Café Fleur
198 St. Ann's Hill
Wandsworth
SW18 2RT
020 8874 6897
by Blake Pudding
Delightfully common, I murmured to myself with an unbecoming leer as I clocked the waitresses.
Emily and James had told us to meet them at Café Fleur. You would not know that this is its name as it just says café café café café café around the top of the caff. It was a boiling hot day (how incongruous those words seem now) and I was dressed in a look best described as 80’s gay chic- white linen trousers rolled up to show off my shapely calves, stripy vest, panama hat. Alice was wearing a dress which emphasised her cleavage. We had had about 2 hours sleep.
The café seemed to have been staffed by roguishly pretty urchins straight out of those ASBO scum girl nightmare articles that crop up in the papers now and again. They were dressed in leisure wear, hair pulled tightly back, hoop earrings, incredibly pale skin and gappy teeth. They were of course utterly charming. The caff has been done up to make it look a bit “latte” but the girls gave away its proletarian origins. Happily it did a good honest working class breakfast. Frightening sausages obviously but you will have learnt by now to avoid such things. I went for the egg, bacon, bubble, tomato, black pudding, strong tea and toast. All were unpretentiously delicious.
To finish the fortification process we strolled over to the Alma for some Young’s Special though a little sleep would have been the healthier option.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Café Crescent, Camden Town
Café Crescent
40 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7839 2823
by Nelson Griddle
****CAFÉ CRESCENT HAS NOW CLOSED. IT HAS BEEN REPLACED BY CAFÉ GRILL****
Café Crescent is a mixed bag. Its yellow-painted walls announce as much with their odd jumble of theatrical posters: Dirty Dancing shares space with The Cherry Orchard and Tony Hadley in Chicago jostles with Hamlet.
The theatricality continues with the sweetly-spoken, Beatnik-themed waitress. Meanwhile, swooning classical music plays from a tape recorder, and we chomp away to the theme from The Onedin Line. Such sweeping lyricism does little to cheer my fellow punters, though, as they stare over their mugs of tea, ruminating bleakly on the iniquities of the smoking ban and the trials of life in general. The tea here is hot and strong and made in a proper steel pot
For solid sustenance, I opt for egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes. They say that frying an egg is the ultimate test of a chef and on that basis the man who wields the Crescent’s spatula is a genius of the first rank. The white of my egg is beautifully firm and the yolk a perfect orb of creamy liquid which glugs satisfyingly out onto the fried bread. The bacon, too, is done to the turn, and the sausage and mushrooms both put in a performance on the right side of acceptable.
All this good work is undone, however, by the presence of tinned tomatoes. I might as well confess now to LRB readers that I cannot stand tinned tomatoes. Fresh tomatoes, I love. Grilled tomatoes, I dote on. But tinned tomatoes have, from earliest childhood, turned my stomach. There’s something unnatural – almost Lovecraftian – about these sludgy things, in their primordial confusion of solid and liquid, with a taste so weirdly overpowering as to kill any other flavour stone dead. Ordering grilled tomatoes and being given the tinned variety is like…well, a bit like wanting to see The Cherry Orchard and ending up with Tony Hadley.
Café Crescent, take note. Ah well, at least the tea’s alright.
40 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7839 2823
by Nelson Griddle
****CAFÉ CRESCENT HAS NOW CLOSED. IT HAS BEEN REPLACED BY CAFÉ GRILL****
Café Crescent is a mixed bag. Its yellow-painted walls announce as much with their odd jumble of theatrical posters: Dirty Dancing shares space with The Cherry Orchard and Tony Hadley in Chicago jostles with Hamlet.
The theatricality continues with the sweetly-spoken, Beatnik-themed waitress. Meanwhile, swooning classical music plays from a tape recorder, and we chomp away to the theme from The Onedin Line. Such sweeping lyricism does little to cheer my fellow punters, though, as they stare over their mugs of tea, ruminating bleakly on the iniquities of the smoking ban and the trials of life in general. The tea here is hot and strong and made in a proper steel pot
For solid sustenance, I opt for egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread, mushrooms and grilled tomatoes. They say that frying an egg is the ultimate test of a chef and on that basis the man who wields the Crescent’s spatula is a genius of the first rank. The white of my egg is beautifully firm and the yolk a perfect orb of creamy liquid which glugs satisfyingly out onto the fried bread. The bacon, too, is done to the turn, and the sausage and mushrooms both put in a performance on the right side of acceptable.
