Tommy's Restaurant
1824 Coventry Rd
Cleveland Heights
Ohio OH44118
USA
+1 216 321 7757
www.tommyscoventry.com
by T.N. Toost
Four years ago, when the LRB first went “in field” to cover the American presidential primaries, the response among breakfasters was near universal: “I would prefer to vote for Ron Paul, but he has no chance of winning, so I’m voting for (insert second choice here).” It was actually a bit sad how much people preferred Paul and how little faith they had in his electability; it seemed that people had given up on the political system, and rather than fight for their opinions they threw up their hands.
Four years later, things have changed. It isn’t so much a difference in peoples’ perceptions of Paul’s electability as a rational and conscious evaluation of the candidates against whom he is running. Yes, of course his ideas are batshit insane. Of course he would put us on course for a complete economic and political meltdown. Of course we’d likely end up in actual civil strife and, perhaps, even civil war.
But have you seen the other guys?
That, I think, is why the people who your correspondent spoke to this year are not qualifying their choices. No – the Paul supporters this year are voting for their man, come hell or high water, and believe in him fully, because they have already considered Gingrich, Santorum and Romney. They are voting for Paul and, considering his opponents, I think they are making the right choice.
So it was that I came to breakfast on Super Tuesday with my friend Gina and one of her friends, Joe, who was wearing a Ron Paul shirt. With nary a word of prompting he launched into an exposition on the exceptional rectitude of the Paul positions – on energy, gold, gay rights, constitutional interpretation, social structures, military intervention, welfare, education, international trade. Paul believes in the world as it should be, and there is no room for dissention. As a reporter and a professional in the mold of Malcolm Eggs, I was a mere observer. Gina, on the other hand, clearly disagreed, but stayed silent.
First they came for the communists.
Then breakfast arrived, with a healthy side of chips. I had the Zeke, the first thing on the menu – pita piled with eggs, veg and cheese, placed in the middle of a large plate. It was delicious when it cooled down. The chips, though, are perhaps my favorite ketchup delivery mechanism in America today. Hot, thin-cut, perfectly fried, I ate almost the entire plate – perhaps a kilo – and most of Gina’s plate, too. By the end of the meal, Joe and I had gone from talking about voting for Ron Paul to shaking hands on a gentlemen’s competition: we would take one year and try to sleep with direct descendents of every single founding father, documenting our quest for a PechaKucha presentation and, perhaps, a book deal.
In the end, Romney barely edged Santorum in Ohio, which disappointed me. I’d voted for Santorum. Yes, he is one of the most vile and despicable human beings alive today outside of, perhaps, Myanmar and good swaths of Africa still at war. My reasoning: none of the Republicans should ever live in the White House, of course, but Romney is the most electable and Santorum the least. If Romney is kept from the nomination, and any of his rivals goes before the nation, it will be much easier for Obama to get another four years. It’s the opposite thinking from the 2008 Ron Paul supporters. Luckily, the win barely lifted Romney’s sails, and the race will drag on, and on, and on, and Americans and the world will continue to be horrified by the state of the American political system.
And we’ll see you in a few months.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Riding House Café, Fitzrovia
The Riding House Café
43-51 Great Titchfield Street
Fitzrovia
W1W 7PQ
www.ridinghousecafe.co.uk
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
At the risk of indelicacy, it’s the loos that get you.
To clarify, there is little to cavil about at The Riding House Café; it’s all pretty darned perfect. But apart from the bounteous menu, the perfectly-pitched service and the décor that scratches all those Living Etc taxidermy itches you never knew you had, one particular detail of the gents’ cloakroom had me rummaging gingerly in my knife-drawer of superlatives. Get this… they have actually gone to the trouble of buying (or –dream it! – commissioning) an elegantly shot-blasted metal cover for their Dyson Airblade, so it chameleons itself snugly within the overall industrial luxe look. Even if the jet-engine decibel levels shock you, the visuals won’t.
