***G MURATORI HAS NOW CLOSED***
G Muratori
162 Farringdon Road
Clerkenwell
EC1R 3AS
020 7837 4015
by Hashley Brown
Two days with no letters. If I was a postman I'd stay in bed. Imagine! It's not the kind of profession with many lie-ins, although I guess industrial action isn't about having fun, more about standing in a line outside your office (and, you know, defending a vital industry against unprecedented change, harassment and bullying). But in any case there wasn't really any protest when I arrived at the Mount Pleasant depot last Friday morning for another frontline LRB despatch - in fact there wasn't really anyone. So, in the absence of any inside scoop on a disgruntled postie's choice of pork products, I turned to the proprietor of the nearest cafe. The man in First Class Cafe, on Mount Pleasant itself, seemed very pleased: the union fund the bacon sarnie and cups of tea habits of the picketers, which is good for them and certainly good for him. "I send 'em a bill at the end. One man's misery, is... well you know..." he trailed off.
I needed a sit down to contemplate the complex economics at play, and although the 'First Class' may have won prizes for its topical nomenclature, it didn't really have any seats, so a retreat was in order. Just down the hill, and round the back of the business end of the Royal Mail's sorting office, sits the Muratori cafe. It's wonderfully brown, and run by an Italian lady of advancing years called Vita, who dispatches the cups of tea on the steadier side of very slowly. Vita's been there for 50 years, and as I nervously told her that I'd like to order off-piste from their small but well worn menu, she encouraged me to order what I liked, with enough warmth and affection for me to feel like a regular already, only pausing in taking my order to yell, 'Toast burning!' across the room, in some olfactory pavlovian reaction to the first tendrils of smoke creeping out from the kitchen.
The Muratori is a cabbie's favourite, but looks out on the bustling cycling freeway that is Margery Street. I've often wondered whether the cab drivers are sizing up their opponents over their egg and chips, or just as I was, marvelling at the variety of London's bicycle pushers. Neither probably, but over my sausage, bubble, egg, black pudding and toast I kept a wary eye out for the cabbie who had called me a 'silly c*nt' as I pedalled home the night before. The indignity of sharing a breakfast table with one's 4-wheeled nemesis may have been pushing things a bit too far. Anyhow, the food was great. Fat jolly sausages, generous black pudding, a bubble with a healthy but not over-zealous green to white ratio, and a perfect egg. The tea was good and strong, and the toast not in the least bit burnt - this place really did live up to Vita's claims. "Remember, where the taxi drivers are, the food is the best!". I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Foyer, BBC Television Centre, Shepherd's Bush
The Foyer
BBC Television Centre
Wood Lane
Shepherd's Bush
W12 7RJ
www.bbc.co.uk
(open to staff and their guests only)
by Eggy Mair
Spare a thought for the philosophical problems of the night shift worker. Breakfast: is it the bowl of cereal you grab after stumbling out of bed in the middle of the afternoon, while still several hours shy of your recommended daily allowance of sleep? Is the meal you put away at the crack of dawn actually dinner, or is it just breakfast in another time zone? Can a breakfast really be considered "all day" when the outlet serving it is only open from midnight till 5pm?
Your intrepid correspondent finds himself considering these dilemmas, while midway through a gruelling week of nights spent in Television Centre. During the day, several thousand people work there, but overnight, a forgotten few are hidden away in its labyrinth of curved corridors, writing the morning's news, keeping services for insomniacs on air, and dusting and polishing Mark Thompson's throne. Making sure all these people can do their jobs smoothly relies on the relentlessly cheerful duo in the Foyer Cafe.
For £2.15, I think it's fair to assume that the 'all-day' breakfast on offer is either subsidised, or made from pretty poor quality ingredients. Having tried most of its combinations, I think your licence fee is probably safe. The bacon is salty, and often so crispy as to preclude cutting with the supplied plastic cutlery. The sausage is bland; its vegetarian counterpart a cylinder of Quorny nothingness. The fried egg can be a saving grace, but only if you can get it back to your office before it solidifies. I tried the poached option one day, and was baffled to find that it tasted of water, not egg.
I still don't know what they use to make the toast, but the plasticy texture and stripey pattern leads me to believe it may be a laminator - fried bread is a tastier, if deadlier choice. The mushrooms are generally too bland to merit a comment, and the hash browns notable mainly for their ability to melt through the polystyrene container. However, it's the presence of the takeaway box that causes a key problem with the dawn feast: baked beans, which can brighten any cooked breakfast, just swamp everything else in the box while in transit back to your desk. I have one colleague who will enthuse about this as a benefit to anyone who doesn't care to listen, but he's generally wrong about everything, and can be safely ignored. Substituting a grilled tomato is still a poor substitute for beans.
Nothing about the Foyer's breakfast is particularly satisfying, but the alternative is attempting the commute home on an empty stomach, and that's a potentially even less satisfying. Just another problem for the night shift worker.
