Est Est Est
South Terminal
Gatwick Airport
RH6
01293 579040
www.estestest.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
Sharp objects aren't the only things confiscated on your way into Gatwick departure lounge: they also do away with the unspoken rules of breakfasting. Suddenly it's fine, it seems, to start the day with vegetable soup, cheeseburgers or Carlsberg Export. Perhaps it's in this spirit of utter bedlam that Est Est Est came up with the idea of a 'breakfast pizza', an option we forwent in favour of two traditional breakfasts, a maple and banana crepe and a 'foccacia con pancetta e uova', at a total cost of £32.
Slightly miserable bacon aside, my traditional breakfast was quite a looker. The proud, dark and confidently charred sausage contrasted elegantly with the lighter shades of the two fried eggs, themselves framed by a big Portobella mushroom and a glamorous scattering of sautéed potatoes. My plate resembled a page ripped from the Observer Food Monthly - and unfortunately it tasted like one too. The potatoes were bland, the sausage had been nicked from a school dinner lady's pocket, the egg yolk had been phoned in from an Afghan bunker and the mushroom was Dr Frankenstein's (lesser known) failed clone of a mushroom. Could it be that I was I eating a virtual reality breakfast?
Meanwhile, Ed Benedict was being dragged into a pancake quagmire. A sticky, sickly deluge of luminous syrupy goo was causing the bananas, berries and even the mighty pancake to drown pathetically. The colours from this scene were so garish that if it was 1988 I'd have been able to sell a photo of it to the people who made Athena posters, but it was an appalling breakfast. My recommendation is to opt for a hot dog with a gin and tonic.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Simpson's-in-the-Strand, Covent Garden
Simpson's-in-the-Strand
100 Strand
Covent Garden
WC2R
020 7836 9112
www.simpsonsinthestrand.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
After being accused of miserliness by a disgruntled reader I decided to repair my bruised ego by taking breakfast at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. I took along my much put-upon assistant Laura and London’s most notorious hypochondriac John O’ Connell. I arrived late and hungover having spent the night hobnobbing with right-wing socialites at the Spectator’s summer party. The moment I staggered through the revolving door a pretty Russian with an accent that could turn Elton John straight asked me if I was Mr Pudding. She then showed me to my table where my guests awaited me.
The breakfast menu was extensive, taking in the full English, pastries, porridge, fruit, kippers and the like. But in surroundings this old-fashioned I think only a fool (or a foreigner) would order anything other than kedgeree. When it arrived it brought back memories of the colonial childhood I never had. It was gooey and beautifully spiced like a kind of Anglo-Indian risotto and it came with lavish amounts of lightly smoked haddock. The hard-boiled eggs, however, were overcooked. My companions went for the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (are they fools or foreigners?). Both seemed happy with theirs, though I think John muttered something about his eggs being on the cool side.
The bill including service, juices and teas was about £50. This does seem very expensive but bear in mind that we could have had fruit salads and pastries too, as they were included in the price of our mains. The mains themselves were designed for our increasingly chubby transatlantic cousins; I did not need to eat again until supper. So if you are a generous sort with a generous appetite then Simpson's is the perfect place to breakfast.
100 Strand
Covent Garden
WC2R
020 7836 9112
www.simpsonsinthestrand.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
After being accused of miserliness by a disgruntled reader I decided to repair my bruised ego by taking breakfast at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. I took along my much put-upon assistant Laura and London’s most notorious hypochondriac John O’ Connell. I arrived late and hungover having spent the night hobnobbing with right-wing socialites at the Spectator’s summer party. The moment I staggered through the revolving door a pretty Russian with an accent that could turn Elton John straight asked me if I was Mr Pudding. She then showed me to my table where my guests awaited me.
The breakfast menu was extensive, taking in the full English, pastries, porridge, fruit, kippers and the like. But in surroundings this old-fashioned I think only a fool (or a foreigner) would order anything other than kedgeree. When it arrived it brought back memories of the colonial childhood I never had. It was gooey and beautifully spiced like a kind of Anglo-Indian risotto and it came with lavish amounts of lightly smoked haddock. The hard-boiled eggs, however, were overcooked. My companions went for the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (are they fools or foreigners?). Both seemed happy with theirs, though I think John muttered something about his eggs being on the cool side.