All this good work is undone, however, by the presence of tinned tomatoes. I might as well confess now to LRB readers that I cannot stand tinned tomatoes. Fresh tomatoes, I love. Grilled tomatoes, I dote on. But tinned tomatoes have, from earliest childhood, turned my stomach. There’s something unnatural – almost Lovecraftian – about these sludgy things, in their primordial confusion of solid and liquid, with a taste so weirdly overpowering as to kill any other flavour stone dead. Ordering grilled tomatoes and being given the tinned variety is like…well, a bit like wanting to see The Cherry Orchard and ending up with Tony Hadley.
Café Crescent, take note. Ah well, at least the tea’s alright.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Dem Cafe Bar, Stoke Newington
Dem Cafe Bar
18 Stoke Newington High St
Stoke Newington
N16 7PL
020 7254 6364
by Duke Eggington
You know what it’s like when you arrive in a small town early in the morning half asleep at the wheel. Your eyes are stinging and your stomach feels like an acid pit. Such is the mood as I wander into DEM on a Saturday morning.
After a cup of the finest Illy coffee for me, and a juice with a pink straw to match my baby’s dress for her, I order a DEM veggie breakfast – an English-Kurdish fusion. Predictably the hash brown and veggie sausage are nothing to sing and dance about, and the grilled halloumi and chilli olives aren’t to everyone’s taste - but there’s something appealing about a good dose of salt first thing in the morning. The inclusion of cold salad items like cucumber and tomato could also have some folk heading straight back out the door, but removal of surface skin in both cases kept us happy.
The baked beans on toast for my baby is nothing special, but when you’re feeding a two-year-old it’s best to keep things simple. The bread is a mixed experience: while of the authentic Turkish variety, it is also somewhere between bread and toast, neither nice and soft or entirely crispy.
In fact, the best thing about the breakfast has to be the waitress - a Middle Eastern beauty who either of us would gladly taken home, either for her generous smiles, or her free-flowing lollipops. By the time we leave we are both sewn up, but not stitched up. If we’d turned the corner onto Stoke Newington Church Street we would have had similar food at roughly double the price.
I urge you to check Dem out.
18 Stoke Newington High St
Stoke Newington
N16 7PL
020 7254 6364
by Duke Eggington
You know what it’s like when you arrive in a small town early in the morning half asleep at the wheel. Your eyes are stinging and your stomach feels like an acid pit. Such is the mood as I wander into DEM on a Saturday morning.
After a cup of the finest Illy coffee for me, and a juice with a pink straw to match my baby’s dress for her, I order a DEM veggie breakfast – an English-Kurdish fusion. Predictably the hash brown and veggie sausage are nothing to sing and dance about, and the grilled halloumi and chilli olives aren’t to everyone’s taste - but there’s something appealing about a good dose of salt first thing in the morning. The inclusion of cold salad items like cucumber and tomato could also have some folk heading straight back out the door, but removal of surface skin in both cases kept us happy.
The baked beans on toast for my baby is nothing special, but when you’re feeding a two-year-old it’s best to keep things simple. The bread is a mixed experience: while of the authentic Turkish variety, it is also somewhere between bread and toast, neither nice and soft or entirely crispy.
In fact, the best thing about the breakfast has to be the waitress - a Middle Eastern beauty who either of us would gladly taken home, either for her generous smiles, or her free-flowing lollipops. By the time we leave we are both sewn up, but not stitched up. If we’d turned the corner onto Stoke Newington Church Street we would have had similar food at roughly double the price.