Returning à la carte, it’s hit after palpable hit. The basics – pâtisserie, bacon sandwiches, coffees and more teas than you could shake a liquorice stick at, smoothies, porridge and mueslis “both bar and bat” – are impeccably sourced and punchy in their variety. As for the platform-agnostic eggs, Benedict routinely and silkily impresses, as does Hussard (a confection I had not encountered before, but which I’d urge upon anyone keen to start their day sated and with the phrase sauce bordelaise dancing sluttily across their lips). And venerable Omelette Arnold Bennett is as mouth-wateringly other as you would hope… like Gary Rhodes or ketamine, it shouldn’t work but it does.
But the abiding sense-memory for me is the PB&J. A potentially unholy miasma of peanut butter, banana, strawberry and apple juice, it comes in a milk bottle with a straw and at first smells unnervingly like fresh boak. Until you ask your delightful waiter –played here by the French stunt double of novelty Rastafarian showjumping fail Oliver Skeete – to lose the apple, and you’re left with a pint of ambrosia. Not that.
All you need to know about the ethos of the place was summed up when I first lunched there – charming waitperson #348 sauntered over and asked if we would like the ‘concept’ explained. We nervously said yes. He replied, “There isn’t one really – order some lunch, it’s all great.”
Phew.
43-51 Great Titchfield Street
Fitzrovia
W1W 7PQ
www.ridinghousecafe.co.uk
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
At the risk of indelicacy, it’s the loos that get you.
To clarify, there is little to cavil about at The Riding House Café; it’s all pretty darned perfect. But apart from the bounteous menu, the perfectly-pitched service and the décor that scratches all those Living Etc taxidermy itches you never knew you had, one particular detail of the gents’ cloakroom had me rummaging gingerly in my knife-drawer of superlatives. Get this… they have actually gone to the trouble of buying (or –dream it! – commissioning) an elegantly shot-blasted metal cover for their Dyson Airblade, so it chameleons itself snugly within the overall industrial luxe look. Even if the jet-engine decibel levels shock you, the visuals won’t.
Returning à la carte, it’s hit after palpable hit. The basics – pâtisserie, bacon sandwiches, coffees and more teas than you could shake a liquorice stick at, smoothies, porridge and mueslis “both bar and bat” – are impeccably sourced and punchy in their variety. As for the platform-agnostic eggs, Benedict routinely and silkily impresses, as does Hussard (a confection I had not encountered before, but which I’d urge upon anyone keen to start their day sated and with the phrase sauce bordelaise dancing sluttily across their lips). And venerable Omelette Arnold Bennett is as mouth-wateringly other as you would hope… like Gary Rhodes or ketamine, it shouldn’t work but it does.
But the abiding sense-memory for me is the PB&J. A potentially unholy miasma of peanut butter, banana, strawberry and apple juice, it comes in a milk bottle with a straw and at first smells unnervingly like fresh boak. Until you ask your delightful waiter –played here by the French stunt double of novelty Rastafarian showjumping fail Oliver Skeete – to lose the apple, and you’re left with a pint of ambrosia. Not that.
All you need to know about the ethos of the place was summed up when I first lunched there – charming waitperson #348 sauntered over and asked if we would like the ‘concept’ explained. We nervously said yes. He replied, “There isn’t one really – order some lunch, it’s all great.”
Phew.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The Modern Pantry, Clerkenwell
The Modern Pantry
48 St John's Square
Clerkenwell
EC1V 4JJ
020 7553 9210
www.themodernpantry.co.uk
by Grease Witherspoon
Post yoga and micro dermatological facial, I usually insist on my regular breakfast of gluten-free muesli and organic soymilk. However, I make an exception to meet my sister, Jadee, for breakfast at the Modern Pantry, conveniently located around the corner from my aromatherapist. Blood is, after all, thicker than soya.