The bill including service, juices and teas was about £50. This does seem very expensive but bear in mind that we could have had fruit salads and pastries too, as they were included in the price of our mains. The mains themselves were designed for our increasingly chubby transatlantic cousins; I did not need to eat again until supper. So if you are a generous sort with a generous appetite then Simpson's is the perfect place to breakfast.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Peter de Wit's, Greenwich
Peter de Wit's
21 Greenwich Church Street
Greenwich
SE10
08713 327 097
by Des Ayuno
With its classy dark green and white facade, Peter de Wit's held promise for two hungry travellers fresh off a Thames cruise. The discovery of a shaded terrace out back was in keeping with the relaxed, idyllic nature of the day.
Orders were noted with friendly courtesy: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and tea for me, and an off-menu request for "the closest thing you've got to a veggie breakfast" and fresh orange juice for the Scot. When the waiter faux-grimaced over the sports pages (covering England's quarter-final exit in agonising detail), it seemed an endearing extension of the place's chummy welcome.
That, however, was the end of a beautiful morning. The fresh orange juice was as accurately named as Sybil Fawlty's fruit salad. The veggie breakfast contained all the standards, inoffensively prepared - eggs (scrambled), toast (margarined), tomatoes (roasted), mushrooms (tinned), beans (holding it all together) - as well as an unidentifiable lump. I alone braved a forkful and discovered it was stuffing. It was a daring inclusion, but sadly inedible, as proved the rest of the Scot's breakfast when a hair surfaced in the eggs.
Long, dark and glossy, it could never have fallen from the waiter's sparsely thatched crown, although he appeared to be the sole member of staff present. In any case, my eggs were hair-free, and the smoked salmon was stacked on top rather than scrambled with - both small mercies. But the toast was cold and the enormous, unadvertised green salad ignored.
It should be mentioned that the offending meal was removed from the bill, but a lethargic melancholy stopped us pointing out the fundamentally offensive nature of the entire experience and, as we left, the waiter's nervous, apologetic giggles followed us for too long down the high street.
21 Greenwich Church Street
Greenwich
SE10
08713 327 097
by Des Ayuno
With its classy dark green and white facade, Peter de Wit's held promise for two hungry travellers fresh off a Thames cruise. The discovery of a shaded terrace out back was in keeping with the relaxed, idyllic nature of the day.
Orders were noted with friendly courtesy: scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and tea for me, and an off-menu request for "the closest thing you've got to a veggie breakfast" and fresh orange juice for the Scot. When the waiter faux-grimaced over the sports pages (covering England's quarter-final exit in agonising detail), it seemed an endearing extension of the place's chummy welcome.
That, however, was the end of a beautiful morning. The fresh orange juice was as accurately named as Sybil Fawlty's fruit salad. The veggie breakfast contained all the standards, inoffensively prepared - eggs (scrambled), toast (margarined), tomatoes (roasted), mushrooms (tinned), beans (holding it all together) - as well as an unidentifiable lump. I alone braved a forkful and discovered it was stuffing. It was a daring inclusion, but sadly inedible, as proved the rest of the Scot's breakfast when a hair surfaced in the eggs.
Long, dark and glossy, it could never have fallen from the waiter's sparsely thatched crown, although he appeared to be the sole member of staff present. In any case, my eggs were hair-free, and the smoked salmon was stacked on top rather than scrambled with - both small mercies. But the toast was cold and the enormous, unadvertised green salad ignored.
It should be mentioned that the offending meal was removed from the bill, but a lethargic melancholy stopped us pointing out the fundamentally offensive nature of the entire experience and, as we left, the waiter's nervous, apologetic giggles followed us for too long down the high street.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Special dispatch: Bill’s, Lewes, East Sussex
Bill's Produce Store
56 Cliffe High Street
Lewes BN7
01273 476 918
www.billsproducestore.co.uk
by Orva Easy
“Toast and jam?” no. “Cheese on toast?” no. “Baked beans on toast?” no. A short and sullen pause. Then a churlish whisper. “Marmite.”