I urge you to check Dem out.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
The Zetter, Clerkenwell
The Zetter
St John's Square
86-88 Clerkenwell Rd
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
020 7324 4444
www.thezetter.com
by Malcolm Eggs
A flight to Madrid, sixty-five fish fingers, a "Garden Dreamscape beading kit", 100ml of Panacur 10% (For Dogs), a full English breakfast at The Zetter. All these things cost £16.99. I'm no regular patron of lists such as this: it's all too easy to find oneself impaled on the horns of dilemmas such as 'dinner vs more wine'. Just spend as required and let Future Malcolm work it out - that's the key. But as Orva Easy and I emerged from The Zetter, a boutique hotel in the historic backlands of Clerkenwell, I found myself imagining a million different Malcolms - this one with his shampoo and pen knife, that one with his square foot of office space - and I had this horrible suspicion that nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine of them received better value for money than the one trying to get to the point in this review.
I knew it would be disappointing before the waitress even reached us - the light was good, I'll give them that - and the closer the ghoulish rashers that crowned the heap loomed, the worse my morning became. Cooked on one side only, they were rarer than a man campaigning to Save the Diplodocus. My first instinct was to dash for the solace of the poached egg, but its undercooked core of translucent goo would give me days of nasty flashbacks. The toast was cut from an excellent loaf but would buttering it have been impossible? Nondescript mushroom and tomato and a likeable (if dense) sausage could only try vainly to balance the books, because a breakfast this expensive should be a wonderful memory, not - at best - a boring anecdote.
St John's Square
86-88 Clerkenwell Rd
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
020 7324 4444
www.thezetter.com
by Malcolm Eggs
A flight to Madrid, sixty-five fish fingers, a "Garden Dreamscape beading kit", 100ml of Panacur 10% (For Dogs), a full English breakfast at The Zetter. All these things cost £16.99. I'm no regular patron of lists such as this: it's all too easy to find oneself impaled on the horns of dilemmas such as 'dinner vs more wine'. Just spend as required and let Future Malcolm work it out - that's the key. But as Orva Easy and I emerged from The Zetter, a boutique hotel in the historic backlands of Clerkenwell, I found myself imagining a million different Malcolms - this one with his shampoo and pen knife, that one with his square foot of office space - and I had this horrible suspicion that nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine of them received better value for money than the one trying to get to the point in this review.
I knew it would be disappointing before the waitress even reached us - the light was good, I'll give them that - and the closer the ghoulish rashers that crowned the heap loomed, the worse my morning became. Cooked on one side only, they were rarer than a man campaigning to Save the Diplodocus. My first instinct was to dash for the solace of the poached egg, but its undercooked core of translucent goo would give me days of nasty flashbacks. The toast was cut from an excellent loaf but would buttering it have been impossible? Nondescript mushroom and tomato and a likeable (if dense) sausage could only try vainly to balance the books, because a breakfast this expensive should be a wonderful memory, not - at best - a boring anecdote.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Flame Cafe Bistro, Highbury
Flame Cafe Bistro
246 St Paul's Rd
Highbury
N1 2LJ
020 7354 1546
by Poppy Tartt
Several fasts were broken this morning. Petersen and Peterson and I, together again after months held apart by the Atlantic Ocean and the weight of our incompatible life choices, fell on each other like old friends reunited. (Which we were). We had expected Henry Pottinger, but he cried off, pleading a cookery course. A lucky escape for him, if you know how he feels about beans. No one, not even H. P., needs to spend Tuesday morning on their knees.
Flame is dark and hot and empty, like an unpopular brothel. (Though Peterson, still resisting the rebranding of the English summer, thought it chilly). We ordered tea. It was just the weak side of too strong, and the teabag was not in evidence. Thank god! The tea was good. Then the beans came. Petersen and Peterson (full English meaty and veggy, respectively) were strong. “It’s just like a caff breakfast!” Petersen said cheerfully. Brave in the face of mushrooms so wizened and oily they might have spent a lifetime tanning on the tackier beaches of southern Spain, she parted her pre-formed egg to show me the dusty yolk within. Peterson’s scrambled eggs had not been burnt and she was, as usual, disappointed. My ‘Flame Medi’ – garlic sausage, egg, halloumi, tomatoes and cucumber atop several slices of toast – was merciful, if not in any sense biblical.
Still, thank god I was saved from the monstrous beanslick polluting the plates of Petersen and Peterson. Thank god for halloumi! For halloumi I would kneel on a Tuesday. Yes, I thank Halloumi that where breakfasts are unpredictable three things at least are unchanging: the love between Petersen and Peterson and I; my fascination with their spectacular breasts; and Halloumi, mother of all cheeses – mother, perhaps, of us all.