BBC Television Centre
Wood Lane
Shepherd's Bush
W12 7RJ
www.bbc.co.uk
(open to staff and their guests only)
by Eggy Mair
Spare a thought for the philosophical problems of the night shift worker. Breakfast: is it the bowl of cereal you grab after stumbling out of bed in the middle of the afternoon, while still several hours shy of your recommended daily allowance of sleep? Is the meal you put away at the crack of dawn actually dinner, or is it just breakfast in another time zone? Can a breakfast really be considered "all day" when the outlet serving it is only open from midnight till 5pm?
Your intrepid correspondent finds himself considering these dilemmas, while midway through a gruelling week of nights spent in Television Centre. During the day, several thousand people work there, but overnight, a forgotten few are hidden away in its labyrinth of curved corridors, writing the morning's news, keeping services for insomniacs on air, and dusting and polishing Mark Thompson's throne. Making sure all these people can do their jobs smoothly relies on the relentlessly cheerful duo in the Foyer Cafe.
For £2.15, I think it's fair to assume that the 'all-day' breakfast on offer is either subsidised, or made from pretty poor quality ingredients. Having tried most of its combinations, I think your licence fee is probably safe. The bacon is salty, and often so crispy as to preclude cutting with the supplied plastic cutlery. The sausage is bland; its vegetarian counterpart a cylinder of Quorny nothingness. The fried egg can be a saving grace, but only if you can get it back to your office before it solidifies. I tried the poached option one day, and was baffled to find that it tasted of water, not egg.
I still don't know what they use to make the toast, but the plasticy texture and stripey pattern leads me to believe it may be a laminator - fried bread is a tastier, if deadlier choice. The mushrooms are generally too bland to merit a comment, and the hash browns notable mainly for their ability to melt through the polystyrene container. However, it's the presence of the takeaway box that causes a key problem with the dawn feast: baked beans, which can brighten any cooked breakfast, just swamp everything else in the box while in transit back to your desk. I have one colleague who will enthuse about this as a benefit to anyone who doesn't care to listen, but he's generally wrong about everything, and can be safely ignored. Substituting a grilled tomato is still a poor substitute for beans.
Nothing about the Foyer's breakfast is particularly satisfying, but the alternative is attempting the commute home on an empty stomach, and that's a potentially even less satisfying. Just another problem for the night shift worker.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Bob Bob Ricard, Soho
*****BOB BOB RICARD IS NO LONGER SERVING BREAKFAST*****
Bob Bob Ricard
1 - 3 Upper James St
Soho
W1F 9DF
020 3145 1000
www.bobbobricard.com
by Emma Ricano
Last week I was surprised to receive a call from an unknown gent claiming to know the whereabouts of dearest Yvette, who I’d not heard from since our trip to Dottie's. He suggested we meet for breakfast. I suggested Bob Bob Ricard. If my friend was swimming with the fishes I wanted to hear it someplace public.
With an appetite the size of Nelson’s column (and the fuzz on speed dial) I stepped into BBR, just off Regent Street. I made a mental note of the turquoise and gold wallpaper. One day my living space will be as camp as this.
I was ushered to a booth, in which I perched near the edge; I wanted privacy, but also visibility in case the gent decided to abduct me too. I checked my rouge in the reflection of our personal toaster (one is provided at every table) and knocked back a silver pot of English Breakfast tea. It was just the right strength to take the edge off my nerves, but tea is not to be treated like tequila and my throat was seared like tuna.
Tall, dark and wearing a cravat, he arrived. He ordered the BBR Pink lemonade. A satisfied smile played across his lips and he’d drained the glass before uttering a word. I braced myself, for a ransom demand at the very least.
Then he told me that Yvette was doing so well in an NBC cop drama that she’d decided to cut all ties with the UK. What a Judas, I cried.
Small mercy I’d ordered a comforting BBR Morning Toaster selection. I fed soft muffin halves into the jaws of my personal toaster, slamming my hand on the ejection button every five seconds to purge my anger at being both abandoned and much less successful. It wasn’t long before my mood was lifted by lashings of unsalted butter, sloshes of tea and the finest BBR lemon curd I’d tasted this side of the green belt. My friendship with Judas Yvette may have withered on the vine but that buttery, tangy, zesty curd gave me a lust for life I hadn’t felt since discovering sticklebricks.
Emboldened by these victuals, conversation began to flow. He was charming, but I found myself distracted by the plump, poached eggs of his Florentine, which I wanted to stab, like a psycho. Finally the urge grew too much. I distracted him by pointing out the curious pink outfits worn by the waiters, went in for the kill and was rewarded with a sparktastic spinach-and-egg explosion in my mouth.
And then it happened. As I was toasting my last muffin slice, our fingers met on the ejection button. There was an electrical spark, and it wasn’t caused by a badly wired appliance. In that moment I realised I’d found someone who shared my ADD when it comes to toasters, and an exciting future lay before us - such as a full English, with extra bacon.
Bob Bob Ricard
1 - 3 Upper James St
Soho
W1F 9DF
020 3145 1000
www.bobbobricard.com
by Emma Ricano
Last week I was surprised to receive a call from an unknown gent claiming to know the whereabouts of dearest Yvette, who I’d not heard from since our trip to Dottie's. He suggested we meet for breakfast. I suggested Bob Bob Ricard. If my friend was swimming with the fishes I wanted to hear it someplace public.