I’m early and the maitre d’ is on the phone but waves me inside with such a friendly, welcoming smile that I almost mistake it for recognition. When he hangs up, he apologises profusely in an incomprehensible accent before showing me upstairs, chatting incessantly. As I lean in to try to understand and react appropriately, the inevitable happens and I trip over my heels and up the stairs. Mr. d’ makes a sound that I assume is concern for my well-being and although I can’t be sure, think he says something along the lines of ‘stupid stairs.’ Safely at our table, I order a calming peppermint tea. Too much caffeine in the morning makes me jittery and there’s been quite enough excitement already. It arrives at the same time as my sister, in a miniature pot that would barely quench the thirst of a teacup shih tzu. And it isn’t loose leaf. If it comes in a pot and costs £2, it really should be.
Perusing the menu, I notice it features some unconventional ingredients- cassava, goat’s curd, plantain and yuzu nestle between the inevitable pastry selection and chorizo-laced eggs. I settle for the outré sounding polenta, spring onion, feta and curry leaf waffles with bacon and maple syrup. The other Witherspoon sister goes for the rather more predictable option of halloumi, spinach and eggs. I’m expecting them to be plump and ostentatious but when thin, crisp and delicate waffles arrive, I am not disappointed. There is no hint of the graininess usually associated with polenta and none of the stodginess of its stateside cousin. The feta and the spring onion comes through with a faint under note of the sweet curry leaf that brings out the syrup, while the saltiness of the bacon is imitated by the feta. It’s certainly clever and it knows it. The plate of halloumi, eggs and spinach is a much more straightforward option but it shines nonetheless just as brightly. Jadee proclaims the eggs to be the best she has ever had in London, with the cheese mixed in with them without squeaky rubberiness, set aside rough sourdough toast of the artisan variety and fat grilled tomatoes.
As we sit bathed in sunlight from the enormous windows I begin, just for a second, to unwind. Until I’m blinded by the rays and start to feel a little faint. I realise my sister is squinting to see her plate and so make the briefest of eye contact with our waiter. He promptly swoops over and pulls down the blinds, to a chorus of appreciation from other diners. It’s the kind of service one could get used to.
48 St John's Square
Clerkenwell
EC1V 4JJ
020 7553 9210
www.themodernpantry.co.uk
by Grease Witherspoon
Post yoga and micro dermatological facial, I usually insist on my regular breakfast of gluten-free muesli and organic soymilk. However, I make an exception to meet my sister, Jadee, for breakfast at the Modern Pantry, conveniently located around the corner from my aromatherapist. Blood is, after all, thicker than soya.
I’m early and the maitre d’ is on the phone but waves me inside with such a friendly, welcoming smile that I almost mistake it for recognition. When he hangs up, he apologises profusely in an incomprehensible accent before showing me upstairs, chatting incessantly. As I lean in to try to understand and react appropriately, the inevitable happens and I trip over my heels and up the stairs. Mr. d’ makes a sound that I assume is concern for my well-being and although I can’t be sure, think he says something along the lines of ‘stupid stairs.’ Safely at our table, I order a calming peppermint tea. Too much caffeine in the morning makes me jittery and there’s been quite enough excitement already. It arrives at the same time as my sister, in a miniature pot that would barely quench the thirst of a teacup shih tzu. And it isn’t loose leaf. If it comes in a pot and costs £2, it really should be.
Perusing the menu, I notice it features some unconventional ingredients- cassava, goat’s curd, plantain and yuzu nestle between the inevitable pastry selection and chorizo-laced eggs. I settle for the outré sounding polenta, spring onion, feta and curry leaf waffles with bacon and maple syrup. The other Witherspoon sister goes for the rather more predictable option of halloumi, spinach and eggs. I’m expecting them to be plump and ostentatious but when thin, crisp and delicate waffles arrive, I am not disappointed. There is no hint of the graininess usually associated with polenta and none of the stodginess of its stateside cousin. The feta and the spring onion comes through with a faint under note of the sweet curry leaf that brings out the syrup, while the saltiness of the bacon is imitated by the feta. It’s certainly clever and it knows it. The plate of halloumi, eggs and spinach is a much more straightforward option but it shines nonetheless just as brightly. Jadee proclaims the eggs to be the best she has ever had in London, with the cheese mixed in with them without squeaky rubberiness, set aside rough sourdough toast of the artisan variety and fat grilled tomatoes.
