by Hashley Brown
Walking to work the other morning I was assaulted by two wildly contrasting adverts for breakfast products. The first amazed me by how flawed it was; the other tantalized with its genius.
First off, for Weight Watchers bacon - "putting bacon back on the table" (or something) it screamed. I had to go back and check. It looked like a scene from ER, some sort of cauterized flesh, or healing scar tissue. This was bacon that had received a surgical procedure, precision engineered to remove every morsel of delicious flavourful fat. Probably with a laser. This isn't bacon in my book, it's bastardized pig flesh.
It troubled me deeply. If you shouldn't eat bacon because you're a bit chubby then hold off and eat it rarely, but eat good bacon, thick cut with all its flavour intact.
I couldn't shake this image until when rising up the escalator at Euston, like some pre-raphaelite vision of beauty a series of pictures flashed before me on one of those little TV advert things. "Saturday is breakfast day" it said as a flurry of close up, almost pornographic images flickered - an oozing poached egg, glistening almost weeping bacon - and then a big pack of Lurpak butter. This is more like it. Proper breakfasting should be sexy, indulgent and full of delicious fatty stuff, not some ascetic self-flaggelation. That's what muesli's for.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Paris Cafe & Sandwich Bar, Hoxton
Paris Cafe & Sandwich Bar
140 Hoxton Street
Hoxton
N1 6SH
020 7684 7407
by Paddy Hashbrown
What is Paris? Croissants on the banks of the Seine. A cafe noisette in Le Marais. Reposing in the Shakespeare bookshop near the Notre Dame. It can safely be said that enduring breakfast at "Paris Cafe" in Hoxton Street on a drizzly Sunday morning is not redolent of the dear French capital.
I am hoodwinked into visiting this emporium of grease 'n' mediocrity by a combination of a growling stomach, an out-of-bounds kitchen and sheer undiluted desperation for sustenance. I enter, relieved after trundling for twenty minutes round the grey roads of Hoxton. The smell of fried bacon entices and like Pavlov's dog I curl up at a window seat. I flirt with the idea of beans on toast, toy with the idea of a mushroom sandwich (despite a horrifying experience the week before at the Sheperdess on City Road) and salaciously eye up the Cafe Paris fry-up.
"Breakfast number 2" I mutter, eyes matted with sleep, stomach empty of last night's thimble of tomato soup.
I glance around at the clientele. A family nearby decked in noisy Le Coq Sportif apparel square up over the missing contents of The People. "Hooz got the sports sekshun? I don't want the telly guide. Where's the flippin' racing guide? Where's me flippin' breakfast? Oi! Waitress!"
I decide that I'd happily wait 30,000 years for my breakfast but to my horror it arrives within mere hours. I didn't order hash browns. I hate hash browns. What's going on? I didn't order sausage either, and certainly not three glistening cylinders of microwaved ersatz pig. Ah, rejoice, beans. If Britain was built on beans I can surely erect a tarpaulin of beans over the rest of my order. Where's my mug of tea gone? Ah yes, I drank it in one hours ago.
I leave a few minutes later, five pounds poorer and three mouthfuls fuller.
Never before in the history of greasy spoon documenting has so much food been wasted by so hungry a critic.
140 Hoxton Street
Hoxton
N1 6SH
020 7684 7407
by Paddy Hashbrown
What is Paris? Croissants on the banks of the Seine. A cafe noisette in Le Marais. Reposing in the Shakespeare bookshop near the Notre Dame. It can safely be said that enduring breakfast at "Paris Cafe" in Hoxton Street on a drizzly Sunday morning is not redolent of the dear French capital.
I am hoodwinked into visiting this emporium of grease 'n' mediocrity by a combination of a growling stomach, an out-of-bounds kitchen and sheer undiluted desperation for sustenance. I enter, relieved after trundling for twenty minutes round the grey roads of Hoxton. The smell of fried bacon entices and like Pavlov's dog I curl up at a window seat. I flirt with the idea of beans on toast, toy with the idea of a mushroom sandwich (despite a horrifying experience the week before at the Sheperdess on City Road) and salaciously eye up the Cafe Paris fry-up.
"Breakfast number 2" I mutter, eyes matted with sleep, stomach empty of last night's thimble of tomato soup.
I glance around at the clientele. A family nearby decked in noisy Le Coq Sportif apparel square up over the missing contents of The People. "Hooz got the sports sekshun? I don't want the telly guide. Where's the flippin' racing guide? Where's me flippin' breakfast? Oi! Waitress!"
I decide that I'd happily wait 30,000 years for my breakfast but to my horror it arrives within mere hours. I didn't order hash browns. I hate hash browns. What's going on? I didn't order sausage either, and certainly not three glistening cylinders of microwaved ersatz pig. Ah, rejoice, beans. If Britain was built on beans I can surely erect a tarpaulin of beans over the rest of my order. Where's my mug of tea gone? Ah yes, I drank it in one hours ago.