246 St Paul's Rd
Highbury
N1 2LJ
020 7354 1546
by Poppy Tartt
Several fasts were broken this morning. Petersen and Peterson and I, together again after months held apart by the Atlantic Ocean and the weight of our incompatible life choices, fell on each other like old friends reunited. (Which we were). We had expected Henry Pottinger, but he cried off, pleading a cookery course. A lucky escape for him, if you know how he feels about beans. No one, not even H. P., needs to spend Tuesday morning on their knees.
Flame is dark and hot and empty, like an unpopular brothel. (Though Peterson, still resisting the rebranding of the English summer, thought it chilly). We ordered tea. It was just the weak side of too strong, and the teabag was not in evidence. Thank god! The tea was good. Then the beans came. Petersen and Peterson (full English meaty and veggy, respectively) were strong. “It’s just like a caff breakfast!” Petersen said cheerfully. Brave in the face of mushrooms so wizened and oily they might have spent a lifetime tanning on the tackier beaches of southern Spain, she parted her pre-formed egg to show me the dusty yolk within. Peterson’s scrambled eggs had not been burnt and she was, as usual, disappointed. My ‘Flame Medi’ – garlic sausage, egg, halloumi, tomatoes and cucumber atop several slices of toast – was merciful, if not in any sense biblical.
Still, thank god I was saved from the monstrous beanslick polluting the plates of Petersen and Peterson. Thank god for halloumi! For halloumi I would kneel on a Tuesday. Yes, I thank Halloumi that where breakfasts are unpredictable three things at least are unchanging: the love between Petersen and Peterson and I; my fascination with their spectacular breasts; and Halloumi, mother of all cheeses – mother, perhaps, of us all.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Special Dispatch: Coast Cafe, Newquay
Coast Cafe
54 Fore Street
Newquay
Cornwall
TR7 1LW
01637 854 976
by Al Penn
The sport of surfing thrums with an undertone of sublime mystery. Its ideal participant is a winsome, yet monosyllabic loner; blonde of hair and blue of eye, he stares into the middle distance, head cocked attentively, all senses alert to the possibility of a killer wave. This quest for perfection is among the loftiest of all endeavours. It's a straightforward metaphor for more transparently spiritual pursuits. To ride the perfect wave is achieve Nirvana, or to enter Heaven. It is a death in the midst of life.
Pro surfers don't concern themselves with any of that, of course, or at least very few of them do. Like all successful sportsmen they're interested in ranking points, sponsorship deals and the acquisition of trophies rather than enlightenment. To further these worldly ends the very best that either hemisphere can offer are gathered at Fistral Beach, here in Newquay, for the Rip Curl Boardmasters Festival of Surf.
We park the car on a gravelly clifftop and head down towards the beach. We're hungry. The sea air and unwonted exercise will do that to you. And you'll go to bed early and wake up late and blame your aches and pains on the unfamiliar mattress rather than the sudden employment of ageing, forgotten muscles.
Coast is a small place. The décor is determinedly mid-Atlantic, as much Nantucket as Newquay; it's run and staffed by a co-operative of handsome, unhurried women who have a similarly washed-out yet comfy look about them. A baby is passed around amongst them as they take and prepare our order. It's almost like a parlour game for the Cornish genteel. So Coast is no greasy spoon. Oddly, there's no real odour of food in the place. The calm-eyed ladies seem to magic the fare up without getting their hands dirty. My wife challenges them with bacon and tomatoes. I plump for a discreet ham and cheese toastie.
The act of cooking snack food may lack the metaphysical resonance of surfing, but it too is all about maintaining equilibrium. And my hasty breakfast proves to be nicely balanced. The coffee is excellent, strong enough, and not too bitter. My toasted sandwich is perfect, crisp but not burnt, the cheese is fully molten yet net neither greasy nor inedibly hot. As a special, unexpected treat I get to finish my daughter's ice cream (she's an eccentric eater). Breakfast for two-and-a-half comes to exactly a tenner. “Neat,” I think.
