My Tea Shop
23 Duke Street Hill
London Bridge
SE1
020 7407 1110
by Muffin Gaye
I’ve always believed that honesty is a symptom of confidence, and everything about My Tea Shop screams out like Cherie Blair: “I’ve got nothing to hide!”. Anywhere that serves OJ (no ice) straight out of a Sainsbury’s container in front of you deserves respect for its blatant lack of pretence. Through the open counter you can see a kitchen that looks like the backroom of a car park ticket booth, replete with crude steel benchtops and even cruder white cutting boards and even cruderererer other stuff. The friendly staff do nothing to cover this up. It’s hard to be dissatisfied with imperfection when it’s friendly.
Likewise, their counter menu, printed straight off the Excel preview screen, was informative and easy on the eyes of someone conditioned to Microsoft Office. It’s almost as if they’ve tapped into that part of the human mind that’s evolved to feel comfortable with 2 columns written in Times New Roman. Sitting down, I look outside to see a range of hyperaesthetic advertisements pass by on buses and T-Shirts, and wonder where we all went wrong with all the fancy lines and colours and so forth. My Tea Shop is more than a restaurant. It’s a deprogramming environment.
Within 5 minutes of ordering, 2 plates of chips, tomato (4 halves!), bacon, and egg steam forth onto the table. The bacon is crisp, the egg not too runny and not too hard, the chips fluffy and the tomato bountiful. It’s a manifestation of the kind of simple fantasy that occupies the mind when one is fantasising about something that is actually possible. That this reality cost 8 pounds for 2 people makes the Playstation 3 seem even more overpriced.
You can realise your dreams at My Tea Shop, just not ones that involve spinach. But they’ve all been put there by celebrity chefs and doctors you don’t trust anyway.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
The Grocery, Shoreditch
The Grocery
54-56 Kingsland Road
Shoreditch
E2
020 7729 6855
www.thegroceryshop.co.uk
by Des Ayuno
I wanted to hate the Grocery, an earnest supplier of organic puy lentils and 18 varieties of tofu metres from the edge of the UK’s poorest borough. But I knew I had to give its café a fair chance. The kitchen was set up by the magnificent Elaine, ex of Smallfish. Elaine once told me of a customer who complained that his breakfast was “dry” and demanded beans to remedy this problem. She frog-marched him out. Such conviction demands admiration.
M, J and I racked up late one Sunday and settled at beautiful, solid oak, country-kitchen tables. For at least half an hour we waited, without even tea to wet parched throats, though the surprise appearance of a bedraggled-looking Kevin Rowland cheered us no end. (He didn’t eat; just browsed the papers quietly.) By the time he ambled out, our food arrived. The lone waitress, already sitting down with her own lunch, handed over the brown sauce with a growl; the requested red never appeared.
As is the fashion these days, a tower of full-English ingredients was buttressed by toast and topped with a poached egg. With the exception of a very dry sausage (come on, Elaine!) all was juicily, flavourfully moreish – in fact, I nearly demanded more tomato than the miserly half offered. But it was the toast about which I still dream. Savoury sourdough, easily an inch thick, it was drenched in olive oil and transported us all to some sun-kissed Tuscan hillside. On a scale from “For god’s sake burn it down” to “I’m in heaven”, the toast trumped the dreadful service to secure the café a rating of “More please and thank you”. But when the waitress sprayed eco-disinfectant on the table, and my arm, the team that meets in the caffs headed home.
54-56 Kingsland Road
Shoreditch
E2
020 7729 6855
www.thegroceryshop.co.uk
by Des Ayuno
I wanted to hate the Grocery, an earnest supplier of organic puy lentils and 18 varieties of tofu metres from the edge of the UK’s poorest borough. But I knew I had to give its café a fair chance. The kitchen was set up by the magnificent Elaine, ex of Smallfish. Elaine once told me of a customer who complained that his breakfast was “dry” and demanded beans to remedy this problem. She frog-marched him out. Such conviction demands admiration.