I leave a few minutes later, five pounds poorer and three mouthfuls fuller.
Never before in the history of greasy spoon documenting has so much food been wasted by so hungry a critic.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Blandford's, Marylebone
Blandford’s
65 Chiltern Street
Marylebone
W1U 6NH
020 7486 4117
by Shreddie Kruger
A trip to Blandford’s is not an undertaking one must, erm, undertake lightly. It requires days of planning and a clear schedule. A typical breakfast will take around 349 days to arrive. It’s the Guinness of the breakfast world – good things come to those who wait.
You must be prepared for the sort of surly service that makes you wonder how they stay in business. The guy in charge tends to wear faded jeans so tight you wonder whether he sprays them on in the morning. Or whether he put them on when he was 12, realised they were irremovable and was therefore doomed to wear them for the rest of his life. The look is topped off with an equally hugging, and no less fetching, white t-shirt. My hypothesis is that tightness of clothes is directly proportional to grumpiness.
As you order you get the feeling that he’s wondering whether he can be bothered to serve you. Maybe it’s all a bit too much effort. Or he doesn’t agree with your choices. It’s the sort of aloof charm that I love.
On a quiet weekday morning we were in the company of a very mixed crowd – two chaps in hi-vis vests pored over the financial column in the Daily Sport and a charming, bohemian girl was penning the finishing touches to her debut novel. Meanwhile we were admiring the tea coloured wallpaper and a faded mural from a Swedish naval battle that typifies the offbeat-retro-nostalgia this joint exudes.
Having had our request for a refill of tea dismissed, our breakfasts arrived. My “Blandford’s Special” consisted of an expertly fried egg, 2 rashers of sublime bacon that had been basted with extra grease (bravo), some oily mushrooms, some unwanted and wooly tomatoes and a disappointing sausage. I’ve only just twigged that it was the same components as Little Chef at Popham and had exactly the same flaws. The sausage was cheap and nasty, but without the Pot Noodle factor that would have redeemed its filthiness and the tomatoes were big and fluffy like car dice. It pains me to write this because normally everything is perfect. I wimped out and chose toast over fried bread, which, redeemingly, came cut at a jaunty angle.
Whilst my breakfast was uncharacteristically mixed, Ed’s scrambled eggs, bacon and beans could be held up to the rest of the class and an example for others to copy. Textbook stuff.
We emerged with the best part of a year taken off our lives, but full of beans to take on the rest of the day. Just remember, if you’re going to go to Blandford’s, make sure you’ve told your next of kin first. Otherwise, you’ll be gone so long they will send out a search party and report you to missing persons.
65 Chiltern Street
Marylebone
W1U 6NH
020 7486 4117
by Shreddie Kruger
A trip to Blandford’s is not an undertaking one must, erm, undertake lightly. It requires days of planning and a clear schedule. A typical breakfast will take around 349 days to arrive. It’s the Guinness of the breakfast world – good things come to those who wait.
You must be prepared for the sort of surly service that makes you wonder how they stay in business. The guy in charge tends to wear faded jeans so tight you wonder whether he sprays them on in the morning. Or whether he put them on when he was 12, realised they were irremovable and was therefore doomed to wear them for the rest of his life. The look is topped off with an equally hugging, and no less fetching, white t-shirt. My hypothesis is that tightness of clothes is directly proportional to grumpiness.
As you order you get the feeling that he’s wondering whether he can be bothered to serve you. Maybe it’s all a bit too much effort. Or he doesn’t agree with your choices. It’s the sort of aloof charm that I love.
On a quiet weekday morning we were in the company of a very mixed crowd – two chaps in hi-vis vests pored over the financial column in the Daily Sport and a charming, bohemian girl was penning the finishing touches to her debut novel. Meanwhile we were admiring the tea coloured wallpaper and a faded mural from a Swedish naval battle that typifies the offbeat-retro-nostalgia this joint exudes.
Having had our request for a refill of tea dismissed, our breakfasts arrived. My “Blandford’s Special” consisted of an expertly fried egg, 2 rashers of sublime bacon that had been basted with extra grease (bravo), some oily mushrooms, some unwanted and wooly tomatoes and a disappointing sausage. I’ve only just twigged that it was the same components as Little Chef at Popham and had exactly the same flaws. The sausage was cheap and nasty, but without the Pot Noodle factor that would have redeemed its filthiness and the tomatoes were big and fluffy like car dice. It pains me to write this because normally everything is perfect. I wimped out and chose toast over fried bread, which, redeemingly, came cut at a jaunty angle.