With an appetite the size of Nelson’s column (and the fuzz on speed dial) I stepped into BBR, just off Regent Street. I made a mental note of the turquoise and gold wallpaper. One day my living space will be as camp as this.
I was ushered to a booth, in which I perched near the edge; I wanted privacy, but also visibility in case the gent decided to abduct me too. I checked my rouge in the reflection of our personal toaster (one is provided at every table) and knocked back a silver pot of English Breakfast tea. It was just the right strength to take the edge off my nerves, but tea is not to be treated like tequila and my throat was seared like tuna.
Tall, dark and wearing a cravat, he arrived. He ordered the BBR Pink lemonade. A satisfied smile played across his lips and he’d drained the glass before uttering a word. I braced myself, for a ransom demand at the very least.
Then he told me that Yvette was doing so well in an NBC cop drama that she’d decided to cut all ties with the UK. What a Judas, I cried.
Small mercy I’d ordered a comforting BBR Morning Toaster selection. I fed soft muffin halves into the jaws of my personal toaster, slamming my hand on the ejection button every five seconds to purge my anger at being both abandoned and much less successful. It wasn’t long before my mood was lifted by lashings of unsalted butter, sloshes of tea and the finest BBR lemon curd I’d tasted this side of the green belt. My friendship with Judas Yvette may have withered on the vine but that buttery, tangy, zesty curd gave me a lust for life I hadn’t felt since discovering sticklebricks.
Emboldened by these victuals, conversation began to flow. He was charming, but I found myself distracted by the plump, poached eggs of his Florentine, which I wanted to stab, like a psycho. Finally the urge grew too much. I distracted him by pointing out the curious pink outfits worn by the waiters, went in for the kill and was rewarded with a sparktastic spinach-and-egg explosion in my mouth.
And then it happened. As I was toasting my last muffin slice, our fingers met on the ejection button. There was an electrical spark, and it wasn’t caused by a badly wired appliance. In that moment I realised I’d found someone who shared my ADD when it comes to toasters, and an exciting future lay before us - such as a full English, with extra bacon.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
The Wapping Project, Wapping
The Wapping Project
Wapping Hydraulic Power Station
Wapping Wall
Wapping
E1 3SG
020 7680 2080
www.thewappingproject.com
by Malcolm Eggs
A while ago I considered starting a political party. It was to be called The Cut and Run Democrats, its one policy being to pool all the money in the country and divide it equally between everybody. With around £100,000 each, we could then get the hell out of here to hotter, cheaper places. The rich wouldn’t have liked it, but being so far outnumbered they could never win an election. It could not have gone wrong.
Since then, the LRB millions have flowed in and my radical ideology has mellowed somewhat. I now think The Wapping Project – a glorious restaurant in a decaying power station – offers a more compelling and realistic vision for the future. Let’s forget the old effort, the old scrum of industry and focus on what we now do best: eating, with a special focus on breakfast.
We’ll leave in the gauges and levers, the cogs and the pulleys. Greened with age but still proud, they remind us of the sterling work put in by our mothers and fathers to get us here. But amongst all that we’ll place speakers playing endless guitar instrumentals. Our milkshakes will be speckled with the black of real vanilla, our conversation will be roused by the pep of proper coffee and our fry-ups will be as carefully composed as the ceilings of central Venice, which is just as well because the whole place is bathed in a radiant light that occasionally forms into a single beam, enlightening a plate of pancakes or a particularly celestial sausage. Everything will taste fantastic, the portions will be generous and, my brothers and sisters, there will be a good range of options on the menu.
We will march on Battersea. We will heat bacon on the nuclear ball thing at Sellafield. We will laugh at the fact that there is a power station called Eggington.
In summary, it was a fucking good breakfast.
Wapping Hydraulic Power Station
Wapping Wall
Wapping
E1 3SG
020 7680 2080
www.thewappingproject.com
by Malcolm Eggs
A while ago I considered starting a political party. It was to be called The Cut and Run Democrats, its one policy being to pool all the money in the country and divide it equally between everybody. With around £100,000 each, we could then get the hell out of here to hotter, cheaper places. The rich wouldn’t have liked it, but being so far outnumbered they could never win an election. It could not have gone wrong.
Since then, the LRB millions have flowed in and my radical ideology has mellowed somewhat. I now think The Wapping Project – a glorious restaurant in a decaying power station – offers a more compelling and realistic vision for the future. Let’s forget the old effort, the old scrum of industry and focus on what we now do best: eating, with a special focus on breakfast.
We’ll leave in the gauges and levers, the cogs and the pulleys. Greened with age but still proud, they remind us of the sterling work put in by our mothers and fathers to get us here. But amongst all that we’ll place speakers playing endless guitar instrumentals. Our milkshakes will be speckled with the black of real vanilla, our conversation will be roused by the pep of proper coffee and our fry-ups will be as carefully composed as the ceilings of central Venice, which is just as well because the whole place is bathed in a radiant light that occasionally forms into a single beam, enlightening a plate of pancakes or a particularly celestial sausage. Everything will taste fantastic, the portions will be generous and, my brothers and sisters, there will be a good range of options on the menu.