As we sit bathed in sunlight from the enormous windows I begin, just for a second, to unwind. Until I’m blinded by the rays and start to feel a little faint. I realise my sister is squinting to see her plate and so make the briefest of eye contact with our waiter. He promptly swoops over and pulls down the blinds, to a chorus of appreciation from other diners. It’s the kind of service one could get used to.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
Special Dispatch: The Lockside Café, Bristol
The Lockside Café
No.1 Brunel Lock Road
Cumberland Basin
Hotwells
Bristol BS1 6XS
www.lockside.net
0117 9255 800
by Egon Toast
Following on from the recent bombshell that Only Fools and Horses is to be refashioned into some braying horror by our chums on the other side of the pond, I'm afraid I have another bubble-burster for you, oh sensitive Londoners: Sid’s Café from said programme, only the flippin’ icon of cockney breakfastery what’s been beamed into gazillions of houses across the globe for the past 30 years… is actually in Bristol . It can be found a mere cheese roll away from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. And it looks nothing like Sid’s, having had a right old makeover, make no mistake.
And it’s a funny old spot, too: a blimmin’ liminal location, located in the undercarriage of a flyover, seems to free it from your everyday timekeeping norms; akin to those floating hospitality zones in airports and service stations it’s the kind of place to eat steak and chips at three in the morning. As it was, we arrived at an eminently sensible 9am, plonk(er)ing ourselves down amongst brightly-coloured globular furniture – Barbarella meets Tellytubbies, yeah? – and were soon fussed over by our waitress, whose largesse with the foundation brush only gave further credence to that 24/7 retro-future vibe.
The menus, laminated, were duly examinated. I wanted to see how they had modernised the fake Peckham greasy spoon experience for today’s post-ironic arteries, while the distaff, forsaking the Full English that made her the woman she is today, went for some form of drop scone and bacon concoction. Our orders were taken swiftly. Bouncily. Cheerily, even. Rodney would have had a cardiac.
After a brief intermission, my plate of fried bounty arrived, and was all that one could want from a vaguely upscale protein-heavy feast: the bacon streaked, the yolk oozed, and all was steaming and soothing. They also gladdened my greedy soul by providing ample supplies of toast, the hallmark of a dining room that wishes to impart joy to its customers (there are few things more disheartening than an un-mopped slick of breakfast sauce). The pan-cake and bacon abomination was respectable, too, even if it did come with fruit - the sort of Continental affectation that has no place on one’s morning plate, even if you're eating in a spaceship from the 1970s.
So there’s no balding wheezer behind the stove. And it looks like the canteen from the Starship Enterprise. And no apology was forthcoming re: the shattering of capital-city, Lyndhurst-fixated hearts. But it didn't matter, really – the bonhomie exuded by all those involved with Sids 2.0 meant that our ventricles had been glued back together with a hearty dose of what the Bristol Marketing Board has implored me to call ‘West Country cheer’. Gurt lush? Gertcha.
No.1 Brunel Lock Road
Cumberland Basin
Hotwells
Bristol BS1 6XS
www.lockside.net
0117 9255 800
by Egon Toast
Following on from the recent bombshell that Only Fools and Horses is to be refashioned into some braying horror by our chums on the other side of the pond, I'm afraid I have another bubble-burster for you, oh sensitive Londoners: Sid’s Café from said programme, only the flippin’ icon of cockney breakfastery what’s been beamed into gazillions of houses across the globe for the past 30 years… is actually in Bristol . It can be found a mere cheese roll away from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. And it looks nothing like Sid’s, having had a right old makeover, make no mistake.
