. He's gone off it these days. I urge him to have a small taste (for you, dear reader, all for you). He refuses. A flash of anger passes over us, but it would be a shame to break the spell, at least so early on.
We eat in careful silence, stealing glances at one another, attempting to gauge the other's mood. The salmon is pale and delicious, the scrambles creamy and delicate, but I seem to have lost my appetite, I don't appreciate them fully. I'm sorry. He has finished eating, declaring it possibly the best he's ever had. No eye contact. Only the fat disk of blood sausage remains. A quiet and cold reminder of how we walk on wire.
69-71 Dean Street
Soho
W1D 3SE
020 7434 1775
www.deanstreettownhouse.com
by Cher E. Jamm
It calls us over from across the street. 'Come in, come in' it says, with the call of a siren. We can't resist. It's been too long since we've spent a day together so we've decided to enjoy a secret day off. No-one will ever know; the possibilities are endless.
The sun isn't shining outside, but it may as well be inside. Think cosy country house hotel. Think slick 1950s French bistro. Then mesh the two together sort of, but not really. It's the type of place you want to move into. We're seated at a red banquet. It's hard to believe a branch of the Slug and Lettuce once stood here. The menu appears.
It's early, perhaps only just past half eight, but the place is buzzing with jolly breakfasters, mostly, it seems, made up of Soho's media contingent. This doesn't put us off - we're cocooned from this, in our own little booth, our hands thawing out as we pour steaming cups of tea from a shared pot.
He doesn't falter, and orders Full English as soon as the chirpy waiter trots over again. I hover over grilled kippers for a moment and then order the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Kippers seem too uncouth, too harsh, for today.
Breakfast arrives with neither fuss nor bother. An artful Full English: two eggs beaming like two small suns; the bacon is crisp and refined; the mushrooms, silky and somewhat obscene; the sausage lies puffed and glistening next to a grilled tomato, which, as usual, is nothing more than a grilled tomato; the black pudding is elegance on a plate.
He pushes the black pudding to one side. He's gone off it these days. I urge him to have a small taste (for you, dear reader, all for you). He refuses. A flash of anger passes over us, but it would be a shame to break the spell, at least so early on.
We eat in careful silence, stealing glances at one another, attempting to gauge the other's mood. The salmon is pale and delicious, the scrambles creamy and delicate, but I seem to have lost my appetite, I don't appreciate them fully. I'm sorry. He has finished eating, declaring it possibly the best he's ever had. No eye contact. Only the fat disk of blood sausage remains. A quiet and cold reminder of how we walk on wire.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Caravan, Clerkenwell
Caravan
11 - 13 Exmouth Market
Clerkenwell
EC1R 4QD
020 7833 8115
caravanonexmouth.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
"The beans were just roasted this morning," said the barista, as if by way of warning. "So if there's a certain... fruitiness to the flavour that will be why."
I hereby coin the term 'caravan apology', as in 'an apology for a benevolent state of affairs'. See: "I'm sorry I'm so early" or "I'm sorry, I know we said we wouldn't do presents"; this was the finest cup of coffee I have set to my lips in as long as I can remember, the froth patterned exactly like one of those 70s ring-binders and the taste smoother than a Don Draper infidelity binge.
We ordered baked eggs with chorizo and a side of black pudding. The latter, from Franconia in Putney, was remarkable - light, subtly smoky and, within a matter of seconds, absent. The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot, the chorizo bits lurking like crocodiles in a crimson-doused pool of red pepper, green parsley, piquant oily sauce, Greek yoghurt and gloopy, friendly eggs. It became a proper mess, but a bloody delectable one.
What about the service? Tap water was poured immediately without request, then replenished zealously. The room itself? Attractive and light, a mix of Wellington cocktail bar, London bistro and a branch of All Saints. Well-heeled new mothers and rubber-heeled freelancers have already formed a demographic stand-off.
If I must have a gripe, it's that the 'Caravan Fry Up' is £8 but comprising eggs, bacon, tomatoes, soy mushrooms and toast is holding back on some treasures: black pudding and bubble are available but must be ordered as sides at up to £3.50 each. Vietnam-style mission creep is a danger.
Four and a half years ago, I was in this same room - it being until recently Al's Café Bar - complaining in the first ever LRB review that the bacon was only cooked on one side. "I'm sorry you closed, Al's," can be my first caravan apology.
11 - 13 Exmouth Market
Clerkenwell
EC1R 4QD
020 7833 8115
caravanonexmouth.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
"The beans were just roasted this morning," said the barista, as if by way of warning. "So if there's a certain... fruitiness to the flavour that will be why."