M, J and I racked up late one Sunday and settled at beautiful, solid oak, country-kitchen tables. For at least half an hour we waited, without even tea to wet parched throats, though the surprise appearance of a bedraggled-looking Kevin Rowland cheered us no end. (He didn’t eat; just browsed the papers quietly.) By the time he ambled out, our food arrived. The lone waitress, already sitting down with her own lunch, handed over the brown sauce with a growl; the requested red never appeared.
As is the fashion these days, a tower of full-English ingredients was buttressed by toast and topped with a poached egg. With the exception of a very dry sausage (come on, Elaine!) all was juicily, flavourfully moreish – in fact, I nearly demanded more tomato than the miserly half offered. But it was the toast about which I still dream. Savoury sourdough, easily an inch thick, it was drenched in olive oil and transported us all to some sun-kissed Tuscan hillside. On a scale from “For god’s sake burn it down” to “I’m in heaven”, the toast trumped the dreadful service to secure the café a rating of “More please and thank you”. But when the waitress sprayed eco-disinfectant on the table, and my arm, the team that meets in the caffs headed home.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Special Dispatch: Kimchi, Seoul, Korea
Kimchi
Everywhere
Seoul
Korea
by Hashley Brown
The heart and soul of Korea lie in the perfect confluence of chilli, garlic and cabbage. The heart and soul of Korea then sits in a pot for yonks until it is the smelliest heart and soul you would ever have the fortune to wake up next to, even after a particularly unfortunate date. And this was how each of my days in my borrowed home of Seoul began - she wasn't pretty but by god did she taste good.
I talk not of my girlfriend, her sister or indeed her mother, with whom I had the pleasure of residing, but of kimchi. It stinks, it's hot, and it's delicious for breakfast.
The pedants amongst you dear readers, will no doubt inform me that actually this humble dish of fermented vegetables need not always use chilli nor even cabbage, indeed that the folk of Hamgyeongdo season theirs with fresh fish and oysters, and that to be frank I should probably get my self off to the Kimchi museum. But, throughout my short stay in Korea it was this fragrant, if potent combination of flavours that, like a good espresso kicked me roughly into each day.
The combinations were varied: kim-bap, a kind of kimchi based sushi roll; kimchi-chigae, a potent kimchi based soup; kimchi-jaen, yup, kimchi based pancakes, all featured. But for my money it was the simple start of a bowl of rice, some roasted seaweed and a plate of kimchi that relieved me of the night's stupor and threw down the gauntlet to any who dared come close to my new found kimchi-based aroma.
The best thing though, as potent as I now was, everyone else smelled bad too.
A link to the Kimchi Museum
Buy kimchi in London at:
Centre Point Food Store
20-21 St Giles High Street WC2
or
Hanna Supermarket
41 Store Street WC1E 7QF
or online at: www.skmart.co.uk
Everywhere
Seoul
Korea
by Hashley Brown
The heart and soul of Korea lie in the perfect confluence of chilli, garlic and cabbage. The heart and soul of Korea then sits in a pot for yonks until it is the smelliest heart and soul you would ever have the fortune to wake up next to, even after a particularly unfortunate date. And this was how each of my days in my borrowed home of Seoul began - she wasn't pretty but by god did she taste good.
I talk not of my girlfriend, her sister or indeed her mother, with whom I had the pleasure of residing, but of kimchi. It stinks, it's hot, and it's delicious for breakfast.
The pedants amongst you dear readers, will no doubt inform me that actually this humble dish of fermented vegetables need not always use chilli nor even cabbage, indeed that the folk of Hamgyeongdo season theirs with fresh fish and oysters, and that to be frank I should probably get my self off to the Kimchi museum. But, throughout my short stay in Korea it was this fragrant, if potent combination of flavours that, like a good espresso kicked me roughly into each day.
The combinations were varied: kim-bap, a kind of kimchi based sushi roll; kimchi-chigae, a potent kimchi based soup; kimchi-jaen, yup, kimchi based pancakes, all featured. But for my money it was the simple start of a bowl of rice, some roasted seaweed and a plate of kimchi that relieved me of the night's stupor and threw down the gauntlet to any who dared come close to my new found kimchi-based aroma.
The best thing though, as potent as I now was, everyone else smelled bad too.