Whilst my breakfast was uncharacteristically mixed, Ed’s scrambled eggs, bacon and beans could be held up to the rest of the class and an example for others to copy. Textbook stuff.
We emerged with the best part of a year taken off our lives, but full of beans to take on the rest of the day. Just remember, if you’re going to go to Blandford’s, make sure you’ve told your next of kin first. Otherwise, you’ll be gone so long they will send out a search party and report you to missing persons.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Cafe SO, Tower 42, Broadgate
Cafe SO
Tower 42
25 Old Broad Street
London EC2N 1HQ
www.tower42.co.uk
by Bloody Mary
Today, I breakfasted where I work - a security threat called Tower 42. It is my favourite skyscraper in London, a scored metal behemoth shaped in the celtic bud of the Nat West symbol, with a proud glowing blue head. Tower 42 used to be the tallest building in London but whilst it now stoops limply beneath Canary Wharf, its style keeps it firmly entrenched in Londoners' affections. Eerily, floor 13 of the tower does not exist - or rather, it is physically there, but in permanent darkness. No lifts stop there and the fire escapes block it off. Rumours of CIA/MI5/FSB headquarters abound.
The new Cafe SO at the bottom of the Tower is a "deli cafe". A deli cafe is a US freemarket invention, minus any nod to US customer service. A purchase involves pointing and grunting at someone dressed in plastic who probably hates you, in order to make up "sandwiches" from filmy, multicoloured filling variations plus mayonnaise, a choice of iceberg or a tomato slice, served on any of a choice of breads (all of which seemed to be bagels). Pre-coffee, it’s an imposing assault course. I know how to point at things, as I am a brilliant shopper. However, I am a terrible cook. I don’t know how foods like to be combined. This is why I go to restaurants.
Big steel army vats of “fried breakfast” were a nice addition to the sparse sandwich “bar”. The sausages looked sizzlingly hot and everything was sparklingly clean. It is difficult to miscombine a fryup, but I only knew everything was clean because most of the vats seemed to be empty. This at 8.30, their busiest time.
Though the staff were friendlier than anticipated, it’s unavoidably claustrophobic to breakfast at the bottom of a skyscraper. The heaviness of the floors above you, suits around you and hours before you weigh on your choices. I panicked. I chose anything that looked pretty. I pointed at prawns, then at an inoffensive bagel, then at cheese. This didn't taste as good as I had hoped. Thankfully the coffee - hot, strong and foamy - washed away the taste.
Café SO is challenging. Some people like challenges, but I’m afraid I need more help with breakfast. I might have to leave the plotting to the spies on the thirteenth floor.
Tower 42
25 Old Broad Street
London EC2N 1HQ
www.tower42.co.uk
by Bloody Mary
Today, I breakfasted where I work - a security threat called Tower 42. It is my favourite skyscraper in London, a scored metal behemoth shaped in the celtic bud of the Nat West symbol, with a proud glowing blue head. Tower 42 used to be the tallest building in London but whilst it now stoops limply beneath Canary Wharf, its style keeps it firmly entrenched in Londoners' affections. Eerily, floor 13 of the tower does not exist - or rather, it is physically there, but in permanent darkness. No lifts stop there and the fire escapes block it off. Rumours of CIA/MI5/FSB headquarters abound.
The new Cafe SO at the bottom of the Tower is a "deli cafe". A deli cafe is a US freemarket invention, minus any nod to US customer service. A purchase involves pointing and grunting at someone dressed in plastic who probably hates you, in order to make up "sandwiches" from filmy, multicoloured filling variations plus mayonnaise, a choice of iceberg or a tomato slice, served on any of a choice of breads (all of which seemed to be bagels). Pre-coffee, it’s an imposing assault course. I know how to point at things, as I am a brilliant shopper. However, I am a terrible cook. I don’t know how foods like to be combined. This is why I go to restaurants.
Big steel army vats of “fried breakfast” were a nice addition to the sparse sandwich “bar”. The sausages looked sizzlingly hot and everything was sparklingly clean. It is difficult to miscombine a fryup, but I only knew everything was clean because most of the vats seemed to be empty. This at 8.30, their busiest time.
Though the staff were friendlier than anticipated, it’s unavoidably claustrophobic to breakfast at the bottom of a skyscraper. The heaviness of the floors above you, suits around you and hours before you weigh on your choices. I panicked. I chose anything that looked pretty. I pointed at prawns, then at an inoffensive bagel, then at cheese. This didn't taste as good as I had hoped. Thankfully the coffee - hot, strong and foamy - washed away the taste.