We will march on Battersea. We will heat bacon on the nuclear ball thing at Sellafield. We will laugh at the fact that there is a power station called Eggington.
In summary, it was a fucking good breakfast.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Stack 'em High, North Carolina, USA
Stack 'em High
1225 N Croatan Hwy
158 Bypass MP 9
Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina
+1 (252) 441-7064
www.stackemhigh.com/
by Fidel Gastro
Stack 'em High is always bustling on Sunday mornings, even before the tourists pour into town for the summer. There’s a mix of locals coming back from church service and hungry out-of-towners looking for a good breakfast before the drive back to Washington or New York. It feels like a summer-camp: high ceilings and brightly-painted wooden rafters with various corny words of wisdom written on them; a cafeteria-style queue that offers juice and cold breakfast items before you reach the order counter.
Choosing a breakfast is no easy task: Stack ‘em High is known for its pancakes, including specialty ones, such the "Island Delight" which comes with coconut, chocolate chips and bananas. They also have “Redneck Specials” like Minnie’s Biscuits and Gravy, which I ordered. Then, for an all-out soul food flourish, I got some cheese grits and a cup of coffee.
The nature of a "real" Southern breakfast can be serious business... or a selling point for a weekend tourist who likes Southern food but has mixed feelings about the South. A real Southern biscuit is a blend of baking powder and slight butteriness, not really flaky in the style of French pastry, but with layers that maintain a certain texture that work equally well with jam and butter and the salty white sausage gravy that are staples of Southern breakfast specialties. The biscuit at Stack 'em High was large, fluffy, and versatile. It was so good and so huge that I couldn't bear to waste it all on the creamy white sausage gravy. I took a portion and put butter and grape jelly on it, savoring the masterful Southernness of my breakfast. I’m pleased to say that even after spooning up cheese grits onto another portion of the biscuit, it maintained that flaky integrity with the slightly sour-tart bite of the baking powder. The cheese grits, in contrast, were a slight disappointment -- too salty, not cheesy enough. But my biscuit more than made up for it.
Feeling stuffed and aware of the five hour drive back to Washington, I finished with a last gulp of coffee and left, already looking forward to the next dose of beach time and down-home cooking.
1225 N Croatan Hwy
158 Bypass MP 9
Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina
+1 (252) 441-7064
www.stackemhigh.com/
by Fidel Gastro
Stack 'em High is always bustling on Sunday mornings, even before the tourists pour into town for the summer. There’s a mix of locals coming back from church service and hungry out-of-towners looking for a good breakfast before the drive back to Washington or New York. It feels like a summer-camp: high ceilings and brightly-painted wooden rafters with various corny words of wisdom written on them; a cafeteria-style queue that offers juice and cold breakfast items before you reach the order counter.
Choosing a breakfast is no easy task: Stack ‘em High is known for its pancakes, including specialty ones, such the "Island Delight" which comes with coconut, chocolate chips and bananas. They also have “Redneck Specials” like Minnie’s Biscuits and Gravy, which I ordered. Then, for an all-out soul food flourish, I got some cheese grits and a cup of coffee.
The nature of a "real" Southern breakfast can be serious business... or a selling point for a weekend tourist who likes Southern food but has mixed feelings about the South. A real Southern biscuit is a blend of baking powder and slight butteriness, not really flaky in the style of French pastry, but with layers that maintain a certain texture that work equally well with jam and butter and the salty white sausage gravy that are staples of Southern breakfast specialties. The biscuit at Stack 'em High was large, fluffy, and versatile. It was so good and so huge that I couldn't bear to waste it all on the creamy white sausage gravy. I took a portion and put butter and grape jelly on it, savoring the masterful Southernness of my breakfast. I’m pleased to say that even after spooning up cheese grits onto another portion of the biscuit, it maintained that flaky integrity with the slightly sour-tart bite of the baking powder. The cheese grits, in contrast, were a slight disappointment -- too salty, not cheesy enough. But my biscuit more than made up for it.
Feeling stuffed and aware of the five hour drive back to Washington, I finished with a last gulp of coffee and left, already looking forward to the next dose of beach time and down-home cooking.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The Milk Bar, Soho
The Milk Bar
3 Bateman St
Soho
W1D 4AG
020 7287 4796
by Blake Pudding
The Antipodean take over of London continues apace. Now normally this would be an excuse for some ill-informed remarks about their aggressive informality, their funny accents or our recent victory in the cricket. Not this time however because the Milk Bar is run by New Zealanders who couldn’t care less about a little urn and when the coffee is this good I don’t care how inappropriately friendly they are. “Aw look mate, do you mind if I have sex with your girlfriend?” “Not at all, my good fellow, just bring me another one of these delicious flat white things first.”