A link to the Kimchi Museum
Buy kimchi in London at:
Centre Point Food Store
20-21 St Giles High Street WC2
or
Hanna Supermarket
41 Store Street WC1E 7QF
or online at: www.skmart.co.uk
Monday, July 30, 2007
Purple, Streatham
Purple
The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16
020 8677 2277
by Rhys Chris Peese
It may seem cavalier, on a website devoted to breakfasts, to reveal that I really don’t like eggs. Fried? No. Poached? Yuk. Boiled? Gah. In a bid to retain my reviewer’s credentials I’ll admit that scrambled can be palatable, especially with a bit of grated cheese and parsley. But that’s not good enough for Purple, tucked away on its sunless stretch of Streatham High Road. Instead, there’s a section on the menu entitled ‘Eggs Mania’, as if the liking of eggs were some kind of mental debility, available in varieties such as Benedict, or Florentine. However, they happily let me substitute peppers and asparagus from the vegetarian breakfast for the eggs on the full English, bringing joy to my heart, and less cholesterol to my arteries.
Mushrooms were the breakfast’s highlight; perfectly cooked with a rich flavour, and the sausage likewise. The grilled bacon was reasonable, although a second slice might have been nice, even for a £4.50 breakfast that included a small cup of thin coffee. The beans were hot, unlike the undercooked asparagus or the miserly quarter-tomato that had barely seen the grill.
My flatmate found herself at the sharp end of Purple’s frugality, though, when she ordered the Continental Breakfast. For £4.00 you get tea and fruit juice, but the accompanying croissant was small, burnt on the bottom, powdered mysteriously with icing sugar, ‘didn’t taste like a croissant’, and was served with margarine rather than butter: each of these an egregious offence to the French pastry.
Purple veers erratically between delightful success and awkward failure. It has aspirations beyond that of a greasy spoon, yet our wooden table was disconcertingly sticky. It has a friendly atmosphere, despite the jaunty, eponymous, colour scheme, punctuated with rubbish artworks. It’s this very inconsistency that keeps us going back, and half regretting it when we do.
The High Parade
Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16
020 8677 2277
by Rhys Chris Peese
It may seem cavalier, on a website devoted to breakfasts, to reveal that I really don’t like eggs. Fried? No. Poached? Yuk. Boiled? Gah. In a bid to retain my reviewer’s credentials I’ll admit that scrambled can be palatable, especially with a bit of grated cheese and parsley. But that’s not good enough for Purple, tucked away on its sunless stretch of Streatham High Road. Instead, there’s a section on the menu entitled ‘Eggs Mania’, as if the liking of eggs were some kind of mental debility, available in varieties such as Benedict, or Florentine. However, they happily let me substitute peppers and asparagus from the vegetarian breakfast for the eggs on the full English, bringing joy to my heart, and less cholesterol to my arteries.
Mushrooms were the breakfast’s highlight; perfectly cooked with a rich flavour, and the sausage likewise. The grilled bacon was reasonable, although a second slice might have been nice, even for a £4.50 breakfast that included a small cup of thin coffee. The beans were hot, unlike the undercooked asparagus or the miserly quarter-tomato that had barely seen the grill.
My flatmate found herself at the sharp end of Purple’s frugality, though, when she ordered the Continental Breakfast. For £4.00 you get tea and fruit juice, but the accompanying croissant was small, burnt on the bottom, powdered mysteriously with icing sugar, ‘didn’t taste like a croissant’, and was served with margarine rather than butter: each of these an egregious offence to the French pastry.
Purple veers erratically between delightful success and awkward failure. It has aspirations beyond that of a greasy spoon, yet our wooden table was disconcertingly sticky. It has a friendly atmosphere, despite the jaunty, eponymous, colour scheme, punctuated with rubbish artworks. It’s this very inconsistency that keeps us going back, and half regretting it when we do.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Honest Food, Brixton
Honest Food
424 Coldharbour Lane
Brixton
SW9
0207 738 6161
by Eggmund Hillary
Perhaps it is a good sign that the blogs and online-user-review-pages for Honest Food are awash with strong differences of opinion. Or perhaps it’s just Brixton in general that sparks these debates. Is it part of the (often unwelcome) bourgeoisation / gentrification of the area or a welcome addition to the greasy spoons and sandwich shops of the area? Is it an over-priced, under-staffed veggie space that belongs in West London or a quiet little haven from the bustle of Coldharbour Lane?