There is, in truth, only one solitary snag in eating your breakfast at Bill’s and that is the necessity, due to its popularity, of sharing a table with a skinny, neurotic, ineffectual East Sussex dairy-phobe and her ghastly little shitbag of a son. This tiny tyrant, urged on by his mother’s apparent inability to digest anything more complex than pureed wheatgrass, refused to eat anything on the menu, left his marmite-soaked crusts and was (rightly, in my opinion) outraged when the ‘slush puppy’ his idiot mother had promised him with false and misplaced cunning appeared as a freshly-squidged, e-number and sugar-free fruit smoothie. He refused even to try it. I contemplated dumping it over his head.
Fortunately, this is a small price to pay to languish in a breakfaster’s paradise. Bill’s Breakfast is a mountain of steaming deliciousness, precariously balanced on a rectangular plate and thoughtfully garnished with a sprig or two of tasty little purple salad leaves. Everything is organic, the eggs sing of fresh air, good feed and weekly shed-screenings of Chicken Run and you can practically taste the boundless bliss that filled the life of your bacon, skipping with joy even unto the waiting arms of the butcher. What sweet tears he must have wept to see piggy's trusting little eyes squinting up at him as the sun glinted on his big shiny knife.
For a moment, Mrs Milk-free was transfixed, horrified, by my empty plate, licked clean of the last dribble of grease and egg yolk. The jug of soya milk hung in the air; her offspring took the opportunity to stick his snotty finger in the communal Marmite. Then she ran. A breakfast well taken, I thought to myself.
56 Cliffe High Street
Lewes BN7
01273 476 918
www.billsproducestore.co.uk
by Orva Easy
“Toast and jam?” no. “Cheese on toast?” no. “Baked beans on toast?” no. A short and sullen pause. Then a churlish whisper. “Marmite.”
There is, in truth, only one solitary snag in eating your breakfast at Bill’s and that is the necessity, due to its popularity, of sharing a table with a skinny, neurotic, ineffectual East Sussex dairy-phobe and her ghastly little shitbag of a son. This tiny tyrant, urged on by his mother’s apparent inability to digest anything more complex than pureed wheatgrass, refused to eat anything on the menu, left his marmite-soaked crusts and was (rightly, in my opinion) outraged when the ‘slush puppy’ his idiot mother had promised him with false and misplaced cunning appeared as a freshly-squidged, e-number and sugar-free fruit smoothie. He refused even to try it. I contemplated dumping it over his head.
Fortunately, this is a small price to pay to languish in a breakfaster’s paradise. Bill’s Breakfast is a mountain of steaming deliciousness, precariously balanced on a rectangular plate and thoughtfully garnished with a sprig or two of tasty little purple salad leaves. Everything is organic, the eggs sing of fresh air, good feed and weekly shed-screenings of Chicken Run and you can practically taste the boundless bliss that filled the life of your bacon, skipping with joy even unto the waiting arms of the butcher. What sweet tears he must have wept to see piggy's trusting little eyes squinting up at him as the sun glinted on his big shiny knife.
For a moment, Mrs Milk-free was transfixed, horrified, by my empty plate, licked clean of the last dribble of grease and egg yolk. The jug of soya milk hung in the air; her offspring took the opportunity to stick his snotty finger in the communal Marmite. Then she ran. A breakfast well taken, I thought to myself.
Monday, July 03, 2006
The Providores and Tapa Room, Marylebone
The Providores and Tapa Room
109 Marylebone High Street
Marylebone
W1U
020 7935 6175
www.theprovidores.co.uk
by Scott Cheigg
It is said that French toast commands £8.50 at The Providores and Tapa Room on Marylebone High Street, so my friend appears in a stylish summer dress and I am sporting smart shoes, dress trousers and a fitted shirt, and if it wasn't for the large black eye - obtained in a brawl outside a nightclub in Soho, three nights previously, because I didn't like the way someone was looking at me - nobody would be able to tell that I don't belong in an establishment such as this, lest someone look at me the wrong way and I have to hospitalise another citizen of this town.
We are ushered to a corner table (in an attempt, I suspect, to hide me) and our waitress - all smiles and sitting down beside us to make us feel very welcome indeed - takes our order consisting of: one vegetarian breakfast, one vegetarian breakfast with a side of black pudding, one raspberry and strawberry smoothie and one pot of builder's tea.