Café SO is challenging. Some people like challenges, but I’m afraid I need more help with breakfast. I might have to leave the plotting to the spies on the thirteenth floor.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Fortess Cafe Restaurant, Tufnell Park
Fortess Cafe Restaurant
122 Fortess Road
Tufnell Park
NW5 2HL
[Street view]
by Nelson Griddle
Greasy spoons, in my experience, come in two varieties: there are Harolds and there are Alberts.
These two categories derive, of course, from the two Steptoes of the TV sitcom. Harold, the son, is undoubtedly on the rough and ready side, but possesses a certain debonair charm, a puppyish enthusiasm. Greasy spoons of the Harold variety try to make you feel comfortable. They have aspirations - like serving cappuccinos or sandwiches made on ciabatta.
Alberts, meanwhile, are determined to stay as they are, however grim and impoverished that might be. Echoing some innate stubbornness in the British character, they almost seem to revel in their status at the bottom of the pile.
Such cafes are the gathering places of the dispossessed and unhinged of the earth. The semi-legendary Rock Steady Eddie’s in Camberwell is a good example - containing on an average morning more loonies than a scene of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Alberts nurse the misfortunes of their customers. They offer no consolation but the consolation of despair. In short, they are depressing, and often not terribly clean.
Fortess is one of the London’s Alberts. The food is average greasy-spoon fare. Nothing about the set breakfast I order is particularly bad (or good). But what marks the place out as an Albert is the unmistakable atmosphere. Despite walls painted heavy red and actually quite friendly service, there’s something comfortless and vaguely Soviet about the place. You feel as though you could be in hospital or prison.
Maybe it’s the insufficient lighting, which makes the main eating area feel gloomy and cavernous. Or perhaps it’s the long, cold, peeling corridor that leads to the none-too-clean toilet. Then again, it could be the condensation, which mists the plate-glass frontage of the café and trickles down endlessly, seeming to whisper to each and every passerby: “I am an Albert... All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
122 Fortess Road
Tufnell Park
NW5 2HL
[Street view]
by Nelson Griddle
Greasy spoons, in my experience, come in two varieties: there are Harolds and there are Alberts.
These two categories derive, of course, from the two Steptoes of the TV sitcom. Harold, the son, is undoubtedly on the rough and ready side, but possesses a certain debonair charm, a puppyish enthusiasm. Greasy spoons of the Harold variety try to make you feel comfortable. They have aspirations - like serving cappuccinos or sandwiches made on ciabatta.
Alberts, meanwhile, are determined to stay as they are, however grim and impoverished that might be. Echoing some innate stubbornness in the British character, they almost seem to revel in their status at the bottom of the pile.
Such cafes are the gathering places of the dispossessed and unhinged of the earth. The semi-legendary Rock Steady Eddie’s in Camberwell is a good example - containing on an average morning more loonies than a scene of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Alberts nurse the misfortunes of their customers. They offer no consolation but the consolation of despair. In short, they are depressing, and often not terribly clean.
Fortess is one of the London’s Alberts. The food is average greasy-spoon fare. Nothing about the set breakfast I order is particularly bad (or good). But what marks the place out as an Albert is the unmistakable atmosphere. Despite walls painted heavy red and actually quite friendly service, there’s something comfortless and vaguely Soviet about the place. You feel as though you could be in hospital or prison.
Maybe it’s the insufficient lighting, which makes the main eating area feel gloomy and cavernous. Or perhaps it’s the long, cold, peeling corridor that leads to the none-too-clean toilet. Then again, it could be the condensation, which mists the plate-glass frontage of the café and trickles down endlessly, seeming to whisper to each and every passerby: “I am an Albert... All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
Friday, March 27, 2009
Pastis, New York
Pastis
9 9th Ave
New York, NY 10014
USA
+1 212-929-4844
by Emma Ricano
Three months trawling LA casting circuit (see Dottie's True Blue Cafe) and no work to show for it. Agent says economy is hindering chances for young actresses but that I should update my Michael Bolton haircut first. No dice, I say, has taken me ages to foster that look. Occurs to me that maybe I was put on God’s Green Earth to procreate rather than earn a dime; read in Grazia that Angelina Jolie is looking for pad in NYC's Meatpacking District so I head over to the East Coast to mine her for information on How to Create the Perfect Family, Step 1.
Collar an undernourished Manhattanite dressed in hip acid colours and beg to be told where people like Angie and the SATC girls hang. He points me in the direction of Pastis, whose plain yet stylish exterior plus cobbles are matchy-matchy with Grazia article. Bingo.
Staff friendly and helpful, particularly when seating me in far corner after I decline their offer to stow my high-vis jerkin and hat. Notice that clientele are all dressed in slim black cigarette pants and worry that Angie might not be let in wearing pregnancy kaftan.