After this morning’s hour long sitting, I would have to lump for the latter in both cases. OK, so the shelves are filled with delicacies that might not find much of a clientele in the area - pickled onion in thyme and pepper anyone? Or perhaps some organic Indian fish rub (blended in Yorkshire)? And the only newspaper being consumed was the Saturday Guardian. But all that aside, we at LRB are about the brekkie, so how was it?
Whilst the coffee certainly took longer to arrive than it should, I have to admit to not even noticing the delay. Something to do with the quiet, welcoming surroundings and the Kate Nash interview in the Guardian Guide. The breakfast followed soon after. It consisted of multi-seed toast (from a choice of four different kinds of bread) with melted butter, two fried eggs just the right side of runny, two large and tasty mushrooms, two crisp veggie sausages, fried tomatoes and a potato pancake. Quality ingredients all round, including coarse salt and black pepper, made this well worth the £5.95 price tag. With friendly service throughout and a healthily active community noticeboard for anyone looking for local yoga or pilates classes, Honest Food is a welcome addition to Brixton’s breakfast scene. You’ll just have to leave your Daily Telegraph at the door.
424 Coldharbour Lane
Brixton
SW9
0207 738 6161
by Eggmund Hillary
Perhaps it is a good sign that the blogs and online-user-review-pages for Honest Food are awash with strong differences of opinion. Or perhaps it’s just Brixton in general that sparks these debates. Is it part of the (often unwelcome) bourgeoisation / gentrification of the area or a welcome addition to the greasy spoons and sandwich shops of the area? Is it an over-priced, under-staffed veggie space that belongs in West London or a quiet little haven from the bustle of Coldharbour Lane?
After this morning’s hour long sitting, I would have to lump for the latter in both cases. OK, so the shelves are filled with delicacies that might not find much of a clientele in the area - pickled onion in thyme and pepper anyone? Or perhaps some organic Indian fish rub (blended in Yorkshire)? And the only newspaper being consumed was the Saturday Guardian. But all that aside, we at LRB are about the brekkie, so how was it?
Whilst the coffee certainly took longer to arrive than it should, I have to admit to not even noticing the delay. Something to do with the quiet, welcoming surroundings and the Kate Nash interview in the Guardian Guide. The breakfast followed soon after. It consisted of multi-seed toast (from a choice of four different kinds of bread) with melted butter, two fried eggs just the right side of runny, two large and tasty mushrooms, two crisp veggie sausages, fried tomatoes and a potato pancake. Quality ingredients all round, including coarse salt and black pepper, made this well worth the £5.95 price tag. With friendly service throughout and a healthily active community noticeboard for anyone looking for local yoga or pilates classes, Honest Food is a welcome addition to Brixton’s breakfast scene. You’ll just have to leave your Daily Telegraph at the door.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Whole Foods, Kensington
Whole Foods
The Barkers Building
63 - 97 Kensington High Street
Kensington
W8
0207 368 4500
www.wholefoodsmarket.com/UK/kensington/index.html
by H.P. Seuss
What the fuck is that SMELL?
Actually, smell doesn't capture it. It has the pervasiveness of a fug - but a fug is too low somehow, too damp. It has the dryness of an aroma - but then an aroma would imply that it's pleasant. It's not something you'd sniff for kicks.
Yeast is the predominant note, with sympathetic chords of wicker baskets, brioche and American things like popcorn and hire cars. There's a definite bouquet of straw, too; and with it the tang of manure and the surprisingly soft note of rotting flesh. The structure is redolent of emulsion paint. If it were a colour, it would be beige: the colour of Anya Hindmarsh's famous bags, of hemp rope for hanging, of barren earth, of David Cameron's soul.
