US Dispatch: The Farm of Beverly Hills, California

The Farm of Beverly Hills
439 North Beverly Drive
Beverly Hills, CA 90210
+1 (310) 273-5578
California
USA
www.thefarmofbeverlyhills.com

by Emma Ricano

So I’m standing on stage (crate of Heineken) at the top of a North London pub (maroon carpet, vinegar smells) delivering pithy one-liners and the next thing I know, a stocky man in a black suit who looks like a budget version of Tommy Lee Jones is pumping my hand, “I’m gonna make you a star,” he says and thrusts a card into my sweating palm. Turns out he’s a top Hollywood talent agent who can introduce me to Mr and Mrs Money.

A few weeks later I’m on a plane to LA. I call Budget Tommy when I touch down. His assistant says he’s in a meeting and he’ll get right back to me.

Two days later he’s still in a meeting so I hightail it to Beverly Hills and cheer myself up with breakfast at The Farm. The joint’s got a sunshine coloured awning and is bathed in rays and happiness. Wish I could say the same for the waitress who is Surly As All Hell. She slams down my banana stuffed brioche pancakes with a side of whipped butter. She makes me so nervous that my palms sweat like a fat kid's and I drop the side of maple syrup clean onto one half of my pancake. I ask for more syrup and soak the other half. Ten minutes later I am high as Howard Marks.

On my next visit I feel guilty as a Catholic priest for indulging and pinch an inch on my syrupy hips. No casting director was going to hire me with a muffin top like that so I opt for an austere oatmeal. It is watery and grey and I decide then and there I could make better myself, so I do - I ask Surly As All Hell for raisins, muscovado sugar and milk and knock myself out with a new creation. I feel better – life gives you lemons, you make a better oatmeal. I follow up with a dish of seasonal fruits; pineapple, cantaloupe and strawberries. Everything is seasonal in California, including my agent. Still no call from the bitch (male).

I return once more the next day because there’s nothing else to do in LA apart from stare at other people’s abs and wait for the phone to ring. This time I expect Surly As All Hell to recognise me but she gives me another death stare and tosses a menu in my direction. I decide to behave how I want people to see me so I order like a successful American film star. I say get me the vegetable omelette – hold the goat’s cheese, replace the asparagus with spinach, add more oven roasted tomatoes. It tastes good but not great - I wonder whether it would have been a knock-out had I not meddled with it. I order whole wheat toast and drown my sorrows in grape jelly while pummelling my pillowy hips.

What kind of meeting lasts seven days? I order a chocolate muffin and hurl it at the agent’s window. Then I wonder whether he’s been in some kind of accident and vow to call him the next day.

Daley Bread, Fitzrovia

Daley Bread
20 Gosfield St
Fitzrovia
W1W 6HF
07980 751049

by Ronnie Oak

There’s no menu in Daley Bread. I look at a glass deli counter and I can’t even think of the word menu. I ask the woman what to do. Almost literally: “What do I do?”.

The counter is full of all sorts of stuff and after negotiations conclude we agree I’ll have a sausage and bacon sandwich. There’s an unholy amount of bread offered so I pick the last one on the list, which is ciabatta.

The man behind the counter hears my Irish accent and we talk about rugby. I’m glad I like the sport so I am able to dress phrases like “they just wanted it more” and “the best team won” in a suit of genuine conviction.

This conversational Garryowen hangs in the air for a while as I wait. Yes I want ketchup and I suppose I want it toasted. Mainly I just want it.

It arrives quickly. It’s huge. The sausage is better than most cafe sausages, which shouldn’t really damn it with faint praise if you think about it. The bacon is a bit disappointing, possibly overwhelmed by the amount of sausage. Perhaps I know how it feels. Not a bad complaint though. Some people in the world haven’t got two sausages to rub together God love them.

I get a bottle of water and pay. Jesus, the price of the whole thing is £3.50. I wonder if they charged me for the water as I expected to pay a fiver for just the immense sandwich. It’s great value. I’m pleased.

I like fancy things, and there’s nothing wrong with doing something perversely different than what it says on your tin, but sometimes even an intelligent person must praise utilitarianism.

This isn’t fancy. But it’s the first breakfast I’ve had in Fitzrovia with which I feel almost completely satisfied. I would go back.