I was with Natasha Solomons, recently returned from America. She was itching to tell me about her novel but I was more interested in finding out about the cured fish scene in New York. As she told me about the lox in Russ & Daughters on Houston, I actually started drooling. It was time to order some food.
The Milk Bar has a very short menu which is mainly variations on scrambled eggs. Luckily I love scrambled eggs. We could have had ours with bacon, mushrooms or smoked salmon but I wanted to preserve the purity of their ethical eggs so I went for the classic “on toast” option. Greedily I watched the trendy young thing behind the counter prepare them in a battered saucepan – no microwave trickery here. They were perfect, or nearly perfect. Perhaps they were slightly over-cooked but I am prepared to admit that I like mine very runny. I lightly seasoned them with lots of Tabasco and hoovered them up in about a minute. I belched elegantly, sat back and said “now tell me about this novel of yours Natasha,” though I would have preferred to hear more about the Gravadlax.
3 Bateman St
Soho
W1D 4AG
020 7287 4796
by Blake Pudding
The Antipodean take over of London continues apace. Now normally this would be an excuse for some ill-informed remarks about their aggressive informality, their funny accents or our recent victory in the cricket. Not this time however because the Milk Bar is run by New Zealanders who couldn’t care less about a little urn and when the coffee is this good I don’t care how inappropriately friendly they are. “Aw look mate, do you mind if I have sex with your girlfriend?” “Not at all, my good fellow, just bring me another one of these delicious flat white things first.”
I was with Natasha Solomons, recently returned from America. She was itching to tell me about her novel but I was more interested in finding out about the cured fish scene in New York. As she told me about the lox in Russ & Daughters on Houston, I actually started drooling. It was time to order some food.
The Milk Bar has a very short menu which is mainly variations on scrambled eggs. Luckily I love scrambled eggs. We could have had ours with bacon, mushrooms or smoked salmon but I wanted to preserve the purity of their ethical eggs so I went for the classic “on toast” option. Greedily I watched the trendy young thing behind the counter prepare them in a battered saucepan – no microwave trickery here. They were perfect, or nearly perfect. Perhaps they were slightly over-cooked but I am prepared to admit that I like mine very runny. I lightly seasoned them with lots of Tabasco and hoovered them up in about a minute. I belched elegantly, sat back and said “now tell me about this novel of yours Natasha,” though I would have preferred to hear more about the Gravadlax.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
The Claridges, Faridabad, India
The Claridges, Surajkund
Shooting Range Road
Faridabad – 121 001
India
+91 129 4190 000
www.claridges-hotels.com
by Des Ayuno
The Claridges was my first five-star experience, and I was looking forward to breakfast very much indeed. Not to be confused with our own Claridges, it is an India-only chain of extraordinary ostentation.
Now, only mugs eat Western food when East, so despite the earliness of the hour and the extremity of my temporal-geographical disorientation, I ordered paneer-filled paratha – a round, flaky whole-wheat flatbread – and a sweet lime juice and masala tea. First came a complimentary silver basket of elaborate (Western) mini-pastries that would have done its English namesake proud. I ignored them – not because they were Western, but because I was dying for tea, in a worse-than-hung-over fug brought on by the monsoon season's extreme humidity. But next along was the lime juice, in a tall, frosty glass with a silver stirrer. I ignored it too. Then a glistening pair of chestnut-coloured pancakes – the paratha. I croaked weakly at the six hovering waiters, but they just looked confused. Finally, the tea arrived. It was glorious – hot, wet, strong, sweet and really quite spicy.
The fug cleared instantly. I absent-mindedly nibbled a tiny chocolate-chip muffin, which was oddly dense and eggy. The sweet lime juice was neither sweet nor particularly sour, but was still a refreshing thirst-quencher in the 40+ degree heat. The paratha, though, was the perfect breakfast, in the proud English tradition – hot, greasy, salty and stodgy. It was a ghee-soaked, cheese-oozing triumph of fatty abandon over good sense. Topped with sharp yoghurt and lip-scorching lime pickle, it was divine. I hoovered up one and three-quarters of the rounds before my knife literally came to a grinding halt on the last quarter.
My first thought was, I have been here before. I have been here before with the hair and even after three years, the debate rages on. But the hair was there, longish and white and curly, winding through my sliver of paratha like a rebuke. I sighed.
One of the waiters came up. “Please thank you ma’am. Everything is ok?”
I thought of where the hair might have come from. With the exception of the odd perky tache, Indian men are uniformly clean-shaven, aside from the occasional Sikh. I thought of my guide informing me, last night, in clipped tones, “This is not a Sikh city. They do not come here. They have their own region, to the west.” I imagined a grey-haired Sikh gentleman slaving away in the kitchen, far from his family, earning less for a day's work than I, or rather my sinister multinational client, was paying for this humble dish. I thought of the luxurious jacuzzi-sized bathtub upstairs in my room, which had taken an hour to fill the night before, and I thought of the Hindustan Times’ headline that had greeted me when I emerged: “Drought Looms, Food Prices to Rise Further”.