It is the smell of Whole Foods, pumped through the basement food-hall, the ground floor "market" and the first floor "canteen", getting in your hair, your clothes, your credit card bills. It doesn't so much mask other smells as affix itself to them, flavouring them. It is the smell of our future as green consumers. And it's so revolting that the pornographic array of cheese, patisserie and pre-prepared salads for sale in Whole Foods will never be as appetising as they would be in any natural environment. It just doesn't feel organic in the way I understand it.
And frankly neither do any of the 26 varieties of killer tomatoes on sale, particularly the insipid orb that is part of my tepid, refectory-style "English Breakfast" on the first floor. The rest of this dry, fatty, Americanised assembly - grey-green scrambled eggs, semi-raw sausage, bacon jerky, white toast ("no brown available"! In the temple of choice!) - requires five separate squirts of ketchup to render it edible. It is pathetic.
In fact the whole enterprise - the insolently amiable staff, the idiotic queuing system, the instore art department you pass on the stairs - is so fake, cloying, hectoring and misguided, it makes your soul want to vomit. And I still can't get that fucking smell out of my nostrils.
The Barkers Building
63 - 97 Kensington High Street
Kensington
W8
0207 368 4500
www.wholefoodsmarket.com/UK/kensington/index.html
by H.P. Seuss
What the fuck is that SMELL?
Actually, smell doesn't capture it. It has the pervasiveness of a fug - but a fug is too low somehow, too damp. It has the dryness of an aroma - but then an aroma would imply that it's pleasant. It's not something you'd sniff for kicks.
Yeast is the predominant note, with sympathetic chords of wicker baskets, brioche and American things like popcorn and hire cars. There's a definite bouquet of straw, too; and with it the tang of manure and the surprisingly soft note of rotting flesh. The structure is redolent of emulsion paint. If it were a colour, it would be beige: the colour of Anya Hindmarsh's famous bags, of hemp rope for hanging, of barren earth, of David Cameron's soul.
It is the smell of Whole Foods, pumped through the basement food-hall, the ground floor "market" and the first floor "canteen", getting in your hair, your clothes, your credit card bills. It doesn't so much mask other smells as affix itself to them, flavouring them. It is the smell of our future as green consumers. And it's so revolting that the pornographic array of cheese, patisserie and pre-prepared salads for sale in Whole Foods will never be as appetising as they would be in any natural environment. It just doesn't feel organic in the way I understand it.
And frankly neither do any of the 26 varieties of killer tomatoes on sale, particularly the insipid orb that is part of my tepid, refectory-style "English Breakfast" on the first floor. The rest of this dry, fatty, Americanised assembly - grey-green scrambled eggs, semi-raw sausage, bacon jerky, white toast ("no brown available"! In the temple of choice!) - requires five separate squirts of ketchup to render it edible. It is pathetic.
In fact the whole enterprise - the insolently amiable staff, the idiotic queuing system, the instore art department you pass on the stairs - is so fake, cloying, hectoring and misguided, it makes your soul want to vomit. And I still can't get that fucking smell out of my nostrils.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Uplands Bar and Brasserie, East Dulwich
Uplands Bar and Brasserie
90 Crystal Palace Road
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 2662
by Herby Banger
This is a story of redemption; because today I have taken a risk, a gamble on a venue up until today banished and removed from the breakfasting dictionary of East Dulwich. It was at The Uplands Tavern that I witnessed our editor try and fail to eat what he still describes today as the worst breakfast he has ever had. This I might add was years ago now, well before the LRB, and in many respects this incident could be perceived by historians as one of the motivating factors behind the very inception of this project.
However, time is a great healer and in my case I was ready to give the place another chance. I’m glad I did, because I have just come back from one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in this area for a long time. East Dulwich is awash with greasy spoons, but since the Two Trees has shut there remain very few options for a finer cooked breakfast, with better ingredients, but we can etch The Uplands on to this list; well for now, anyway. Because this is the point: places change, chefs come and go, and people learn from their mistakes.