And it’s a funny old spot, too: a blimmin’ liminal location, located in the undercarriage of a flyover, seems to free it from your everyday timekeeping norms; akin to those floating hospitality zones in airports and service stations it’s the kind of place to eat steak and chips at three in the morning. As it was, we arrived at an eminently sensible 9am, plonk(er)ing ourselves down amongst brightly-coloured globular furniture – Barbarella meets Tellytubbies, yeah? – and were soon fussed over by our waitress, whose largesse with the foundation brush only gave further credence to that 24/7 retro-future vibe.
The menus, laminated, were duly examinated. I wanted to see how they had modernised the fake Peckham greasy spoon experience for today’s post-ironic arteries, while the distaff, forsaking the Full English that made her the woman she is today, went for some form of drop scone and bacon concoction. Our orders were taken swiftly. Bouncily. Cheerily, even. Rodney would have had a cardiac.
After a brief intermission, my plate of fried bounty arrived, and was all that one could want from a vaguely upscale protein-heavy feast: the bacon streaked, the yolk oozed, and all was steaming and soothing. They also gladdened my greedy soul by providing ample supplies of toast, the hallmark of a dining room that wishes to impart joy to its customers (there are few things more disheartening than an un-mopped slick of breakfast sauce). The pan-cake and bacon abomination was respectable, too, even if it did come with fruit - the sort of Continental affectation that has no place on one’s morning plate, even if you're eating in a spaceship from the 1970s.
So there’s no balding wheezer behind the stove. And it looks like the canteen from the Starship Enterprise. And no apology was forthcoming re: the shattering of capital-city, Lyndhurst-fixated hearts. But it didn't matter, really – the bonhomie exuded by all those involved with Sids 2.0 meant that our ventricles had been glued back together with a hearty dose of what the Bristol Marketing Board has implored me to call ‘West Country cheer’. Gurt lush? Gertcha.
Friday, March 02, 2012
Allpress Espresso, Shoreditch
Allpress Espresso
58 Redchurch Street
Shoreditch
E2 7DP
020 7749 1780
www.allpressespresso.com
by Johnny Cep
I first spied Allpress Espresso from Arnold Circus, an area I liked to circle on my bike when I had one, in 2011. It’s halfway down Redchurch Street and, bar the advertising on the after-hours shutter, appears to be a discreet, knowing and un-Antipodean fixture, oddly enough given that it is in fact of Kiwi origin.
Originally an espresso company set up by Michael Allpress (real name!) in New Zealand, Allpress moved to Shoreditch in 2010 and has since proved monumentally popular, providing most of the restaurants within spitting distance with its beans pre-roasted in the massive machine in the back room which, through the glass, reminds you of those working museums you visited in coaches at school.
As to whether it’s a café or a shop, it’s still undecided. People like its wholesale vibes, slightly under-varnished wooden floor and coffee, ergo, they arrive in droves. Foodwise, they do a good line in ambitious, well-filled sandwiches which require two hands, but the breakfast is much less of a gamble: tidy pastries, granola, yoghurt and compote, or toast which comes with eggs and smoked salmon, salted butter and marmalade or avocado, sliced cheese, tomatoes and a boiled egg, all of which are excellent to boot, even by the standards of London’s modish crush on soda bread.
I went with Dan who had the soda bread, toasted, while I had two soft-boiled eggs. This was a dicey move. I once had soft-boiled eggs at The Wolseley which were underboiled by circa 70 seconds. My two cracked (read: checked) soft-boiled eggs with pre-buttered soldiers here, however, were terrific and pillow-soft. Too much toast for the egg, sure, but I stole Dan’s marmalade, served jazzily in a shot glass, and showed the eggs what’s what.
Just as our plates were being cleared, in walked Ralph Fiennes complete with Young Vic beard, iPhone and massive rucksack. He sat down, nebbishly ordered then par-consumed the avocado, cheese and egg plate. I was going to ask him what he had in his massive rucksack until Dan delivered the crushing reality that I didn’t know him. Bothered, I decided to play with the tap-water-dispenser instead, a novel toy with a push-down button and a tray to catch spillages, and managed to spill my glass on the bar.