I gave a big, enthusiastic grin. “Everything is ok!” The waiter looked suspicious. I kept grinning. Finally he retreated to his customary stance of attentiveness ten paces away. Suddenly concerned for my new Sikh friend’s job security, should the hair be discovered by the over-inquisitive waiter, I spent ten minutes secretively digging it out and disposing of it down the side of the table. Then I finished my masala tea and, ready for anything the day might throw at me, bravely headed forth into the heat.
Shooting Range Road
Faridabad – 121 001
India
+91 129 4190 000
www.claridges-hotels.com
by Des Ayuno
The Claridges was my first five-star experience, and I was looking forward to breakfast very much indeed. Not to be confused with our own Claridges, it is an India-only chain of extraordinary ostentation.
Now, only mugs eat Western food when East, so despite the earliness of the hour and the extremity of my temporal-geographical disorientation, I ordered paneer-filled paratha – a round, flaky whole-wheat flatbread – and a sweet lime juice and masala tea. First came a complimentary silver basket of elaborate (Western) mini-pastries that would have done its English namesake proud. I ignored them – not because they were Western, but because I was dying for tea, in a worse-than-hung-over fug brought on by the monsoon season's extreme humidity. But next along was the lime juice, in a tall, frosty glass with a silver stirrer. I ignored it too. Then a glistening pair of chestnut-coloured pancakes – the paratha. I croaked weakly at the six hovering waiters, but they just looked confused. Finally, the tea arrived. It was glorious – hot, wet, strong, sweet and really quite spicy.
The fug cleared instantly. I absent-mindedly nibbled a tiny chocolate-chip muffin, which was oddly dense and eggy. The sweet lime juice was neither sweet nor particularly sour, but was still a refreshing thirst-quencher in the 40+ degree heat. The paratha, though, was the perfect breakfast, in the proud English tradition – hot, greasy, salty and stodgy. It was a ghee-soaked, cheese-oozing triumph of fatty abandon over good sense. Topped with sharp yoghurt and lip-scorching lime pickle, it was divine. I hoovered up one and three-quarters of the rounds before my knife literally came to a grinding halt on the last quarter.
My first thought was, I have been here before. I have been here before with the hair and even after three years, the debate rages on. But the hair was there, longish and white and curly, winding through my sliver of paratha like a rebuke. I sighed.
One of the waiters came up. “Please thank you ma’am. Everything is ok?”
I thought of where the hair might have come from. With the exception of the odd perky tache, Indian men are uniformly clean-shaven, aside from the occasional Sikh. I thought of my guide informing me, last night, in clipped tones, “This is not a Sikh city. They do not come here. They have their own region, to the west.” I imagined a grey-haired Sikh gentleman slaving away in the kitchen, far from his family, earning less for a day's work than I, or rather my sinister multinational client, was paying for this humble dish. I thought of the luxurious jacuzzi-sized bathtub upstairs in my room, which had taken an hour to fill the night before, and I thought of the Hindustan Times’ headline that had greeted me when I emerged: “Drought Looms, Food Prices to Rise Further”.
I gave a big, enthusiastic grin. “Everything is ok!” The waiter looked suspicious. I kept grinning. Finally he retreated to his customary stance of attentiveness ten paces away. Suddenly concerned for my new Sikh friend’s job security, should the hair be discovered by the over-inquisitive waiter, I spent ten minutes secretively digging it out and disposing of it down the side of the table. Then I finished my masala tea and, ready for anything the day might throw at me, bravely headed forth into the heat.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Trattoria Sapori, Newington Green
Trattoria Sapori
Alliance House
44/45 Newington Green
Newington Green
N16 9QH
020 7704 0744
www.trattoriasapori.co.uk
by Gregg E. Bread
Our indulgent post-bruncheon gelatos inspired a re-telling of the incidents surrounding the biggest ice-cream I have ever consumed. Six stupendo scoops scoffed at the Trevi Fountain, Year 10 school trip, Easter 1997. I made two wishes whilst I sat there licking away, sticky faced and foreign. Firstly, I wanted to lose the millstone of my virginity to a goth named Lindsey, and, secondly, I wanted England to qualify for the World Cup.
Both wishes came true. Both featured young English lads making their debut. Both led toward early exits and a now familiar sense of disappointment. Happily my LRB debut turned out to be a considerably longer and more satisfying run-out on the home-turf of Newington Green. A sunny morning combined with the ability to perceive the sound of traffic as birdsong, meant that my cohort M and I were able to dine alfresco, perched atop the wooden terrace.
I played it safe and plumped for the Italian breakfast; eggs, pancetta, Italian sausage, tomato, mushrooms and ciabatta, washed down with a latte. M jazzed things up by ordering the open omelette with parma ham, shaved parmesan, rocket and cherry tomatoes, choosing to suck down on a freshly squeezed apple juice.