I hereby coin the term 'caravan apology', as in 'an apology for a benevolent state of affairs'. See: "I'm sorry I'm so early" or "I'm sorry, I know we said we wouldn't do presents"; this was the finest cup of coffee I have set to my lips in as long as I can remember, the froth patterned exactly like one of those 70s ring-binders and the taste smoother than a Don Draper infidelity binge.
We ordered baked eggs with chorizo and a side of black pudding. The latter, from Franconia in Putney, was remarkable - light, subtly smoky and, within a matter of seconds, absent. The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot, the chorizo bits lurking like crocodiles in a crimson-doused pool of red pepper, green parsley, piquant oily sauce, Greek yoghurt and gloopy, friendly eggs. It became a proper mess, but a bloody delectable one.
What about the service? Tap water was poured immediately without request, then replenished zealously. The room itself? Attractive and light, a mix of Wellington cocktail bar, London bistro and a branch of All Saints. Well-heeled new mothers and rubber-heeled freelancers have already formed a demographic stand-off.
If I must have a gripe, it's that the 'Caravan Fry Up' is £8 but comprising eggs, bacon, tomatoes, soy mushrooms and toast is holding back on some treasures: black pudding and bubble are available but must be ordered as sides at up to £3.50 each. Vietnam-style mission creep is a danger.
Four and a half years ago, I was in this same room - it being until recently Al's Café Bar - complaining in the first ever LRB review that the bacon was only cooked on one side. "I'm sorry you closed, Al's," can be my first caravan apology.
Friday, February 19, 2010
The Three Bells, Heathrow Airport
The Three Bells
Terminal Three (pre-security)
Heathrow Airport
TW6 1AD
020 8897 6755
by Joyce Carol Oats
This is the thing about restaurants in airports: they shouldn’t be good. They should be pretty bad. If they were good you might want to linger there, might regret departure, and regretting departure is not something that you should be doing when you are in a place that is all about leaving. We’re pleased to find one, therefore, that strongly resembles a very expensive Wetherspoon’s, and therefore promises to be pretty bad.
Landside restaurants are pretty bad, in particular, because they are full of people being left behind as well as travellers. We are here because only Departing Friend is going: she is emigrating to America, and a trip on this scale, an actual emigration, seemed to require me and Departing Friend’s Brother to pay our respects to her in person, although now we are here we are just grumpy and quiet and sad. We take our seats amongst the other heavy-hearted people: here, a couple clutching hands over untouched plates of breakfast glazed with cold bacon fat; there, a moist-eyed grandmother, her daughter, two small shouty grandchildren who no one would ever want to sit next to on a plane.
This is the flavour of goodbye: a thick Cumberland sausage patty, an egg, a puffy white bun, ketchup. I sink my teeth into it and am immediately surprised because, I realise, I am expecting it to taste like a McDonald’s sausage McMuffin. And it doesn’t, perhaps because it costs about £5. There’s something distinctly British about that Cumberland flavour, that even the most uninspiring Cumberland-esque sausage lacks something of the metallic tang of one with the McD recipe, probably because it might contain fewer pieces of actual metal.
It is pretty bad. And the coffee is pretty bad. And Departing Friend and Departing Friend’s Brother are ploughing their way through their English breakfasts like it is their duty, but they are pretty bad. Departing Friend cannot face the tomato. I bite it and it tastes like nothing, a small mercy on the part of the chefs, to ensure that in a place so charged with emotion, the flavour of the tomato will evoke no feeling. And by the time we pay (something ridiculous, like £20) and proceed to wave Departing Friend through security, we are all so preoccupied by being sluggish and sickly that we forget to cry.
Terminal Three (pre-security)
Heathrow Airport
TW6 1AD
020 8897 6755
by Joyce Carol Oats
This is the thing about restaurants in airports: they shouldn’t be good. They should be pretty bad. If they were good you might want to linger there, might regret departure, and regretting departure is not something that you should be doing when you are in a place that is all about leaving. We’re pleased to find one, therefore, that strongly resembles a very expensive Wetherspoon’s, and therefore promises to be pretty bad.
Landside restaurants are pretty bad, in particular, because they are full of people being left behind as well as travellers. We are here because only Departing Friend is going: she is emigrating to America, and a trip on this scale, an actual emigration, seemed to require me and Departing Friend’s Brother to pay our respects to her in person, although now we are here we are just grumpy and quiet and sad. We take our seats amongst the other heavy-hearted people: here, a couple clutching hands over untouched plates of breakfast glazed with cold bacon fat; there, a moist-eyed grandmother, her daughter, two small shouty grandchildren who no one would ever want to sit next to on a plane.
This is the flavour of goodbye: a thick Cumberland sausage patty, an egg, a puffy white bun, ketchup. I sink my teeth into it and am immediately surprised because, I realise, I am expecting it to taste like a McDonald’s sausage McMuffin. And it doesn’t, perhaps because it costs about £5. There’s something distinctly British about that Cumberland flavour, that even the most uninspiring Cumberland-esque sausage lacks something of the metallic tang of one with the McD recipe, probably because it might contain fewer pieces of actual metal.