There are many, many good things about Allpress Espresso. Chief among them is the coffee. I had a white-long-black which sounds like a dress code but is in fact Kiwi vernacular for an Americano-style coffee which allows you to curate your own water and hot milk. The beans are clean-tasting and sweet compared to Monmouth Coffee which, I feel, burns theirs on occasion. I realise saying this aloud is tantamount to racism but there you go. Other plus points: the doors, which bend open and are deeply cool, and the lack of queue. Clientele move apace thanks to the staff - charming, big teeth – although they take their sweet time to clear the dirties.
Sadly, Allpress also attracts a lot of Media Meetings. The day we decided to go, fair-isle reached critical mass, but those undesirables soon finished their drinks and left, presumably to draw some lines or whatever, leaving us – Ralph, Dan and I - to finish our perfect eggs in peace.
58 Redchurch Street
Shoreditch
E2 7DP
020 7749 1780
www.allpressespresso.com
by Johnny Cep
I first spied Allpress Espresso from Arnold Circus, an area I liked to circle on my bike when I had one, in 2011. It’s halfway down Redchurch Street and, bar the advertising on the after-hours shutter, appears to be a discreet, knowing and un-Antipodean fixture, oddly enough given that it is in fact of Kiwi origin.
Originally an espresso company set up by Michael Allpress (real name!) in New Zealand, Allpress moved to Shoreditch in 2010 and has since proved monumentally popular, providing most of the restaurants within spitting distance with its beans pre-roasted in the massive machine in the back room which, through the glass, reminds you of those working museums you visited in coaches at school.
As to whether it’s a café or a shop, it’s still undecided. People like its wholesale vibes, slightly under-varnished wooden floor and coffee, ergo, they arrive in droves. Foodwise, they do a good line in ambitious, well-filled sandwiches which require two hands, but the breakfast is much less of a gamble: tidy pastries, granola, yoghurt and compote, or toast which comes with eggs and smoked salmon, salted butter and marmalade or avocado, sliced cheese, tomatoes and a boiled egg, all of which are excellent to boot, even by the standards of London’s modish crush on soda bread.
I went with Dan who had the soda bread, toasted, while I had two soft-boiled eggs. This was a dicey move. I once had soft-boiled eggs at The Wolseley which were underboiled by circa 70 seconds. My two cracked (read: checked) soft-boiled eggs with pre-buttered soldiers here, however, were terrific and pillow-soft. Too much toast for the egg, sure, but I stole Dan’s marmalade, served jazzily in a shot glass, and showed the eggs what’s what.
Just as our plates were being cleared, in walked Ralph Fiennes complete with Young Vic beard, iPhone and massive rucksack. He sat down, nebbishly ordered then par-consumed the avocado, cheese and egg plate. I was going to ask him what he had in his massive rucksack until Dan delivered the crushing reality that I didn’t know him. Bothered, I decided to play with the tap-water-dispenser instead, a novel toy with a push-down button and a tray to catch spillages, and managed to spill my glass on the bar.
There are many, many good things about Allpress Espresso. Chief among them is the coffee. I had a white-long-black which sounds like a dress code but is in fact Kiwi vernacular for an Americano-style coffee which allows you to curate your own water and hot milk. The beans are clean-tasting and sweet compared to Monmouth Coffee which, I feel, burns theirs on occasion. I realise saying this aloud is tantamount to racism but there you go. Other plus points: the doors, which bend open and are deeply cool, and the lack of queue. Clientele move apace thanks to the staff - charming, big teeth – although they take their sweet time to clear the dirties.
Sadly, Allpress also attracts a lot of Media Meetings. The day we decided to go, fair-isle reached critical mass, but those undesirables soon finished their drinks and left, presumably to draw some lines or whatever, leaving us – Ralph, Dan and I - to finish our perfect eggs in peace.
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