On the beach, minutes later, and on flat water, Brazilian maestro Pedro Henrique surfs a miraculous 9.70 straight at us, finishing up no more than twenty yards away. It's the best ride of the week. “Also neat,” I say. The wife nods, staring calmly out to sea.
54 Fore Street
Newquay
Cornwall
TR7 1LW
01637 854 976
by Al Penn
The sport of surfing thrums with an undertone of sublime mystery. Its ideal participant is a winsome, yet monosyllabic loner; blonde of hair and blue of eye, he stares into the middle distance, head cocked attentively, all senses alert to the possibility of a killer wave. This quest for perfection is among the loftiest of all endeavours. It's a straightforward metaphor for more transparently spiritual pursuits. To ride the perfect wave is achieve Nirvana, or to enter Heaven. It is a death in the midst of life.
Pro surfers don't concern themselves with any of that, of course, or at least very few of them do. Like all successful sportsmen they're interested in ranking points, sponsorship deals and the acquisition of trophies rather than enlightenment. To further these worldly ends the very best that either hemisphere can offer are gathered at Fistral Beach, here in Newquay, for the Rip Curl Boardmasters Festival of Surf.
We park the car on a gravelly clifftop and head down towards the beach. We're hungry. The sea air and unwonted exercise will do that to you. And you'll go to bed early and wake up late and blame your aches and pains on the unfamiliar mattress rather than the sudden employment of ageing, forgotten muscles.
Coast is a small place. The décor is determinedly mid-Atlantic, as much Nantucket as Newquay; it's run and staffed by a co-operative of handsome, unhurried women who have a similarly washed-out yet comfy look about them. A baby is passed around amongst them as they take and prepare our order. It's almost like a parlour game for the Cornish genteel. So Coast is no greasy spoon. Oddly, there's no real odour of food in the place. The calm-eyed ladies seem to magic the fare up without getting their hands dirty. My wife challenges them with bacon and tomatoes. I plump for a discreet ham and cheese toastie.
The act of cooking snack food may lack the metaphysical resonance of surfing, but it too is all about maintaining equilibrium. And my hasty breakfast proves to be nicely balanced. The coffee is excellent, strong enough, and not too bitter. My toasted sandwich is perfect, crisp but not burnt, the cheese is fully molten yet net neither greasy nor inedibly hot. As a special, unexpected treat I get to finish my daughter's ice cream (she's an eccentric eater). Breakfast for two-and-a-half comes to exactly a tenner. “Neat,” I think.
On the beach, minutes later, and on flat water, Brazilian maestro Pedro Henrique surfs a miraculous 9.70 straight at us, finishing up no more than twenty yards away. It's the best ride of the week. “Also neat,” I say. The wife nods, staring calmly out to sea.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Franklins, East Dulwich
Franklins
157 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8299 9598
(Full breakfast menu served Saturdays only, from 10am - 4pm)
by Herby Banger and Tina Beans
Whispers in the shadows, rumours and seductive hearsay were all pointing to one thing. Franklins, the best restaurant in Dulwich, and some say South East London, also dabbled in cooking breakfasts. And what an experience it was meant to be: the teller told all with the sideways grin and twinkling eyes of someone who had struck breakfast gold.
So last Saturday we arrived at Franklins, took a seat in the beautifully light surroundings of their restaurant section, and ordered two Full English cooked breakfasts. We sat back to wait, already aware that this could be breakfast history in the making.
Our lattes arrived first, veritable goblets of fine hot coffee that soothed the soul, as we watched with pleasure the gentlemen chefs made visible by the open wall to the kitchen. Inside they busied themselves like ants; carefully constructing our food, each one knowing perfectly what was required of the other. No fuss, no speaking, just judgment, care and expertise.
We can say that with confidence now, because these Rembrandts of the breakfast world, these craftsmen, produced simply the best breakfast we have had since forever. It was if all other breakfasts had been merely in black and white; Franklins, however, have discovered colour. Everything was unspeakably tasty. The grilled tomato did that rare thing of shedding off any vegetable confusion and proved itself as a delicate fruit, fragrant and succulent and exploding in your mouth. The homemade black pudding was a delight. The sausage was strong, and dense, as was the bacon that tasted as if the pig had slept under a duvet upon a cloud. Then the eggs, oh the eggs. Golden, moist, soft scrambled eggs that put all other attempts to shame. We have never tasted eggs this wonderful. All this and a mushroom and some fine toast for £7.