In 2007 you get a chunky plate of food for a reasonable £4.50, starring 2 thick and meaty quality sausages grilled delightfully. Two eggs accompany, well fried and (pls note editor!) cooked throughout. The bacon is well done, hot and snapping to attention. Grilled tomato, grilled mushroom, beans and a rack of toast make up the rest. Take into account a full selection of papers, airy light surroundings and the chance to order a pint if you choose, and I reckon you’ve found a good place to relax and enjoy breakfast at the weekend. As gambles go this one paid out.
90 Crystal Palace Road
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8693 2662
by Herby Banger
This is a story of redemption; because today I have taken a risk, a gamble on a venue up until today banished and removed from the breakfasting dictionary of East Dulwich. It was at The Uplands Tavern that I witnessed our editor try and fail to eat what he still describes today as the worst breakfast he has ever had. This I might add was years ago now, well before the LRB, and in many respects this incident could be perceived by historians as one of the motivating factors behind the very inception of this project.
However, time is a great healer and in my case I was ready to give the place another chance. I’m glad I did, because I have just come back from one of the best breakfasts I’ve had in this area for a long time. East Dulwich is awash with greasy spoons, but since the Two Trees has shut there remain very few options for a finer cooked breakfast, with better ingredients, but we can etch The Uplands on to this list; well for now, anyway. Because this is the point: places change, chefs come and go, and people learn from their mistakes.
In 2007 you get a chunky plate of food for a reasonable £4.50, starring 2 thick and meaty quality sausages grilled delightfully. Two eggs accompany, well fried and (pls note editor!) cooked throughout. The bacon is well done, hot and snapping to attention. Grilled tomato, grilled mushroom, beans and a rack of toast make up the rest. Take into account a full selection of papers, airy light surroundings and the chance to order a pint if you choose, and I reckon you’ve found a good place to relax and enjoy breakfast at the weekend. As gambles go this one paid out.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Special Dispatch: The Antique Café, Chelsea, New York
The Antique Café
65 West 26th St
Chelsea
New York
+1 212-675-1663
by Cathy Latte
A free holiday with the Latte dynasty was always gonna be an interesting undertaking. All those idiosyncracies suddenly brought into sharp focus. Still, Central Park roams, bottles of rosé served up with the family stories you never knew existed, and the kind of silences you can only get away with when with those who you’ve known you all your life, made it all worthwhile. But I can’t lie; it was nice to get a day on my own.
It was a hot Saturday morning and I’d wandered out of the Chelsea flea market (Saturdays and Sundays, just off seventh and 26th) and was lured to this place. Shady canopies in the courtyard, wood panelled booths indoors.
The waiting staff seemed to glide around the tables with the ease of dancers. The women on the tables around me had good hair, great teeth and long lithe limbs - like they’d been stretched and sprayed with Clarins from an early age. I looked a bit scruffy for this place maybe, but no-one seemed to care.
I finally chose from the extensive brunch menu. A wide shouldered young gent floated a pretty perfect looking Eggs Bene in front of me. We exchanged smiles and he slid silently back off indoors. I like that. Not too over-familiar.
My brunch satisfied in every conceivable sense. Piping hot gooey eggs soaked into the warm blini bed. Thick Canadian bacon hit with waves of smokiness. Rich roast potatoes alternated between sweet and savoury punches, and the fresh leafy salad hit a craving for veg I’d not managed to ditch all week. And the latte – damn, New Yorkers know coffee.
A few hours later I got back to the room. My brother was watching telly. “Pass the remote will you sis?” Dutifully I did. We sat and watched trash TV, and didn’t speak for an hour. Some things never change, no matter where you are.
65 West 26th St
Chelsea
New York
+1 212-675-1663
by Cathy Latte
A free holiday with the Latte dynasty was always gonna be an interesting undertaking. All those idiosyncracies suddenly brought into sharp focus. Still, Central Park roams, bottles of rosé served up with the family stories you never knew existed, and the kind of silences you can only get away with when with those who you’ve known you all your life, made it all worthwhile. But I can’t lie; it was nice to get a day on my own.
It was a hot Saturday morning and I’d wandered out of the Chelsea flea market (Saturdays and Sundays, just off seventh and 26th) and was lured to this place. Shady canopies in the courtyard, wood panelled booths indoors.