I thought we were onto a winner when they asked how I’d like my eggs. They came poached to oozy perfection. The pancetta was crisp and the sausages truly meaty. What’s more the cleanliness of it all left me with a healthy Mediterranean after-glow rather than the traditional Full English edgy meat sweat. My only beefs were the inane button mushrooms – do they ever actually taste of mushroom? – and, be warned, the tartier than tart apple juice,
Throw in some chipper service, another round of decent coffee and the aforementioned gelatos for a touch over twenty British and, believe you me, others have wished for far, far less.
Alliance House
44/45 Newington Green
Newington Green
N16 9QH
020 7704 0744
www.trattoriasapori.co.uk
by Gregg E. Bread
Our indulgent post-bruncheon gelatos inspired a re-telling of the incidents surrounding the biggest ice-cream I have ever consumed. Six stupendo scoops scoffed at the Trevi Fountain, Year 10 school trip, Easter 1997. I made two wishes whilst I sat there licking away, sticky faced and foreign. Firstly, I wanted to lose the millstone of my virginity to a goth named Lindsey, and, secondly, I wanted England to qualify for the World Cup.
Both wishes came true. Both featured young English lads making their debut. Both led toward early exits and a now familiar sense of disappointment. Happily my LRB debut turned out to be a considerably longer and more satisfying run-out on the home-turf of Newington Green. A sunny morning combined with the ability to perceive the sound of traffic as birdsong, meant that my cohort M and I were able to dine alfresco, perched atop the wooden terrace.
I played it safe and plumped for the Italian breakfast; eggs, pancetta, Italian sausage, tomato, mushrooms and ciabatta, washed down with a latte. M jazzed things up by ordering the open omelette with parma ham, shaved parmesan, rocket and cherry tomatoes, choosing to suck down on a freshly squeezed apple juice.
I thought we were onto a winner when they asked how I’d like my eggs. They came poached to oozy perfection. The pancetta was crisp and the sausages truly meaty. What’s more the cleanliness of it all left me with a healthy Mediterranean after-glow rather than the traditional Full English edgy meat sweat. My only beefs were the inane button mushrooms – do they ever actually taste of mushroom? – and, be warned, the tartier than tart apple juice,
Throw in some chipper service, another round of decent coffee and the aforementioned gelatos for a touch over twenty British and, believe you me, others have wished for far, far less.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The Empress of India, Victoria Park
The Empress of India
130 Lauriston Rd
Victoria Park
E9 7LH
020 85335123
www.theempressofindia.com
by Blake Pudding
I’m currently researching smoked fish for the forthcoming LRB book (available in all good bookshops and hopefully supermarkets some time in 2011) and have been forbidden from eating a proper cooked breakfast. So at the Empress I ordered the kipper with a poached egg but cleverly persuaded my girlfriend to have the full English so that I could have her black pudding. Our breakfasts arrived and after some juggling to fit the over-sized crockery onto the absurdly small tables we started to eat. A couple of mouthfuls in the future Mrs Pudding noted that her plate did not have any black pudding on it. We called over the waitress and she went away to investigate.
She came back and casually said that the all the black pudding had been thrown away. I was a bit taken aback by this but was distracted by the enormous plate of bacon she brought over to compensate. This waitress obviously knew me.
After scoffing the lot, I pondered Columbo-like why they had binned everything. Hmmmmm. I marshalled my deductive powers, examined the evidence and then it came to me: everything was cooked in advance and not that recently either. Of course! Why and that would explain the generally poor state of all the food. It was like breakfast at a down-market hotel. The bacon was swimming in grease, my kipper was dense with dirty butter, the beans were in a ramekin with a congealed crust and the hash brown was soggy and lukewarm. It was a shame as all the ingredients were good quality; the eggs were freshly prepared and delicious. The Empress of India stops serving breakfast at noon. We arrived at quarter to twelve. If we had arrived at ten we may have had a breakfast worth the money. We may even have had some black pudding.
130 Lauriston Rd
Victoria Park
E9 7LH
020 85335123
www.theempressofindia.com
by Blake Pudding
I’m currently researching smoked fish for the forthcoming LRB book (available in all good bookshops and hopefully supermarkets some time in 2011) and have been forbidden from eating a proper cooked breakfast. So at the Empress I ordered the kipper with a poached egg but cleverly persuaded my girlfriend to have the full English so that I could have her black pudding. Our breakfasts arrived and after some juggling to fit the over-sized crockery onto the absurdly small tables we started to eat. A couple of mouthfuls in the future Mrs Pudding noted that her plate did not have any black pudding on it. We called over the waitress and she went away to investigate.
She came back and casually said that the all the black pudding had been thrown away. I was a bit taken aback by this but was distracted by the enormous plate of bacon she brought over to compensate. This waitress obviously knew me.