We swoon for this breakfast.
157 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22
020 8299 9598
(Full breakfast menu served Saturdays only, from 10am - 4pm)
by Herby Banger and Tina Beans
Whispers in the shadows, rumours and seductive hearsay were all pointing to one thing. Franklins, the best restaurant in Dulwich, and some say South East London, also dabbled in cooking breakfasts. And what an experience it was meant to be: the teller told all with the sideways grin and twinkling eyes of someone who had struck breakfast gold.
So last Saturday we arrived at Franklins, took a seat in the beautifully light surroundings of their restaurant section, and ordered two Full English cooked breakfasts. We sat back to wait, already aware that this could be breakfast history in the making.
Our lattes arrived first, veritable goblets of fine hot coffee that soothed the soul, as we watched with pleasure the gentlemen chefs made visible by the open wall to the kitchen. Inside they busied themselves like ants; carefully constructing our food, each one knowing perfectly what was required of the other. No fuss, no speaking, just judgment, care and expertise.
We can say that with confidence now, because these Rembrandts of the breakfast world, these craftsmen, produced simply the best breakfast we have had since forever. It was if all other breakfasts had been merely in black and white; Franklins, however, have discovered colour. Everything was unspeakably tasty. The grilled tomato did that rare thing of shedding off any vegetable confusion and proved itself as a delicate fruit, fragrant and succulent and exploding in your mouth. The homemade black pudding was a delight. The sausage was strong, and dense, as was the bacon that tasted as if the pig had slept under a duvet upon a cloud. Then the eggs, oh the eggs. Golden, moist, soft scrambled eggs that put all other attempts to shame. We have never tasted eggs this wonderful. All this and a mushroom and some fine toast for £7.
We swoon for this breakfast.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The Caramel Room, Knightsbridge
The Caramel Room
The Berkeley Hotel
Wilton Place
Knightsbridge
SW1X
020 7235 6000
www.berkeleyhoteluk.co.uk
by Alotta Waffle
The Caramel Room sounds like a part of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - down the corridor from Fudger's Library or alongside the Bubble Gum Bathroom perhaps. Actually, it's The Berkeley's breakfasting room and what it lacks in Oompa-Loompas, it makes up for in white-jacketed waiters whisking laden silver platters to tables of business types, American families and country aristocrats en route to Harrods.
Ever the fish out of water, I managed to bag a table last Saturday - stocking up on all the (proper) newspapers at the table beside the entrance. Whilst my companion selected a cholesterol-free egg white omelette with grilled vegetables from the a la carte menu, I walked around (and around... and around again) a buffet table that is surely every serious breakfaster's heaven. Bypassing the origami-like portions of smoked salmon (fishy breath before 11am is socially dubious), I began with delicately sliced papaya, perfectly proportioned pineapple and shot glasses full of plump-to-bursting blackberries. I rounded the corner and came across a contender for the best homemade muesli in town, (generous on the nuts without overdoing the raisins), then made the final turn towards the serried ranks of miniature pastries, tarts, croissants and doughnuts. It was Willy Wonka all over again.
Back at the table, the "firm but not rubbery" omelette was devoured as I made my way through a third giant pot of vanilla tea. We left after a further hour of paper reading, me light-headed from gallons of this tea that was so moreishly sweet I was powerless to resist, my companion light-walleted from the £70 bill. Breakfasters here will need to have a budget considerably bigger than their appetite. Or alternatively just a love of Roald Dahl.
The Berkeley Hotel
Wilton Place
Knightsbridge
SW1X
020 7235 6000
www.berkeleyhoteluk.co.uk
by Alotta Waffle
The Caramel Room sounds like a part of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory - down the corridor from Fudger's Library or alongside the Bubble Gum Bathroom perhaps. Actually, it's The Berkeley's breakfasting room and what it lacks in Oompa-Loompas, it makes up for in white-jacketed waiters whisking laden silver platters to tables of business types, American families and country aristocrats en route to Harrods.