The service is prompt and the food largely excellent. Our eggs - scrambled - are delicately herbed. I cannot vouch for the black pudding because I would not let such an item pass my lips for fear of vomiting, but my friend raises a verbal glass to them. The mushrooms are as fine a fungus as I ever taste, the tomatoes impressive without being showy and the sourdough bread the perfect bed for our victuals. Satiated, we rest awhile, watching the hour hand creep toward midday, or cocktail o’clock. When it comes, we indulge in Bloody Marys and Chocolate Martinis and doff our metaphorical cap to The Providores and Tapa Room, vowing to return for the French toast the following Sunday (assuming the mugging I am planning this evening comes off to the tune of £50).
109 Marylebone High Street
Marylebone
W1U
020 7935 6175
www.theprovidores.co.uk
by Scott Cheigg
It is said that French toast commands £8.50 at The Providores and Tapa Room on Marylebone High Street, so my friend appears in a stylish summer dress and I am sporting smart shoes, dress trousers and a fitted shirt, and if it wasn't for the large black eye - obtained in a brawl outside a nightclub in Soho, three nights previously, because I didn't like the way someone was looking at me - nobody would be able to tell that I don't belong in an establishment such as this, lest someone look at me the wrong way and I have to hospitalise another citizen of this town.
We are ushered to a corner table (in an attempt, I suspect, to hide me) and our waitress - all smiles and sitting down beside us to make us feel very welcome indeed - takes our order consisting of: one vegetarian breakfast, one vegetarian breakfast with a side of black pudding, one raspberry and strawberry smoothie and one pot of builder's tea.
The service is prompt and the food largely excellent. Our eggs - scrambled - are delicately herbed. I cannot vouch for the black pudding because I would not let such an item pass my lips for fear of vomiting, but my friend raises a verbal glass to them. The mushrooms are as fine a fungus as I ever taste, the tomatoes impressive without being showy and the sourdough bread the perfect bed for our victuals. Satiated, we rest awhile, watching the hour hand creep toward midday, or cocktail o’clock. When it comes, we indulge in Bloody Marys and Chocolate Martinis and doff our metaphorical cap to The Providores and Tapa Room, vowing to return for the French toast the following Sunday (assuming the mugging I am planning this evening comes off to the tune of £50).
Friday, June 30, 2006
Regency Café, Pimlico
Regency Café
17 - 19 Regency St
Pimlico
SW1P 4BY
020 7821 6596
by Gracie Spoon
The Regency Café provoked a series of gleeful squeals from the corner in which my breakfast companion and I sat. We were beside ourselves with delight, and here, I think, is why: in a town where cafes and bars rapidly open, shut, refurb and change management, contriving new vintage/ retro/ kitsch/ 80s/ 50s/ Victoriana styles accordingly, the idea that the beautiful Regency Café and its different-place- different-time world is for real was almost a shock. Established in 1946, this café’s deco exterior, tiled walls, gingham curtains, and formica tables indicate history, as opposed to the carefully-planned, good-looking irony we’d absorbed elsewhere. And upon hearing that the current owner bought the place from a family friend twenty years ago - inspiringly uncorporate music for our over-advertised to ears – well, squeak! And wow.
Tucked away on a quiet museum of a street in which the Regency is not the only pristinely-maintained anachronism, this place is a proud veteran of breakfasting. You order at the counter, and wait for your breakfast in a time-warp atmosphere so potent it almost moves in black and white. It’s not just the menu and the décor either. Another tenet of the old-fashioned English cafe is also borne out, (one often more clearly modelled by its counterpart: the old fashioned English pub): with the exception of me and my co-squealer, the other people in here are noticeably all men – massive, blokey, lorry-driver sized men.
Summoned back to the counter by the shout, "ONE EGG ON TOAST, MUSHROOMS, TOMATOS AND BUBBLE", my breakfast begins. It’s gorgeous. For around £4: explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness… and the best bit? A crispy bubble and squeal.
17 - 19 Regency St
Pimlico
SW1P 4BY
020 7821 6596
by Gracie Spoon
The Regency Café provoked a series of gleeful squeals from the corner in which my breakfast companion and I sat. We were beside ourselves with delight, and here, I think, is why: in a town where cafes and bars rapidly open, shut, refurb and change management, contriving new vintage/ retro/ kitsch/ 80s/ 50s/ Victoriana styles accordingly, the idea that the beautiful Regency Café and its different-place- different-time world is for real was almost a shock. Established in 1946, this café’s deco exterior, tiled walls, gingham curtains, and formica tables indicate history, as opposed to the carefully-planned, good-looking irony we’d absorbed elsewhere. And upon hearing that the current owner bought the place from a family friend twenty years ago - inspiringly uncorporate music for our over-advertised to ears – well, squeak! And wow.