After scoffing the lot, I pondered Columbo-like why they had binned everything. Hmmmmm. I marshalled my deductive powers, examined the evidence and then it came to me: everything was cooked in advance and not that recently either. Of course! Why and that would explain the generally poor state of all the food. It was like breakfast at a down-market hotel. The bacon was swimming in grease, my kipper was dense with dirty butter, the beans were in a ramekin with a congealed crust and the hash brown was soggy and lukewarm. It was a shame as all the ingredients were good quality; the eggs were freshly prepared and delicious. The Empress of India stops serving breakfast at noon. We arrived at quarter to twelve. If we had arrived at ten we may have had a breakfast worth the money. We may even have had some black pudding.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Canteen, Southbank
Canteen
Royal Festival Hall
Belvedere Rd
SE1 8XX
0845 686 1122
www.canteen.co.uk
by Sadie Frosties
Recently it has seemed impossible to mention Canteen without prompting serious debate. Perhaps it is to do with the rate at which this Spitalfields start-up has grown since first opening its doors in 2005. Or perhaps the feeling of unease stems from the geographical locations in which one can now find a branch of Canteen – do we secretly fear that, one day in the future, branches will open in Chelsea and Brixton, thus creating an upside-down five-pointed star, and giant walls will rise up from the dirt and we will be entombed forever more within a Canteen fortress, ruled by a dictatorship of additive-free pies? Well I don’t. Nor have I spent a disproportionate amount of my time plotting the locations on Google Maps.
Actually, the Royal Festival Hall branch of Canteen is one of my favourite places to supper. I’ve never been disappointed with the food, and my consistent ordering of the smoked haddock, spinach and mash, I believe, classifies my opinion more as scientific fact than subjective review. But during my most recent visit my eyes glazed over and widened as they settled on the first column on the menu. Breakfast is served all day. Why haven’t I noticed this before? Has haddock-vision denied me life-enriching breakfast experiences?
At precisely 8:55pm I decided to throw caution to the wind and live as dangerously as one can after 14 days of living, post-tonsil extraction, on a diet of liquid food and Spanish cinema. I ordered the bacon, fried egg and bubble and squeak.
Service was swift and pleasant, and I was met with two very happy eggs, fried to perfection, and allowed the freedom during cooking to form whichever eggy shape they so desired. Disappointingly the bacon, although of the streaky variety, was vastly under-cooked in two of the three examples on my plate. However, the bubble and squeak was satisfyingly lumpy in a way that you could believe it was created by man not machine, and measured in at an almost obscene circumference.
There was something intensely satisfying about the act of eating this dish after 9pm, while everyone around me ate ‘proper’ suppers. I then ordered Eton mess, which seemed so fitting after breakfast I wondered why other breakfast menus don’t include a dessert course too.
So now, a few days on, as I settle down to my supper of cabernet sauvignon and jam tarts I wonder, why are we so bound by such strict meal timetabling? Why shouldn’t we be able to have dessert with breakfast? Is it really so unacceptable to eat baked potatoes at dawn, and bacon and eggs at dusk? Now, if it came to breakfast-time at Canteen, I think I’d have the haddock.
Royal Festival Hall
Belvedere Rd
SE1 8XX
0845 686 1122
www.canteen.co.uk
by Sadie Frosties
Recently it has seemed impossible to mention Canteen without prompting serious debate. Perhaps it is to do with the rate at which this Spitalfields start-up has grown since first opening its doors in 2005. Or perhaps the feeling of unease stems from the geographical locations in which one can now find a branch of Canteen – do we secretly fear that, one day in the future, branches will open in Chelsea and Brixton, thus creating an upside-down five-pointed star, and giant walls will rise up from the dirt and we will be entombed forever more within a Canteen fortress, ruled by a dictatorship of additive-free pies? Well I don’t. Nor have I spent a disproportionate amount of my time plotting the locations on Google Maps.
Actually, the Royal Festival Hall branch of Canteen is one of my favourite places to supper. I’ve never been disappointed with the food, and my consistent ordering of the smoked haddock, spinach and mash, I believe, classifies my opinion more as scientific fact than subjective review. But during my most recent visit my eyes glazed over and widened as they settled on the first column on the menu. Breakfast is served all day. Why haven’t I noticed this before? Has haddock-vision denied me life-enriching breakfast experiences?
At precisely 8:55pm I decided to throw caution to the wind and live as dangerously as one can after 14 days of living, post-tonsil extraction, on a diet of liquid food and Spanish cinema. I ordered the bacon, fried egg and bubble and squeak.
Service was swift and pleasant, and I was met with two very happy eggs, fried to perfection, and allowed the freedom during cooking to form whichever eggy shape they so desired. Disappointingly the bacon, although of the streaky variety, was vastly under-cooked in two of the three examples on my plate. However, the bubble and squeak was satisfyingly lumpy in a way that you could believe it was created by man not machine, and measured in at an almost obscene circumference.
There was something intensely satisfying about the act of eating this dish after 9pm, while everyone around me ate ‘proper’ suppers. I then ordered Eton mess, which seemed so fitting after breakfast I wondered why other breakfast menus don’t include a dessert course too.
So now, a few days on, as I settle down to my supper of cabernet sauvignon and jam tarts I wonder, why are we so bound by such strict meal timetabling? Why shouldn’t we be able to have dessert with breakfast? Is it really so unacceptable to eat baked potatoes at dawn, and bacon and eggs at dusk? Now, if it came to breakfast-time at Canteen, I think I’d have the haddock.
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