Ever the fish out of water, I managed to bag a table last Saturday - stocking up on all the (proper) newspapers at the table beside the entrance. Whilst my companion selected a cholesterol-free egg white omelette with grilled vegetables from the a la carte menu, I walked around (and around... and around again) a buffet table that is surely every serious breakfaster's heaven. Bypassing the origami-like portions of smoked salmon (fishy breath before 11am is socially dubious), I began with delicately sliced papaya, perfectly proportioned pineapple and shot glasses full of plump-to-bursting blackberries. I rounded the corner and came across a contender for the best homemade muesli in town, (generous on the nuts without overdoing the raisins), then made the final turn towards the serried ranks of miniature pastries, tarts, croissants and doughnuts. It was Willy Wonka all over again.
Back at the table, the "firm but not rubbery" omelette was devoured as I made my way through a third giant pot of vanilla tea. We left after a further hour of paper reading, me light-headed from gallons of this tea that was so moreishly sweet I was powerless to resist, my companion light-walleted from the £70 bill. Breakfasters here will need to have a budget considerably bigger than their appetite. Or alternatively just a love of Roald Dahl.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Special Dispatch: Divalls, Brighton
Divalls
3 Terminus Road
Brighton BN1 3PD
01273 776 277
by Des Ayuno
****DIVALLS HAS NOW CLOSED****
Divalls, with the tattiest facade in Brighton and a wheels-akimbo wheelchair blocking the door, exuded the appeal of the depressingly familiar – like recognising faces in your local dole queue, or Kathy Burke in Nil by Mouth. The Scot, irritable and silent after an early morning rail replacement bus, on which Italian ladies in leopard-print Lycra screeched at each other over gangs of shrill 13-year-olds, snapped back to life, whispered “fantastic” and bounded inside.
Inside, every surface was covered in blistered veneer-effect laminate, except for the creepy flesh-coloured Formica tabletops. A toothless, aggressive OAP in a pinny took orders at the till, flanked by sepia photographs of an eye-rolling pug and a framed portrait of Arthur Lowe. The rest of the customers, mostly scraggly kids, drank tall glasses of milk and hid fags from the waitress, cos she knew their mums. Pale yellow, proudly non-free-range eggs and vinegary tinned mushrooms were more authentic set pieces than detractions from the star of the show – the bubble. It was churned out in an elaborate system that may yet entice Henry Ford to burst joyously out of his grave. Industrial quantities of mash and cabbage were packed into rows of giant Tupperware which shuffled slowly from kitchen-floor left to kitchen-floor right to griddle, where a giant cake of the stuff rested, the soft back edge replenished periodically from the tubs and, over the course of hours, nudged inexorably to the crispy front, there to be lopped off in six-inch squares and served. Even the Scot, not a bubble fan, was transfixed, as though regarding assembly-line production for the first time. I was entranced by its velvety soft, buttery centre and fine, crunchy surface. Truly, it is worth a trip to Brighton, life-shortening journey and all, for this delicacy alone.
3 Terminus Road
Brighton BN1 3PD
01273 776 277
by Des Ayuno
****DIVALLS HAS NOW CLOSED****
Divalls, with the tattiest facade in Brighton and a wheels-akimbo wheelchair blocking the door, exuded the appeal of the depressingly familiar – like recognising faces in your local dole queue, or Kathy Burke in Nil by Mouth. The Scot, irritable and silent after an early morning rail replacement bus, on which Italian ladies in leopard-print Lycra screeched at each other over gangs of shrill 13-year-olds, snapped back to life, whispered “fantastic” and bounded inside.