Drink huge bowl of excellent, strong milky coffee to remain alert for her arrival. Disregard light dishes clearly designed for celebs e.g. omelette aux fines herbes and head straight for a carbo rocket: brioche French toast with maple syrup. Knock back a freshly squeezed orange juice (essential to dose up on the vitamins necessary to prepare body for birth and/or adoption) then remove high vis gloves to applaud arrival of breakfast plate, a gravy boat of colourful seasonal fruits and two pieces of brioche so large and angular I worry how anyone without a gob the size of a truck will manage. Feel sure Angie would help me out if she were here but in her absence I carve off hefty chunks of what turns out to be light and eggy heaven dosed liberally with maple syrup and powdered sugar. The accompanying fresh fruits take the edge off the sweetness and I relax back to enjoy food high.
Half an hour later I come crashing down and start searching menu desperately for further fix, like side of bacon, pastry or house specialty, tartine. In the end I plump for a glass of champagne which emboldens me for some crucial groundwork ahead; must attract mate if I am to procreate so suggestively wink at likely looking gents. Ten minutes later kindly waiter approaches with eye drops and the bill. Engage him in conversation over excellent quality of breakfast and discover he is big fan of Michael Bolton.
9 9th Ave
New York, NY 10014
USA
+1 212-929-4844
by Emma Ricano
Three months trawling LA casting circuit (see Dottie's True Blue Cafe) and no work to show for it. Agent says economy is hindering chances for young actresses but that I should update my Michael Bolton haircut first. No dice, I say, has taken me ages to foster that look. Occurs to me that maybe I was put on God’s Green Earth to procreate rather than earn a dime; read in Grazia that Angelina Jolie is looking for pad in NYC's Meatpacking District so I head over to the East Coast to mine her for information on How to Create the Perfect Family, Step 1.
Collar an undernourished Manhattanite dressed in hip acid colours and beg to be told where people like Angie and the SATC girls hang. He points me in the direction of Pastis, whose plain yet stylish exterior plus cobbles are matchy-matchy with Grazia article. Bingo.
Staff friendly and helpful, particularly when seating me in far corner after I decline their offer to stow my high-vis jerkin and hat. Notice that clientele are all dressed in slim black cigarette pants and worry that Angie might not be let in wearing pregnancy kaftan.
Drink huge bowl of excellent, strong milky coffee to remain alert for her arrival. Disregard light dishes clearly designed for celebs e.g. omelette aux fines herbes and head straight for a carbo rocket: brioche French toast with maple syrup. Knock back a freshly squeezed orange juice (essential to dose up on the vitamins necessary to prepare body for birth and/or adoption) then remove high vis gloves to applaud arrival of breakfast plate, a gravy boat of colourful seasonal fruits and two pieces of brioche so large and angular I worry how anyone without a gob the size of a truck will manage. Feel sure Angie would help me out if she were here but in her absence I carve off hefty chunks of what turns out to be light and eggy heaven dosed liberally with maple syrup and powdered sugar. The accompanying fresh fruits take the edge off the sweetness and I relax back to enjoy food high.
Half an hour later I come crashing down and start searching menu desperately for further fix, like side of bacon, pastry or house specialty, tartine. In the end I plump for a glass of champagne which emboldens me for some crucial groundwork ahead; must attract mate if I am to procreate so suggestively wink at likely looking gents. Ten minutes later kindly waiter approaches with eye drops and the bill. Engage him in conversation over excellent quality of breakfast and discover he is big fan of Michael Bolton.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Brill Restaurant and Cellar Bar, King's Cross
The Brill Restaurant and Cellar Bar
Omega Place
6-8 Caledonian Road
King's Cross
N1 9DT
by Salmon de Beauvoir
On my left there’s the psychotically painted façade of Tony’s Hemp Corner. On my right, the boarded-up windows and doors of The Flying Scotsman: strip-pub. This is the unlikely location of The Brill, a sophisticated-looking British eatery on Cally road, close to King’s Cross.
Everything’s beige and demure – and clean, which is ultimately why I go in (they also boast a dedicated breakfast/brunch menu). As the nervously smiling eastern European waitress shows me to a table (quelle elegance!), I approvingly note the artwork: watercolours of fish on plates. It’s not worth writing home about in any way, but it nicely counteracts the rather stiff atmosphere. Everywhere, couples sit quietly and obediently and wait for their food, which, let me tell you, is quite a wait. My companion comments that this bodes well, that a full English should take time to prepare.
Just as I start contemplating the disparity between this place’s deçor and its low prices (£4.50 for salmon and scrambled, £5.50 for full English) the food arrives. Aha! The Brill have aped the formula of the nearby St Pancras Champagne Bar: tiny bits of chopped-up smoked salmon nearly disappearing in a nightmare of overcooked scrambled eggs. Nothing stays together on my plate and the low price is suddenly explained. My companion's full English is “reasonable” – for the price, and for what you ordinarily get in London, but I feel like I was led to believe there’d be at least ‘Taste the Difference’-standard sausages, or slices of dense, “it’s-my-Polish-gran’s-recipe” bread. The absence of the advertised fried bread only makes matters worse. I wish I could tell you that their chrome espresso machine delivers something to savour, but alas, the cappuccino is some kind of mini Lait Russe.
