Gusto
117 Hatfield Street
Gardens
Cape Town
South Africa
+27 (0)21 461 7868
by Flora Ashley
This morning Cape Town was brought to a grinding halt by an hour-long power cut. Never the most productive of workers, Capetonians – who have a deserved reputation for dropping everything and heading to the beach at the merest opportunity – looked out of the window, saw that the weather was gloriously sunny, and decided to call it a day.
The tourists looked happy. Not because the city was on an impromptu holiday, but because – at last! – this was Africa. Here was the ‘real’ Africa – or, if they’re American, Ah-frica – of unexpected and unexplained blackouts. If only a cow or two – or even just a goat and some chickens – would wander through the CBD then the experience would be complete.
However much they seem to like Cape Town, one always has the impression that tourists are a little disappointed by how... familiar the city feels with its rows of Victorian terraces, hipsters and artisanal coffee shops. Suddenly their flack jackets (what do they keep in all those little pockets? Malaria tablets? Emergency quinine rations?) and head-to-toe khaki outfits seem strangely out of place.
My friend E and I saw two particularly mournful Germans while eating breakfast at Gusto on Saturday. We were sitting in the pretty courtyard of a Georgian building, and half of the blackboard-walled cafe was taken over by earnest white, middle-class women with their yoga mats, and I wanted to shake the tourists by the shoulders and shout, ‘Cheer up! This is an essentially Capetonian experience! An anthropologist could not ask for a better case study!’
Gusto is in a part of town which has been heavily gentrified – even five years ago I wouldn’t have walked around the area – and serves ‘whole’ food. It does lunch and breakfast, and on weekends sells organic veg. Having pulled back from a slide into urban decay, the city is now littered with similar cafes specialising in seasonal cookery; Cape Town is yoga- and smoothie-mad; and there are more food bloggers than is sensible.
Our breakfast could easily have been served in Melbourne or San Francisco. On the other hand it reeked of Cape Town: from our cappuccinos made from Origin beans (truly the only coffee for the cool Capetonian), to the aggressively frothy apple and orange smoothie, to the food. This was not the kind of place that does bacon and eggs with beans and bubble.
E had poached eggs with roasted tomatoes and goats’ cheese: the eggs perfectly runny, the tomatoes charred and just this side of squidgy. (I say nothing about the cheese. I think it’s vile and an abomination.) I have a tremendous weakness for French toast, and it came with flaked almonds, cinnamon, and crème fraîche. It was almost perfect, but I don’t understand the vogue for making French toast with sourdough or ciabatta: it goes tough and tastes too much of bread instead of eggy deliciousness.
We ate, in short, with gusto. (Sorry.) And even the Germans – who had sighed and wondered why they’d travelled so far just to have croissants and coffee for breakfast – perked up and decided to walk down the road to Parliament, no doubt in the hope of spotting a coup d’état.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Breakfast Club, Shoreditch
The Breakfast Club
2 - 4 Rufus St
Shoreditch
N1 6PE
020 7729 5252
www.thebreakfastclubcafes.com
by T.N. Toost
Say you occasionally work with a man who is dating a divorcee with a daughter he charitably describes as a “free spirit.” Say you’re going to London, and the daughter lives there; she is American, but lived in Toronto for a few years and therefore says she’s Canadian because it sounds more sophisticated. She modeled when younger and studied French literature at uni and moved to London because the American city she lived in wasn’t exciting enough for her. Say you yourself have a healthy distrust of people who move because they feel too good for their current surroundings and have a thirst for adventure, because these people are the kinds of people who can’t make their own lives interesting and depend on others to do it for them – that these are the kinds of people who, thoroughly bored, are thoroughly boring. What kind of place would they suggest for breakfast? Further, why would you ever go there?
I found myself asking the latter question on a Thursday morning at the Hoxton Breakfast Club. The eighties décor gives one the unmistakable sense that an incredible amount of thought went into every detail, and serves as a wonderful reminder that good design doesn’t betray effort. There were unflattering high-rise jeans and shirts tied around small waists. Fairly good double espressos were trumpeted out by our waitress, and then a man with an amazing neon watch brought out the plates.
We’d agreed to split the All American and the Full Monty. My partner’s pancakes were nowhere near being American; small, dry, hard and cold, they barely benefited from some of the syrup that tried to pass as maple. The eggs were large and had bright orange yolks, which spoke well for them, but their watery tastelessness reminded me why I don’t often order poached eggs. The vegetarian sausage was a lump of mashed vegetables, formed into a patty and left on its own for someone to discover and not enjoy. My Full Monty was better – beautiful eggs, fried, with standard bacon, standard sausage, standard black pudding, standard etc. I liked the Espresso and the bacon, but only because the English versions are so immensely superior to what we usually get.