Inside, every surface was covered in blistered veneer-effect laminate, except for the creepy flesh-coloured Formica tabletops. A toothless, aggressive OAP in a pinny took orders at the till, flanked by sepia photographs of an eye-rolling pug and a framed portrait of Arthur Lowe. The rest of the customers, mostly scraggly kids, drank tall glasses of milk and hid fags from the waitress, cos she knew their mums. Pale yellow, proudly non-free-range eggs and vinegary tinned mushrooms were more authentic set pieces than detractions from the star of the show – the bubble. It was churned out in an elaborate system that may yet entice Henry Ford to burst joyously out of his grave. Industrial quantities of mash and cabbage were packed into rows of giant Tupperware which shuffled slowly from kitchen-floor left to kitchen-floor right to griddle, where a giant cake of the stuff rested, the soft back edge replenished periodically from the tubs and, over the course of hours, nudged inexorably to the crispy front, there to be lopped off in six-inch squares and served. Even the Scot, not a bubble fan, was transfixed, as though regarding assembly-line production for the first time. I was entranced by its velvety soft, buttery centre and fine, crunchy surface. Truly, it is worth a trip to Brighton, life-shortening journey and all, for this delicacy alone.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Butler's Wharf Chop House, Bermondsey
Butler's Wharf Chop House
36e Shad Thames
Bermondsey
SE1
020 7403 3403
www.chophouse.co.uk
by H.P. Seuss
We grow weary of elaborate introductions about the "suffering pretentiousness of the author", or at least my nemesis Anonymous does. So these days we stick to the facts, and imagine our Web 2.0-empowered friend's approval at our precision with the truth - something he presumably finds and admires elsewhere in this blogosphere.
So, to the facts: Butler's Wharf Chop House is charmingly located in an attractive wharf next to Tower Bridge. Malcolm Eggs and I pootled along to sample the new breakfast menu and bask in the picture-postcard setting one sunny morning before we had given up on this summer as a damp squib.
Said menu is reassuringly English, with the modern adornments you would expect from an outpost of the Conran empire: kedgeree, benedict, outstanding fresh orange juice (bad fresh orange juice is one of the least documented of breakfast crimes, but like larceny, it can ruin your day). Prices are on the accessible side of expensive.
Malcolm Eggs and I, being creatures of habit, opted for two plates of full E. Here they are now: two ruddy sausages, rubbery bacon, poached eggs less amber than is my preference, charred mushrooms and aromatic tomatoes, all clamouring like shipwreck survivors on an oblong piece of toast. (I took this last quirk to be a nod back to our mediaeval culinary heritage, when bread served as plate). Quality, overall, is on the quotidian side of luxury.
But with the LRB's integgrity in mind, I must own up: this is the one and only time I or anyone else from the LRB has played the "influential blog" card and claimed the meal as complimentary. Before my Web 2.0-empowered friend cries foul, I must stress that the unnaturally attentive service and strange lack of satisfaction that comes from gaining for free what other must pay for not only gave me an insight into the mind of Victoria Beckham, but left me feeling a little awkward. I shall pay next time - and it will be pretty much worth it.
36e Shad Thames
Bermondsey
SE1
020 7403 3403
www.chophouse.co.uk
by H.P. Seuss
We grow weary of elaborate introductions about the "suffering pretentiousness of the author", or at least my nemesis Anonymous does. So these days we stick to the facts, and imagine our Web 2.0-empowered friend's approval at our precision with the truth - something he presumably finds and admires elsewhere in this blogosphere.
So, to the facts: Butler's Wharf Chop House is charmingly located in an attractive wharf next to Tower Bridge. Malcolm Eggs and I pootled along to sample the new breakfast menu and bask in the picture-postcard setting one sunny morning before we had given up on this summer as a damp squib.
Said menu is reassuringly English, with the modern adornments you would expect from an outpost of the Conran empire: kedgeree, benedict, outstanding fresh orange juice (bad fresh orange juice is one of the least documented of breakfast crimes, but like larceny, it can ruin your day). Prices are on the accessible side of expensive.
Malcolm Eggs and I, being creatures of habit, opted for two plates of full E. Here they are now: two ruddy sausages, rubbery bacon, poached eggs less amber than is my preference, charred mushrooms and aromatic tomatoes, all clamouring like shipwreck survivors on an oblong piece of toast. (I took this last quirk to be a nod back to our mediaeval culinary heritage, when bread served as plate). Quality, overall, is on the quotidian side of luxury.
But with the LRB's integgrity in mind, I must own up: this is the one and only time I or anyone else from the LRB has played the "influential blog" card and claimed the meal as complimentary. Before my Web 2.0-empowered friend cries foul, I must stress that the unnaturally attentive service and strange lack of satisfaction that comes from gaining for free what other must pay for not only gave me an insight into the mind of Victoria Beckham, but left me feeling a little awkward. I shall pay next time - and it will be pretty much worth it.
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