The waiting staff seemed to glide around the tables with the ease of dancers. The women on the tables around me had good hair, great teeth and long lithe limbs - like they’d been stretched and sprayed with Clarins from an early age. I looked a bit scruffy for this place maybe, but no-one seemed to care.
I finally chose from the extensive brunch menu. A wide shouldered young gent floated a pretty perfect looking Eggs Bene in front of me. We exchanged smiles and he slid silently back off indoors. I like that. Not too over-familiar.
My brunch satisfied in every conceivable sense. Piping hot gooey eggs soaked into the warm blini bed. Thick Canadian bacon hit with waves of smokiness. Rich roast potatoes alternated between sweet and savoury punches, and the fresh leafy salad hit a craving for veg I’d not managed to ditch all week. And the latte – damn, New Yorkers know coffee.
A few hours later I got back to the room. My brother was watching telly. “Pass the remote will you sis?” Dutifully I did. We sat and watched trash TV, and didn’t speak for an hour. Some things never change, no matter where you are.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Rivington Grill, Shoreditch
Rivington Grill
28-30 Rivington Street
Shoreditch
EC2A
020 7729 7053
www.rivingtongrill.co.uk
by Des Ayuno
D was taking me out for a proper treat, over my protestations. “I think we need a bit of swank,” he said, but also directed me to the website, to show he’d not be forced to extend his overdraft in swank’s pursuit. Under a discreet Caprice Holdings header, it read like a Waitrose ad – Peter Gott’s bacon, Dereensillagh smoked salmon – and shared the same queasily attractive mix of aspirational luxury and corporate ruthlessness.
Come Friday morning, its spacious, linen-bedecked tables, glinting glassware and long wooden bar set a vaguely Parisian tone – as, regrettably, did the service. Winsome dark-haired waitresses ignored us completely and flirted with the only other customer, a besuited gentleman accessorised with the FT Wealth Quarterly. When they finally arrived, D’s kippers were enormous, sumptuous and utterly worth the wait. My Full English, though in its visual perfection could have illustrated Jamie’s Lovely Jubbly Best Breakfast Ever recipe, was mostly comprised of disappointing near misses. Mr Gott’s bacon tasted of very little, as did a juicy-looking sausage. A giant portion of field mushrooms and mean half tomato were caked in black pepper whose coarse texture was presumably meant to signify freshly ground but whose dusty taste indicated otherwise. Thankfully, the gloriously runny fried egg swam in puddles of delicious yellow grease and the black pudding was a crumbly, crispy joy.
I suppose I have no right to demand finely tuned culinary perfection from an Ivy outpost. And I’m sure that, on a Saturday morning, full of chatter, clinking silverware and the kind of people who aspire to a membership of Shoreditch House, the atmosphere approaches convivial. But for a posh joint whose USP is impeccable service, it’s just a bit crap. Go to the Wolseley instead.
28-30 Rivington Street
Shoreditch
EC2A
020 7729 7053
www.rivingtongrill.co.uk
by Des Ayuno
D was taking me out for a proper treat, over my protestations. “I think we need a bit of swank,” he said, but also directed me to the website, to show he’d not be forced to extend his overdraft in swank’s pursuit. Under a discreet Caprice Holdings header, it read like a Waitrose ad – Peter Gott’s bacon, Dereensillagh smoked salmon – and shared the same queasily attractive mix of aspirational luxury and corporate ruthlessness.
Come Friday morning, its spacious, linen-bedecked tables, glinting glassware and long wooden bar set a vaguely Parisian tone – as, regrettably, did the service. Winsome dark-haired waitresses ignored us completely and flirted with the only other customer, a besuited gentleman accessorised with the FT Wealth Quarterly. When they finally arrived, D’s kippers were enormous, sumptuous and utterly worth the wait. My Full English, though in its visual perfection could have illustrated Jamie’s Lovely Jubbly Best Breakfast Ever recipe, was mostly comprised of disappointing near misses. Mr Gott’s bacon tasted of very little, as did a juicy-looking sausage. A giant portion of field mushrooms and mean half tomato were caked in black pepper whose coarse texture was presumably meant to signify freshly ground but whose dusty taste indicated otherwise. Thankfully, the gloriously runny fried egg swam in puddles of delicious yellow grease and the black pudding was a crumbly, crispy joy.