It is pretty bad. And the coffee is pretty bad. And Departing Friend and Departing Friend’s Brother are ploughing their way through their English breakfasts like it is their duty, but they are pretty bad. Departing Friend cannot face the tomato. I bite it and it tastes like nothing, a small mercy on the part of the chefs, to ensure that in a place so charged with emotion, the flavour of the tomato will evoke no feeling. And by the time we pay (something ridiculous, like £20) and proceed to wave Departing Friend through security, we are all so preoccupied by being sluggish and sickly that we forget to cry.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Christopher's, Covent Garden
Christopher’s
18 Wellington Street
Covent Garden
London WC2E 7DD
020 7240 4222
www.christophersgrill.com
by Sadie Frosties
I hate the art of Edward Hopper. You had the Nighthawks poster. I saw you buying it at the poster sale during fresher’s week in 1995. You’ve imagined yourself there haven’t you, sitting in that diner. You’re that guy, and that there, that’s your lady.
No you’re not. And nor am I. Although it would seem Christopher’s would really like us to believe it to be the case. Christopher’s fancies itself as just this kind of old fashioned American restaurant... Indeed, sitting in one of its velvety cushioned booths, I felt myself slipping into such an illusion and could almost forget the gaggle of lycra-clad 20 year olds drinking vodka cocktails at 11am on a Sunday.
With its attempts at inventive optimism, the food could also be compared (if, say, a breakfast review’s consistency was at stake) to the art of Edward Hopper. Hash brown with Eggs Royale? Weird, but excellent! I am of the unfortunate breakfast disadvantage of being unable to eat wheat products, so the presence of a crunchy potato rectangle cheers me up no end. And when I told the waiter of my lamentable circumstance in the hope of a stealthy muffin substitution I was met with a stony silence and a glare which suggested perhaps in my youth I’d nicked his wallet and slapped his mum. The muffins stayed.
Still, I’ll try to be objective. The poached eggs were really very good, displaying that bulbous, compact quality that I’ve never quite been able to recreate at home, and were not the slightest bit watery. The smoked salmon was thickly cut and abundant. The hollandaise was fine. The orange juice was, I’m told, outstanding, but I plumped for the coffee, which was abhorrent. The curious hash brown was the one part that felt the most authentically American: flaccid and eggy in a McDonaldsy type of way. It was something that even though every fibre of your body wants to, nay knows it should hate, another part of you is unable to stop eating it. But it’s disgusting! But I secretly like it. It’s how I really feel about the art of Edward Hopper.
18 Wellington Street
Covent Garden
London WC2E 7DD
020 7240 4222
www.christophersgrill.com
by Sadie Frosties
I hate the art of Edward Hopper. You had the Nighthawks poster. I saw you buying it at the poster sale during fresher’s week in 1995. You’ve imagined yourself there haven’t you, sitting in that diner. You’re that guy, and that there, that’s your lady.
No you’re not. And nor am I. Although it would seem Christopher’s would really like us to believe it to be the case. Christopher’s fancies itself as just this kind of old fashioned American restaurant... Indeed, sitting in one of its velvety cushioned booths, I felt myself slipping into such an illusion and could almost forget the gaggle of lycra-clad 20 year olds drinking vodka cocktails at 11am on a Sunday.
With its attempts at inventive optimism, the food could also be compared (if, say, a breakfast review’s consistency was at stake) to the art of Edward Hopper. Hash brown with Eggs Royale? Weird, but excellent! I am of the unfortunate breakfast disadvantage of being unable to eat wheat products, so the presence of a crunchy potato rectangle cheers me up no end. And when I told the waiter of my lamentable circumstance in the hope of a stealthy muffin substitution I was met with a stony silence and a glare which suggested perhaps in my youth I’d nicked his wallet and slapped his mum. The muffins stayed.
Still, I’ll try to be objective. The poached eggs were really very good, displaying that bulbous, compact quality that I’ve never quite been able to recreate at home, and were not the slightest bit watery. The smoked salmon was thickly cut and abundant. The hollandaise was fine. The orange juice was, I’m told, outstanding, but I plumped for the coffee, which was abhorrent. The curious hash brown was the one part that felt the most authentically American: flaccid and eggy in a McDonaldsy type of way. It was something that even though every fibre of your body wants to, nay knows it should hate, another part of you is unable to stop eating it. But it’s disgusting! But I secretly like it. It’s how I really feel about the art of Edward Hopper.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Fika, Shoreditch
Fika
161a Brick Lane
Shoreditch
E1 6SB
020 7613 2013
www.fikalondon.com
by Joyce Carol Oats
There are few things so stressful as taking a New Yorker to breakfast in London. These people can barely step outside their front doors without tripping over a pile of fresh bagels layered with cream cheese and gravadlax, fluffed stacks of blueberry pancakes, sixteen different varieties of omelettes.