2 - 4 Rufus St
Shoreditch
N1 6PE
020 7729 5252
www.thebreakfastclubcafes.com
by T.N. Toost
Say you occasionally work with a man who is dating a divorcee with a daughter he charitably describes as a “free spirit.” Say you’re going to London, and the daughter lives there; she is American, but lived in Toronto for a few years and therefore says she’s Canadian because it sounds more sophisticated. She modeled when younger and studied French literature at uni and moved to London because the American city she lived in wasn’t exciting enough for her. Say you yourself have a healthy distrust of people who move because they feel too good for their current surroundings and have a thirst for adventure, because these people are the kinds of people who can’t make their own lives interesting and depend on others to do it for them – that these are the kinds of people who, thoroughly bored, are thoroughly boring. What kind of place would they suggest for breakfast? Further, why would you ever go there?
I found myself asking the latter question on a Thursday morning at the Hoxton Breakfast Club. The eighties décor gives one the unmistakable sense that an incredible amount of thought went into every detail, and serves as a wonderful reminder that good design doesn’t betray effort. There were unflattering high-rise jeans and shirts tied around small waists. Fairly good double espressos were trumpeted out by our waitress, and then a man with an amazing neon watch brought out the plates.
We’d agreed to split the All American and the Full Monty. My partner’s pancakes were nowhere near being American; small, dry, hard and cold, they barely benefited from some of the syrup that tried to pass as maple. The eggs were large and had bright orange yolks, which spoke well for them, but their watery tastelessness reminded me why I don’t often order poached eggs. The vegetarian sausage was a lump of mashed vegetables, formed into a patty and left on its own for someone to discover and not enjoy. My Full Monty was better – beautiful eggs, fried, with standard bacon, standard sausage, standard black pudding, standard etc. I liked the Espresso and the bacon, but only because the English versions are so immensely superior to what we usually get.
In the end, the answers to my questions should have been clear from the beginning: a girl who leaves the States for London seeking excitement would, of course, urge upon us a restaurant with a 1980s American theme serving an "American" breakfast, and this breakfast would, overall, be far inferior to what we would have gotten back home, and why we would have ever followed her advice in the first place would be something I would not know.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
The Diner, Camden Town
The Diner
2 Jamestown Rd
Camden Town
NW1 7BY
020 7485 5223
www.goodlifediner.com
by Fi Tatta
T hjs ujsibar fvj fwiw j thab nab ns wfru
It seemed to me that, dining with Malcolm Eggs, one ought really to let him pick the breakfast venue. His expertise is well-known, one worries that to do otherwise might seem an unwarranted slight.
Although we could not be said to know one another well, we had discovered certain peculiar symmetries; we are both, for example, speakers of the mostly-forgotten, unpronounceable language of Coh. Dreaming, as speakers of that language often do, in that tongue, we had perhaps already encountered one another in dreams. Perhaps not.
“Andiamo,” he declared, as he strode towards The Diner in Camden Town. Never one to refuse a challenge I retorted: “vado” and followed behind. Camden before noon is quiescent; we were the noisiest people on the street by far. And Malcolm’s trademark sword-stick cut quite the dash, tap-tapping on the pavement as we scurried towards that purveyor of fine American-style produce.
“Keep up!” he shouted back at me – he had already sat down at the red banquette seating and was perusing the menu. Evidently Malcolm had forgotten the war-wound which sometimes hampers me… or he had chosen to forget it.
Sublimely, the place was almost empty but not quite – affording us enough privacy to discuss the rather serious business which had brought us together. We ordered – the food arrived quickly, though not with unseemly haste, nothing was forgotten and the water – gods be praised – came with ice in and without being requested.
I thoroughly enjoyed the dish that was set before me; the elements which ought to be crisp were perfectly so, while those parts which should be sweet, damp, moist, were exquisite sui generis. The service, also, was charming – the waiter so friendly that I rather suspected Malcolm of flirting until he reminded me that his tastes lie in quite another direction.
He had ordered the “Hungry Man Breakfast” of eggs, sausages, beans, mushrooms and hash-browns. Breakfast connoisseur that he is, he had of course picked the place with care and the food was excellently done. Although I rather suspected that the sweetener supplied with my meal had not come from the sugar mines of Uruguay as Malcolm had promised me. Conceivably, he had been in jest.
Our discussion turned to certain private matters concerning the land of Coh which can scarcely be of relevance to the readers here; I thought little of The Diner until I came to write this short account of our expedition.
“No, no,” said Malcolm when he saw it, “it’s scarcely a review if you haven’t mentioned what you ate,” although he backed down when I explained, of course, that I had.
2 Jamestown Rd
Camden Town
NW1 7BY
020 7485 5223
www.goodlifediner.com
by Fi Tatta
T hjs ujsibar fvj fwiw j thab nab ns wfru
It seemed to me that, dining with Malcolm Eggs, one ought really to let him pick the breakfast venue. His expertise is well-known, one worries that to do otherwise might seem an unwarranted slight.
Although we could not be said to know one another well, we had discovered certain peculiar symmetries; we are both, for example, speakers of the mostly-forgotten, unpronounceable language of Coh. Dreaming, as speakers of that language often do, in that tongue, we had perhaps already encountered one another in dreams. Perhaps not.