It seems as if the owners spent all their money on the bohemian yellowy glass jars containing candles so could only afford to offer an uninteresting breakfast. I feel quite let down. From the waitress’ smile, the watermarked menu paper and the splendid name, I’d simply expected more. The old proverb has been proved right yet again; don’t judge a brekkie joint by the decorative mini trees flanking its entrance.
Oh, and they didn’t have any pastries... Scandal.
Omega Place
6-8 Caledonian Road
King's Cross
N1 9DT
by Salmon de Beauvoir
On my left there’s the psychotically painted façade of Tony’s Hemp Corner. On my right, the boarded-up windows and doors of The Flying Scotsman: strip-pub. This is the unlikely location of The Brill, a sophisticated-looking British eatery on Cally road, close to King’s Cross.
Everything’s beige and demure – and clean, which is ultimately why I go in (they also boast a dedicated breakfast/brunch menu). As the nervously smiling eastern European waitress shows me to a table (quelle elegance!), I approvingly note the artwork: watercolours of fish on plates. It’s not worth writing home about in any way, but it nicely counteracts the rather stiff atmosphere. Everywhere, couples sit quietly and obediently and wait for their food, which, let me tell you, is quite a wait. My companion comments that this bodes well, that a full English should take time to prepare.
Just as I start contemplating the disparity between this place’s deçor and its low prices (£4.50 for salmon and scrambled, £5.50 for full English) the food arrives. Aha! The Brill have aped the formula of the nearby St Pancras Champagne Bar: tiny bits of chopped-up smoked salmon nearly disappearing in a nightmare of overcooked scrambled eggs. Nothing stays together on my plate and the low price is suddenly explained. My companion's full English is “reasonable” – for the price, and for what you ordinarily get in London, but I feel like I was led to believe there’d be at least ‘Taste the Difference’-standard sausages, or slices of dense, “it’s-my-Polish-gran’s-recipe” bread. The absence of the advertised fried bread only makes matters worse. I wish I could tell you that their chrome espresso machine delivers something to savour, but alas, the cappuccino is some kind of mini Lait Russe.
It seems as if the owners spent all their money on the bohemian yellowy glass jars containing candles so could only afford to offer an uninteresting breakfast. I feel quite let down. From the waitress’ smile, the watermarked menu paper and the splendid name, I’d simply expected more. The old proverb has been proved right yet again; don’t judge a brekkie joint by the decorative mini trees flanking its entrance.
Oh, and they didn’t have any pastries... Scandal.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Cafe & Grill, Camden Town
Café & Grill
19 Kentish Town Road
Camden Town
NW1 8NH
by Nelson Griddle
Quite what made me decide on a full English breakfast baguette, I’m not quite sure, but almost immediately I came to regret the decision.
The meal started well enough. Café & Grill, a little eaterie that has sprung up like a daffodil between the British Boot Company and the United Reformed Church on Kentish Town Road, was bright and clean and smart - well, for Camden, anyway.
Décor-wise, it sported a couple of those mystifying photographs of central London with absolutely no one around (At what time of the day or night, I wonder, is Piccadilly Circus completely deserted? How do they do it - photoshop?) The waitress was certainly very pretty even if her command of English didn’t extend to being able to explain the ingredients of the breakfast baguette.
Not that she was concealing any wonderful secrets. The baguette, it turned out, contained that breakfast Holy Trinity of bacon, egg and sausage. But the bacon was under-done, the egg rubbery, the sausage bland. Even the bread was under-par: like all English attempts at baguettes, it failed to attain the crisp, celestial lightness of true French bread.
But ultimately I cannot just blame poor ingredients or execution. At the best of times the breakfast sandwich is a dubious institution. There’s something about stuffing the manifold ingredients of an English breakfast (all of which should be savoured alone or in carefully considered conjunction) into a bready bun that’s unnatural, uncalled for; strange and depraved.
Yet no one had forced this upon me. It was a calamity I had brought upon myself. I had tempted the gods, and got my come-uppance: a breakfasting tragedy of Sophoclean proportions.
19 Kentish Town Road
Camden Town
NW1 8NH
by Nelson Griddle
Quite what made me decide on a full English breakfast baguette, I’m not quite sure, but almost immediately I came to regret the decision.
