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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
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.
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