Tucked away on a quiet museum of a street in which the Regency is not the only pristinely-maintained anachronism, this place is a proud veteran of breakfasting. You order at the counter, and wait for your breakfast in a time-warp atmosphere so potent it almost moves in black and white. It’s not just the menu and the décor either. Another tenet of the old-fashioned English cafe is also borne out, (one often more clearly modelled by its counterpart: the old fashioned English pub): with the exception of me and my co-squealer, the other people in here are noticeably all men – massive, blokey, lorry-driver sized men.
Summoned back to the counter by the shout, "ONE EGG ON TOAST, MUSHROOMS, TOMATOS AND BUBBLE", my breakfast begins. It’s gorgeous. For around £4: explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness… and the best bit? A crispy bubble and squeal.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Trojka, Primrose Hill
Trojka
101 Regents Park Road
Primrose Hill
NW1
020 7483 3765
www.trojka.co.uk
by Corin Flakes
The World Cup: how it divides the planetary mood. While the atavistic fan - carrying his gut like some terrible trophy - fizzes with tribal agitation, Ed Benedict and I entered the spirit of global unity by visiting the Russian tea rooms of Trojka.
Plonked on a pavement table amongst the gilded beau monde of Primrose Hill, I ordered the 'Trojka Breakfast'. Though Russian in name it is resolutely English: its synergy is with the builder, not the oligarch. The sausages were blandly comforting, and the bacon sustained a crispy bite, curling like a well-grilled treble clef. Glumly stranded in a pallid sauce, the beans had lost whatever warmth they may once have had, but the toast and tomatoes, often clumsy addendums, were perfectly fine. It was all just... average. Ed favoured mushrooms and scrambled eggs on toast, and the substitution of dull white with crunchy rye provoked uncontained pleasure.
Trojka should be commended for service. On a roasting day with the sun at its full, penetrating apex, they brought us a cauldron of cold water; a small act that showed perceptive understanding of customer need. Finally - the coffee. It is immeasurably powerful: nuclear brewed, plutonium strength. A single cup is electrifying. Your heart beat quickens exponentially with each dense sip. But two could propel you to acts of sociopathic disregard. Beer is often blamed for manifestations of British thuggery but I suspect plenty of maniacs, brawlers and fist-swingers have in fact had a thermos flask of this stuff.
101 Regents Park Road
Primrose Hill
NW1
020 7483 3765
www.trojka.co.uk
by Corin Flakes
The World Cup: how it divides the planetary mood. While the atavistic fan - carrying his gut like some terrible trophy - fizzes with tribal agitation, Ed Benedict and I entered the spirit of global unity by visiting the Russian tea rooms of Trojka.
Plonked on a pavement table amongst the gilded beau monde of Primrose Hill, I ordered the 'Trojka Breakfast'. Though Russian in name it is resolutely English: its synergy is with the builder, not the oligarch. The sausages were blandly comforting, and the bacon sustained a crispy bite, curling like a well-grilled treble clef. Glumly stranded in a pallid sauce, the beans had lost whatever warmth they may once have had, but the toast and tomatoes, often clumsy addendums, were perfectly fine. It was all just... average. Ed favoured mushrooms and scrambled eggs on toast, and the substitution of dull white with crunchy rye provoked uncontained pleasure.
Trojka should be commended for service. On a roasting day with the sun at its full, penetrating apex, they brought us a cauldron of cold water; a small act that showed perceptive understanding of customer need. Finally - the coffee. It is immeasurably powerful: nuclear brewed, plutonium strength. A single cup is electrifying. Your heart beat quickens exponentially with each dense sip. But two could propel you to acts of sociopathic disregard. Beer is often blamed for manifestations of British thuggery but I suspect plenty of maniacs, brawlers and fist-swingers have in fact had a thermos flask of this stuff.