“Andiamo,” he declared, as he strode towards The Diner in Camden Town. Never one to refuse a challenge I retorted: “vado” and followed behind. Camden before noon is quiescent; we were the noisiest people on the street by far. And Malcolm’s trademark sword-stick cut quite the dash, tap-tapping on the pavement as we scurried towards that purveyor of fine American-style produce.
“Keep up!” he shouted back at me – he had already sat down at the red banquette seating and was perusing the menu. Evidently Malcolm had forgotten the war-wound which sometimes hampers me… or he had chosen to forget it.
Sublimely, the place was almost empty but not quite – affording us enough privacy to discuss the rather serious business which had brought us together. We ordered – the food arrived quickly, though not with unseemly haste, nothing was forgotten and the water – gods be praised – came with ice in and without being requested.
I thoroughly enjoyed the dish that was set before me; the elements which ought to be crisp were perfectly so, while those parts which should be sweet, damp, moist, were exquisite sui generis. The service, also, was charming – the waiter so friendly that I rather suspected Malcolm of flirting until he reminded me that his tastes lie in quite another direction.
He had ordered the “Hungry Man Breakfast” of eggs, sausages, beans, mushrooms and hash-browns. Breakfast connoisseur that he is, he had of course picked the place with care and the food was excellently done. Although I rather suspected that the sweetener supplied with my meal had not come from the sugar mines of Uruguay as Malcolm had promised me. Conceivably, he had been in jest.
Our discussion turned to certain private matters concerning the land of Coh which can scarcely be of relevance to the readers here; I thought little of The Diner until I came to write this short account of our expedition.
“No, no,” said Malcolm when he saw it, “it’s scarcely a review if you haven’t mentioned what you ate,” although he backed down when I explained, of course, that I had.
Saturday, October 01, 2011
A note from Brazil: Casa Caminho do Corcovado, Rio de Janeiro
Casa Caminho do Corcovado
Rua Filinto de Almeida 283
Cosme Velho
Rio de Janeiro
22241-170
Brazil
+55 21 2265-2124
by Nelson Griddle
Look at Brazil on the map and you’ll notice there’s a lot of it.
Come down to breakfast at the average Brazilian pousada (that’s 'bed and breakfast' to those without a smattering of Portuguese) and you’ll be compelled to the same conclusion.
At Casa Caminho do Corcovado in the hills of Rio, the banquet that is Brazilian breakfast unfurls each morning with predictable splendour. The meal begins with tropical fruit juices, then plates of chopped pawpaw, mango and pineapple, far fresher and juicier than anything you can get in the UK. Then scrambled eggs (perhaps a trifle too salty, and that is my only complaint), lovely soft white rolls, a variety of bread, butter, three different jams, coconut cake, ham and cheese.
Oh, and then there’s a fruitbowl just in case you’re still peckish. And did I mention the box of Frosties?
The Brazilians do not skimp on breakfast. The most important meal of the day is just as vibrant and plentiful as everything else in this big-ass (and I mean this in every sense) country.
At Casa Corcovada it’s mighty tasty too. The coffee surges forth from one of those thermos jugs where you have to press down on a top button to get the liquid to pour, the ones I always associate with coffee breaks at mind-numblingly tedious corporate training sessions. But the coffee that comes out of the thermos at Casa Caminho do Corcovado turns out to be excellent – fresh and hot and smooth. A worthy cure for too many Caipirinias the night before. But that is another story.
Rua Filinto de Almeida 283
Cosme Velho
Rio de Janeiro
22241-170
Brazil
+55 21 2265-2124
by Nelson Griddle
Look at Brazil on the map and you’ll notice there’s a lot of it.
Come down to breakfast at the average Brazilian pousada (that’s 'bed and breakfast' to those without a smattering of Portuguese) and you’ll be compelled to the same conclusion.
At Casa Caminho do Corcovado in the hills of Rio, the banquet that is Brazilian breakfast unfurls each morning with predictable splendour. The meal begins with tropical fruit juices, then plates of chopped pawpaw, mango and pineapple, far fresher and juicier than anything you can get in the UK. Then scrambled eggs (perhaps a trifle too salty, and that is my only complaint), lovely soft white rolls, a variety of bread, butter, three different jams, coconut cake, ham and cheese.
Oh, and then there’s a fruitbowl just in case you’re still peckish. And did I mention the box of Frosties?
The Brazilians do not skimp on breakfast. The most important meal of the day is just as vibrant and plentiful as everything else in this big-ass (and I mean this in every sense) country.
At Casa Corcovada it’s mighty tasty too. The coffee surges forth from one of those thermos jugs where you have to press down on a top button to get the liquid to pour, the ones I always associate with coffee breaks at mind-numblingly tedious corporate training sessions. But the coffee that comes out of the thermos at Casa Caminho do Corcovado turns out to be excellent – fresh and hot and smooth. A worthy cure for too many Caipirinias the night before. But that is another story.
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