The meal started well enough. Café & Grill, a little eaterie that has sprung up like a daffodil between the British Boot Company and the United Reformed Church on Kentish Town Road, was bright and clean and smart - well, for Camden, anyway.
Décor-wise, it sported a couple of those mystifying photographs of central London with absolutely no one around (At what time of the day or night, I wonder, is Piccadilly Circus completely deserted? How do they do it - photoshop?) The waitress was certainly very pretty even if her command of English didn’t extend to being able to explain the ingredients of the breakfast baguette.
Not that she was concealing any wonderful secrets. The baguette, it turned out, contained that breakfast Holy Trinity of bacon, egg and sausage. But the bacon was under-done, the egg rubbery, the sausage bland. Even the bread was under-par: like all English attempts at baguettes, it failed to attain the crisp, celestial lightness of true French bread.
But ultimately I cannot just blame poor ingredients or execution. At the best of times the breakfast sandwich is a dubious institution. There’s something about stuffing the manifold ingredients of an English breakfast (all of which should be savoured alone or in carefully considered conjunction) into a bready bun that’s unnatural, uncalled for; strange and depraved.
Yet no one had forced this upon me. It was a calamity I had brought upon myself. I had tempted the gods, and got my come-uppance: a breakfasting tragedy of Sophoclean proportions.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Acorn House, King's Cross
Acorn House
69 Swinton Street
King's Cross
WC1X 9NT
0207 812 1842
www.acornhouserestaurant.com
by Blake Pudding
“You’re not going to bore us about organic food this year are you?” Stephen Fry-Up asked me over late night sherrys. “It’s just a bit dull you banging your anti-organic, anti- ethical drum. It makes you sound like James Delingpole.*”
This drunken, nearly-forgotten conversation jumped into my consciousness as I waited for Ian Tucker from the Observer for I was sitting in the non plus ultra of ethical restaurants, Acorn House. It would be too easy and, yes Stephen, dull to take pot shots at the worthiness of this place so I am going to review it on the food, service and general ambience alone.
The place was nearly empty but the food was not forward in coming forwards. This hiatus was quickly explained by the presence of a camera and lighting crew in the kitchen filming near-celebrity head chef Arthur Potts-Dawson going about his morning routine. At one point APD himself came over and tried very forcefully to give us the wrong breakfasts before scuttling back to his media career. When the right breakfasts did appear they were lovely. The scrambled egg was impossibly rich and, well, eggy. They tasted like they had been laid by the happiest, most attractive hens in Hackney and then rushed to King’s Cross by bicycle courier. The bacon was meaty but very salty. The bread was unremarkable.
Ian was a bit disappointed by the blandness of the interior. He was hoping for something a bit more wattle and daub but I suppose you don’t want to scare away the non-environmentalists. Having had lunch here a few times, I can vouch for the deliciousness of the ingredients and the generally high standards in the kitchen. It isn’t cheap but considering all the hand-wringing and head-scratching that goes into every morsel, neither is it very expensive.
*James Delingpole is a novelist and columnist for the Spectator. Despite being youngish and into rock n’ roll he is also quite right wing.
69 Swinton Street
King's Cross
WC1X 9NT
0207 812 1842
www.acornhouserestaurant.com
by Blake Pudding
“You’re not going to bore us about organic food this year are you?” Stephen Fry-Up asked me over late night sherrys. “It’s just a bit dull you banging your anti-organic, anti- ethical drum. It makes you sound like James Delingpole.*”
This drunken, nearly-forgotten conversation jumped into my consciousness as I waited for Ian Tucker from the Observer for I was sitting in the non plus ultra of ethical restaurants, Acorn House. It would be too easy and, yes Stephen, dull to take pot shots at the worthiness of this place so I am going to review it on the food, service and general ambience alone.
The place was nearly empty but the food was not forward in coming forwards. This hiatus was quickly explained by the presence of a camera and lighting crew in the kitchen filming near-celebrity head chef Arthur Potts-Dawson going about his morning routine. At one point APD himself came over and tried very forcefully to give us the wrong breakfasts before scuttling back to his media career. When the right breakfasts did appear they were lovely. The scrambled egg was impossibly rich and, well, eggy. They tasted like they had been laid by the happiest, most attractive hens in Hackney and then rushed to King’s Cross by bicycle courier. The bacon was meaty but very salty. The bread was unremarkable.
Ian was a bit disappointed by the blandness of the interior. He was hoping for something a bit more wattle and daub but I suppose you don’t want to scare away the non-environmentalists. Having had lunch here a few times, I can vouch for the deliciousness of the ingredients and the generally high standards in the kitchen. It isn’t cheap but considering all the hand-wringing and head-scratching that goes into every morsel, neither is it very expensive.