Monday, June 26, 2006
El Vergel, Borough
El Vergel
8 Lant St
Borough
SE1
0207 357 0057
www.elvergel.co.uk
Breakfast served: Mon to Fri 8am - 11am, Saturday 10.30am - 3pm
by Gracie Spoon
As with any complex relationship, living in London is a continual karmic balancing act. Do London a bad deed (ie: snarl at a TfL employee, or perhaps question the value of the 2012 Olympics) and it’ll most likely deal you a frustrating cross-town journey. But do London a good deed (ie: use a bin, chat to a stranger), and maybe it’ll reveal one of its secrets. El Vergel is just one such secret - and it was whispered to me in return, I think, for a suspenseful attempt to rescue a duck from a Peckham street.
Easy to miss, the unassuming entrance on a Southwark back street does little in terms of flagging up the imaginative and cheerful South American breakfasting within. Being a teeny place, eating becomes communal. One long, bench-flanked table is punctuated with clay jars of water, cutlery and pinchingly fresh homemade salsa: all very help-yourself. The Latin breakfast (£4.70) is a compilation of chorizo, kidney beans, ‘piquant’ scrambled eggs, village bread and tea or coffee, while £3.90 got me the veggie alternative: corn tortillas, beans, eggs and avocado. The scrambled eggs were pink, which, yes, certainly is weird, but also good, as this is the tasty ‘piquant’ part. Although fairly milky in texture, they grew and grew in warmth and depth. Elsewhere, kidney beans replace the usual sugared puddle of orange artifice, and give a wholesome, nutty oomph. Smoothing over it all is the avocado: a little treat.
El Vergel is a secret that’s now yours too. So go out and do something deserving of it.
8 Lant St
Borough
SE1
0207 357 0057
www.elvergel.co.uk
Breakfast served: Mon to Fri 8am - 11am, Saturday 10.30am - 3pm
by Gracie Spoon
As with any complex relationship, living in London is a continual karmic balancing act. Do London a bad deed (ie: snarl at a TfL employee, or perhaps question the value of the 2012 Olympics) and it’ll most likely deal you a frustrating cross-town journey. But do London a good deed (ie: use a bin, chat to a stranger), and maybe it’ll reveal one of its secrets. El Vergel is just one such secret - and it was whispered to me in return, I think, for a suspenseful attempt to rescue a duck from a Peckham street.
Easy to miss, the unassuming entrance on a Southwark back street does little in terms of flagging up the imaginative and cheerful South American breakfasting within. Being a teeny place, eating becomes communal. One long, bench-flanked table is punctuated with clay jars of water, cutlery and pinchingly fresh homemade salsa: all very help-yourself. The Latin breakfast (£4.70) is a compilation of chorizo, kidney beans, ‘piquant’ scrambled eggs, village bread and tea or coffee, while £3.90 got me the veggie alternative: corn tortillas, beans, eggs and avocado. The scrambled eggs were pink, which, yes, certainly is weird, but also good, as this is the tasty ‘piquant’ part. Although fairly milky in texture, they grew and grew in warmth and depth. Elsewhere, kidney beans replace the usual sugared puddle of orange artifice, and give a wholesome, nutty oomph. Smoothing over it all is the avocado: a little treat.
El Vergel is a secret that’s now yours too. So go out and do something deserving of it.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Villandry, Fitzrovia
Villandry
170 Great Portland Street
Fitzrovia
W1W
020 7631 3131
www.villandry.com
by Hashley Brown
Gracie Spoon and I had much to catch up on: I'd ungraciously missed her birthday party, and she'd just walked the Camino de Santiago. It had been too long, and these things needed a good airing. Seeing as she'd just returned from walking the holy path of St James, what better place then to breakfast than that mecca for Fitzrovian acolytes, Villandry?
Villandry is one of those emporium type places where due to the total absence of price labels and the overabundance of tins of cassoulet, everything seems inordinately expensive. It's also always full of genteel ladies taking tea. In reality, it is inordinately expensive (a tenner for the full english), but then they have nice thick napkins, so everything balances out in the end.
Sadly the food didn't quite match up to the napkins - yet again a case of good ingredients sloppily chargrilled (see The Oxford). Correct me if I'm wrong but there seems to be an alarming trend in the high end deli business lately of sticking everything on the chargrill until it is a) dry and lifeless (bacon/toast) or b) unappetisingly blackened (tomatoes/sausage). And today the mushrooms tasted unnervingly cheesy. And, the staff seemed to have been employed for surliness over attentiveness.