‘You have to take the bus to breakfast?’ says New Yorker One, as we wait for one.
‘It’s raining,’ I say, defensively.
We get to Brick Lane, and I have to think fast: we are hungry, we have just taken a bus, there is a LHR-JFK flight to catch. Albion’s the obvious choice, but I can’t really go back there since the last time when they dropped a stealth prawn into my eggs and a big shellfish-allergy drama ensued. And then I clap eyes on Fika. It’s Swedish. I love Swedish food. I am all about smorgasbords.
‘Do you have Swedish breakfasts in New York?’ I ask my New Yorkers.
‘Not really,’ they say. Win.
The breakfast menu is handed to us by a friendly girl with a fake-looking blonde bob. It’s fake-looking, I realise, because when she turns around it is clear that she hasn’t done a very good job of tucking her perfectly nice brown hair into her blonde wig. This is confusing, and also not propitious: if you can’t make your blonde wig look convincing, will you be able to serve a convincing breakfast? No, you will not.
The choice is not extensive: there are waffles, with a small selection of both sweet and savoury toppings. There are eggs on toast. The bread, according to the menu, is likely to be sourdough. That sounds nice, I think. I like a likely sourdough.
The food comes. New Yorker Number Two ordered a waffle with strawberry jam and cream (£4.50); it is brown and flat and looks uninspiring and small, although it tastes OK. But only OK. New Yorker One and I both opted for the fried eggs. The bread, unlikely enough, is not sourdough at all: it is two halves of what seem to be a rather substantial bun that has been dipped in dishwater. Yes, that’s what I said: dishwater. One half of my bun is water-logged and bitter and soap-flavoured.
Is there any point in going on? Need I comment on the texture of the egg (not bad) the flavour of the reindeer sausage that New Yorker One ordered as a side dish (fine for a reindeer sausage, since I have nothing to compare it to), the quality of the coffee (so-so), the fact that the eggs and toast were served with margarine rather than butter (would be gross if I was not contending with dishwatery bread, which made it seem positively delicious by contrast). I think I need not.
But I do need to apologise to the New Yorkers.
161a Brick Lane
Shoreditch
E1 6SB
020 7613 2013
www.fikalondon.com
by Joyce Carol Oats
There are few things so stressful as taking a New Yorker to breakfast in London. These people can barely step outside their front doors without tripping over a pile of fresh bagels layered with cream cheese and gravadlax, fluffed stacks of blueberry pancakes, sixteen different varieties of omelettes.
‘You have to take the bus to breakfast?’ says New Yorker One, as we wait for one.
‘It’s raining,’ I say, defensively.
We get to Brick Lane, and I have to think fast: we are hungry, we have just taken a bus, there is a LHR-JFK flight to catch. Albion’s the obvious choice, but I can’t really go back there since the last time when they dropped a stealth prawn into my eggs and a big shellfish-allergy drama ensued. And then I clap eyes on Fika. It’s Swedish. I love Swedish food. I am all about smorgasbords.
‘Do you have Swedish breakfasts in New York?’ I ask my New Yorkers.
‘Not really,’ they say. Win.
The breakfast menu is handed to us by a friendly girl with a fake-looking blonde bob. It’s fake-looking, I realise, because when she turns around it is clear that she hasn’t done a very good job of tucking her perfectly nice brown hair into her blonde wig. This is confusing, and also not propitious: if you can’t make your blonde wig look convincing, will you be able to serve a convincing breakfast? No, you will not.
The choice is not extensive: there are waffles, with a small selection of both sweet and savoury toppings. There are eggs on toast. The bread, according to the menu, is likely to be sourdough. That sounds nice, I think. I like a likely sourdough.
The food comes. New Yorker Number Two ordered a waffle with strawberry jam and cream (£4.50); it is brown and flat and looks uninspiring and small, although it tastes OK. But only OK. New Yorker One and I both opted for the fried eggs. The bread, unlikely enough, is not sourdough at all: it is two halves of what seem to be a rather substantial bun that has been dipped in dishwater. Yes, that’s what I said: dishwater. One half of my bun is water-logged and bitter and soap-flavoured.
Is there any point in going on? Need I comment on the texture of the egg (not bad) the flavour of the reindeer sausage that New Yorker One ordered as a side dish (fine for a reindeer sausage, since I have nothing to compare it to), the quality of the coffee (so-so), the fact that the eggs and toast were served with margarine rather than butter (would be gross if I was not contending with dishwatery bread, which made it seem positively delicious by contrast). I think I need not.
But I do need to apologise to the New Yorkers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)