I suppose I have no right to demand finely tuned culinary perfection from an Ivy outpost. And I’m sure that, on a Saturday morning, full of chatter, clinking silverware and the kind of people who aspire to a membership of Shoreditch House, the atmosphere approaches convivial. But for a posh joint whose USP is impeccable service, it’s just a bit crap. Go to the Wolseley instead.
Monday, July 02, 2007
The Breakfast Club, Islington
The Breakfast Club
31 Camden Passage
Islington
N1
020 7226 5454
by Rhys Chris Peese
Ah, the 1980s. Mass unemployment; the poll tax; the crippling of the NHS… there’s just so much to be nostalgic about. And of course John Hughes’ 1985 paean to high school conformity, The Breakfast Club. Sharing the film’s name, Islington’s branch of the Soho all-day eatery chooses to celebrate some of the more grating corners of that decade on a cork board decorated with retro vinyl: Wham, Paul Young, Madonna… and Ernie, The Fastest Milkman In The West. Surely that charted in 1971? Let’s not quibble over details.
Perhaps having heeded Poppy Tartt’s difficulties at the Soho branch, the ‘Full Monty’ breakfast takes pride of place at the head of the cartoon-themed menu. My expectations of plenitude were whetted by the oversized cup of tea, but even I, a seasoned eater of large breakfasts, was impressed by what seven quid gets you in N1.
This was the twelve inch remix of an English breakfast. The pork and leek sausages were a succulent delight, the beans a steaming orange ocean, the toast sturdy to the point of intransigence. These accompanied a mountain of hash browns, and no bland pre-formed patties, neither: this was a big old pile of fried potatoes and onions, positively rustic in the roughness of their cut. Clearly the kitchen staff enjoy cooking. But apparently they enjoy cooking some things a bit too much: the mushrooms and the bacon were overdone, and while both had an admirable richness of flavour, this was at the expense of almost any moisture.
The Breakfast Club also offers smoothies, porridge, eggs Benedict, wooden floors, mismatched furniture and internet access, although if I return it’ll be for the All American: a massive helping of eggs, pancakes, bacon and maple syrup. Because if the 1980s taught us anything, it was that ‘greed is good’.
31 Camden Passage
Islington
N1
020 7226 5454
by Rhys Chris Peese
Ah, the 1980s. Mass unemployment; the poll tax; the crippling of the NHS… there’s just so much to be nostalgic about. And of course John Hughes’ 1985 paean to high school conformity, The Breakfast Club. Sharing the film’s name, Islington’s branch of the Soho all-day eatery chooses to celebrate some of the more grating corners of that decade on a cork board decorated with retro vinyl: Wham, Paul Young, Madonna… and Ernie, The Fastest Milkman In The West. Surely that charted in 1971? Let’s not quibble over details.
Perhaps having heeded Poppy Tartt’s difficulties at the Soho branch, the ‘Full Monty’ breakfast takes pride of place at the head of the cartoon-themed menu. My expectations of plenitude were whetted by the oversized cup of tea, but even I, a seasoned eater of large breakfasts, was impressed by what seven quid gets you in N1.
This was the twelve inch remix of an English breakfast. The pork and leek sausages were a succulent delight, the beans a steaming orange ocean, the toast sturdy to the point of intransigence. These accompanied a mountain of hash browns, and no bland pre-formed patties, neither: this was a big old pile of fried potatoes and onions, positively rustic in the roughness of their cut. Clearly the kitchen staff enjoy cooking. But apparently they enjoy cooking some things a bit too much: the mushrooms and the bacon were overdone, and while both had an admirable richness of flavour, this was at the expense of almost any moisture.
The Breakfast Club also offers smoothies, porridge, eggs Benedict, wooden floors, mismatched furniture and internet access, although if I return it’ll be for the All American: a massive helping of eggs, pancakes, bacon and maple syrup. Because if the 1980s taught us anything, it was that ‘greed is good’.
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