*James Delingpole is a novelist and columnist for the Spectator. Despite being youngish and into rock n’ roll he is also quite right wing.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Little Chef, Popham, Hampshire
Little Chef
A303 Popham Services
Micheldever
Winchester
Hampshire
SO21 3LP
01256 398490
www.littlechef.co.uk
Open from 7am
by Shreddie Kruger
What better way to start Valentine’s Day than to wake up at 5.30am and drive for two hours before dawn to a service station, where two other couples are meeting you for breakfast?
We arrived giddy with childish enthusiasm. Insanely charming Little Chef artwork in each of the parking bays had us smitten before we even got out of the car park.
When we got inside, things went from good to great. In an homage to Michelangelo on the one hand, and as a piss take of the prat in charge of Little Chef on the other, the ceiling tiles are painted to look like the sky. Other strokes of ingenuity include singing toilets, with tiles that offer up nuggets of cooking advice such as “use salt to take away bitterness, not sugar”. Who needs cookbooks when you’ve got... tiles?
With our team of 6 we divided and conquered. Girls gave thumbs up to omelettes, porridge, yoghurt, bacon sandwiches and scrambled eggs, even if they were a bit rubbery.
Boys manfully tackled the Olympic breakfast. We’d all opted for beans over tomatoes so when our heaving plates arrived with tomatoes balanced on the side we felt miffed. We politely murmured a complaint but were told we were wrong. Oddly this matronly service was brilliantly comforting.
Bacon was the perfect thickness and crispiness. We nodded approval at the thyme-infused mushrooms and sherry vinegar-anointed fried eggs, which poured out their yolky hearts like a kiss and tell whore having dinner with Max Clifford. Crisp toast, sliced from a fresh bloomer, mopped up their filthy stories with aplomb. Black pudding was a triumph. All was going so well.
Until sausagegate. Anaemic and grey, they tasted of the manufacturing rather than the pork. And we soon discovered the ketchup wasn’t from Heinz. Some raving psychopath had switched it for something with the acidic burn of battery acid and sweet kick of treacle. Predictably, our unwanted tomato was a let down too.
Putting sausage, tomato and ketchup mishaps to one side, however, this was a fine start to a great day. Because this was always more than just about breakfast. This was about hope. This is a new dawn for both Little Chef and - hopefully - the country as a whole. If somewhere as bad as Little Chef can turn itself around… then surely we can get Mighty Blighty back on track. All we need is a bad brief, some “blue sky thinking” and Heston Blumenthal’s genius. Who’s in?
A303 Popham Services
Micheldever
Winchester
Hampshire
SO21 3LP
01256 398490
www.littlechef.co.uk
Open from 7am
by Shreddie Kruger
What better way to start Valentine’s Day than to wake up at 5.30am and drive for two hours before dawn to a service station, where two other couples are meeting you for breakfast?
We arrived giddy with childish enthusiasm. Insanely charming Little Chef artwork in each of the parking bays had us smitten before we even got out of the car park.
When we got inside, things went from good to great. In an homage to Michelangelo on the one hand, and as a piss take of the prat in charge of Little Chef on the other, the ceiling tiles are painted to look like the sky. Other strokes of ingenuity include singing toilets, with tiles that offer up nuggets of cooking advice such as “use salt to take away bitterness, not sugar”. Who needs cookbooks when you’ve got... tiles?
With our team of 6 we divided and conquered. Girls gave thumbs up to omelettes, porridge, yoghurt, bacon sandwiches and scrambled eggs, even if they were a bit rubbery.
Boys manfully tackled the Olympic breakfast. We’d all opted for beans over tomatoes so when our heaving plates arrived with tomatoes balanced on the side we felt miffed. We politely murmured a complaint but were told we were wrong. Oddly this matronly service was brilliantly comforting.
Bacon was the perfect thickness and crispiness. We nodded approval at the thyme-infused mushrooms and sherry vinegar-anointed fried eggs, which poured out their yolky hearts like a kiss and tell whore having dinner with Max Clifford. Crisp toast, sliced from a fresh bloomer, mopped up their filthy stories with aplomb. Black pudding was a triumph. All was going so well.
Until sausagegate. Anaemic and grey, they tasted of the manufacturing rather than the pork. And we soon discovered the ketchup wasn’t from Heinz. Some raving psychopath had switched it for something with the acidic burn of battery acid and sweet kick of treacle. Predictably, our unwanted tomato was a let down too.
Putting sausage, tomato and ketchup mishaps to one side, however, this was a fine start to a great day. Because this was always more than just about breakfast. This was about hope. This is a new dawn for both Little Chef and - hopefully - the country as a whole. If somewhere as bad as Little Chef can turn itself around… then surely we can get Mighty Blighty back on track. All we need is a bad brief, some “blue sky thinking” and Heston Blumenthal’s genius. Who’s in?
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