I fear that had we splashed out a little further and visited the real Chateau Villandry (the last of the Renaissance Loire Valley chateau, built 1532) they would not have been so cavalier in their chargrilling. But then again, dear Gracie and I may never have discovered our shared fear of cassoulet.
170 Great Portland Street
Fitzrovia
W1W
020 7631 3131
www.villandry.com
by Hashley Brown
Gracie Spoon and I had much to catch up on: I'd ungraciously missed her birthday party, and she'd just walked the Camino de Santiago. It had been too long, and these things needed a good airing. Seeing as she'd just returned from walking the holy path of St James, what better place then to breakfast than that mecca for Fitzrovian acolytes, Villandry?
Villandry is one of those emporium type places where due to the total absence of price labels and the overabundance of tins of cassoulet, everything seems inordinately expensive. It's also always full of genteel ladies taking tea. In reality, it is inordinately expensive (a tenner for the full english), but then they have nice thick napkins, so everything balances out in the end.
Sadly the food didn't quite match up to the napkins - yet again a case of good ingredients sloppily chargrilled (see The Oxford). Correct me if I'm wrong but there seems to be an alarming trend in the high end deli business lately of sticking everything on the chargrill until it is a) dry and lifeless (bacon/toast) or b) unappetisingly blackened (tomatoes/sausage). And today the mushrooms tasted unnervingly cheesy. And, the staff seemed to have been employed for surliness over attentiveness.
I fear that had we splashed out a little further and visited the real Chateau Villandry (the last of the Renaissance Loire Valley chateau, built 1532) they would not have been so cavalier in their chargrilling. But then again, dear Gracie and I may never have discovered our shared fear of cassoulet.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The Honest Sausage, Regent's Park
The Honest Sausage
The Broadwalk
Regent's Park
NW1
www.honestsausage.com
by Hashley Brown
I love sausages. It may be hard to believe quite how much I love them, but believe me I do. I make them, by hand. I eat them, in all their varieties. I even take photos of them - my sausage photo gallery is quite something and probably qualifies me for an ASBO, or some sort of restraining order at least. But, I am still allowed access to public eateries, and so it was that on the first truly sunny day of the year I found myself perched with a venerable host of LRB glitterati at the Honest Sausage in Regents Park.
True to the name, there were sausages, and by golly they were honest. There was nowhere to turn for admissions of honesty, organic-ness and all round worthiness. It was like being preached to by a pig who had lived a good life for the sole reason of providing culinary pleasure to some middle-class twonk in a park. He exhorted me to enjoy his additive free goodness, pleaded that I bear in mind his lineage, and all in all shrieked, “eat me, and feel no guilt!”.
Now, I am not a man to ignore the final wishes of a happy pig. In fact I honoured this pig's memory twice (in two separate organic buns with onion relish), but I just wished the Honest Sausage could have tried a bit harder to do the same. It wasn't bad per se, just that the buns could have been a bit less dry, the service could have been a bit snappier, and they could have relished a bit more in the joyous celebration of piggy life that each of their lovely sausages represented.
The Broadwalk
Regent's Park
NW1
www.honestsausage.com
by Hashley Brown
I love sausages. It may be hard to believe quite how much I love them, but believe me I do. I make them, by hand. I eat them, in all their varieties. I even take photos of them - my sausage photo gallery is quite something and probably qualifies me for an ASBO, or some sort of restraining order at least. But, I am still allowed access to public eateries, and so it was that on the first truly sunny day of the year I found myself perched with a venerable host of LRB glitterati at the Honest Sausage in Regents Park.
True to the name, there were sausages, and by golly they were honest. There was nowhere to turn for admissions of honesty, organic-ness and all round worthiness. It was like being preached to by a pig who had lived a good life for the sole reason of providing culinary pleasure to some middle-class twonk in a park. He exhorted me to enjoy his additive free goodness, pleaded that I bear in mind his lineage, and all in all shrieked, “eat me, and feel no guilt!”.
Now, I am not a man to ignore the final wishes of a happy pig. In fact I honoured this pig's memory twice (in two separate organic buns with onion relish), but I just wished the Honest Sausage could have tried a bit harder to do the same. It wasn't bad per se, just that the buns could have been a bit less dry, the service could have been a bit snappier, and they could have relished a bit more in the joyous celebration of piggy life that each of their lovely sausages represented.
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