York & Albany, Camden Town

York & Albany
127-129 Parkway
Camden Town
NW1 7PS
020 7388 3344
www.gordonramsay.com/yorkandalbany

by Damon Allbran

They say that Gordon Ramsay has a magnetic personality. This may well be true given that he seems to attract and repel with equal force. To me, the idea of dining anywhere even loosely associated with the scrotal wundermensch is anathema whilst, for provincial businessmen, up-in-town for a meeting or assignation his imprimatur is virtual catnip. They patronise his restaurants in barking hordes, their brittle, hard-eyed wives attached to their arms like less benign remora fish, and imagine they have arrived.

The awfulness of both Ramsay and his clientele is really rather problematic for me. You see, the York & Albany, run for Ramsay by Angela Hartnett, is in Camden Parkway - though the extensive PR from the GRH deathstar places it in ‘Regent’s Park’. It’s my local, has a fantastic bar and does a great breakfast.

A few weeks ago, hungover, in need of fortification and unable to face the greased egregiousness of the New Goodfare at the opposite end of Parkway, I dropped into the Y & A for their full fried breakfast, £12.

The place, as usual, was nearly empty so I was seated by the charming and professional waitress in a corner. It was only after the coffee arrived (overextracted, with scorched milk but drinkable) that I noticed the three salarymen sitting in the high-backed armchairs over my shoulder. One was a loud Texan in a glistering blue suit, abidingly awful brown loafers and an aggressive hairpiece. The other two sat opposite in attitudes of supplication; one a beardless junior with artificially spiked forelock, the other an older man whose face formed a rictus of happy compliance while his eyes bled bitter loathing. Their mellifluous Welsh accents seemed strangely out of tune with the Manhattan cocktail-bar roomset and the agonisingly controlled beige decorative palette

My breakfast arrived. A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg… but my reverie was interrupted by the urgent voice of the younger suit. He was bartling some vile jargon-laden tosh about how empowering it would be to work with the Texan Mothership. I was overcome with a surge of predatory savagery. Maybe it was the solid whack of haemoglobin from the glorious slice of Irish black pudding, maybe a response to the waft of terror hormones drifting in from the next table.

The Texan was now taking an advantage of a pause in the flattery to hold forth, at length and volume, about his golfing prowess. I hope I betray no sense of anti-Americanism when I say how delighted I was at that moment to see a grilled tomato and mushroom on my plate rather than a smear of baked beans. Full marks to Gordon.

Finally, unable to control himself any longer the young thruster interrupted the Texan’s stream of self-aggrandisement.

Have you considered, he almost pleaded, the financial benefits of locating somewhere outside central London…

I watched as the Texan’s eyes died

…somewhere like Port Talbot.

As I mopped the last of my egg with a crust of sourdough toast, I watched the door swing closed across the broad back of the Texan as across the echoing and empty dining room his two erstwhile partners gazed, disconsolate, at the bill.

Book Club, Shoreditch

Book Club
100-106 Leonard Street
Shoreditch
London
EC2A 4RH
020 7684 8618

by Gregg E. Bread and Moose Lee

Good morning breakfast fans! Good morning ping pong fans! Today, at long last, we witness the bringing together of these two glorious pastimes.

With the blue bat, drinking a passable latte, hailing from way down south of the river, the two-time ping-pong champion of London Fields, Gregg ‘The Eggs-ecutioner’ Bread.

With the red bat, drinking a nigh-on perfect if overpriced tea, the undisputed bantamweight of Welsh table tennis: Moose ‘The Metabolism’ Lee.

It’s a rainy morning here in Shoreditch. We’re in the Book Club, formerly known as Home Bar, now refurbished to include a full-size ping-pong table amidst the exposed brick and photo-art.

Ding ding! We’re off, and both players order French toast with bananas and strawberries drizzled in maple syrup. Before the food arrives, they step up to the ping-pong plate. Honours are even (1-1) as the first course arrives: the ‘Metabolism’ shows good early form, mopping the nicely crunchy eggy bread and snarfling it before his opponent has time to chew. The Eggs-ecutioner makes a considered start, lingering over the ripe banana and saving the last sumptuous strawberry for the strongest possible final mouthful. Nothing can separate these two.

Our contestants are still hungry and signal to the referee for a shared Full English in the hope of breaking the deadlock. Back on the bigger table, slightly impeded by their sticky fingers, these giants of breakfast-ping-pong are still gut and gut. 2-2.

The Full English arrives and the rivals touch cutlery. Moose is almost defeated by the inhumanly big – and judging by his expression – distinctly average sausages. He doesn’t fare much better with the button mushrooms which – as this replay shows – are watery and tasteless. Gregg E Bread sets about the scrummy toast with a series of aggressive chomps before the fried egg checks his progress with its peculiar and disappointing underside.

Moose comes alive on tasting the bacon, making an elongated ‘mmmm’ sound – his trademark. Gregg E Bread replies with a cute combination of the cherry tomatoes - but wait a minute he seems to be signalling to the bench that they are cold and uncooked.

The knives and forks are down as the valiant eaters, now sluggish and glazed-eyed, return to the ping-pong table for the finale. The crowd, a lone woman on a laptop, witness a gargantuan tussle that leaves Gregg E Bread to lick the commemorative plate as he triumphs 3-2. No matter the result, it is clear that the real winner here is the sport of Breakfast-Ping-Pong which has, finally, found a permanent home in East London.

Franze and Evans, Shoreditch

Franze and Evans
101 Redchurch Street
Shoreditch
E2 7DL
020 7033 1910
www.franzeevans.com

by Joyce Carol Oats

Franze and Evans is the kind of place you want to have in your neighbourhood. You want to say to someone who you are trying to impress (probably because you want them to sleep with you), ‘hey, meet me at my neighbourhood cafe’ and for them to come and find you there and sit with you at a table in the light, pleasant space, surrounded by very high-end Italian groceries, and you want them to think, ‘my, this is a neighbourhood cafe of a sophisticated, cool, person who I rather want to sleep with.’

I am with Nurse Friend, however, who I do not want to sleep with me, so this effect is somewhat wasted. Instead, we look at the menus and decide what we want to eat. And then we wait to be served. And then we notice that Franze and Evans requires customers to order at the counter. This is a terrible mistake. Such is the layout of this sophisticated, cool neighbourhood cafe that the counter ordering system creates an awkward bottleneck. I want to draw them a flowchart to show how they are doing it all wrong, and I have never drawn a flowchart in my life.

I place our order: eggs Benedict for Nurse Friend; for me, a newly-minted vegetarian, eggs Florentine, which comes with Portobello mushrooms here. Both cost about £7.50. I pay for juice, which is served only in tiny glass bottles imported from Italy, and which are only good for a few gulps. I order coffee.

And then Nurse Friend and I sit. And wait. And watch as food and drinks are delivered to people who definitely came in after us. There are three people behind the counter. There appear to be three people working in the kitchen, but maybe more – they keep emerging, like clowns out of a very small car. The chap in charge – Franze? Evans? – brings us some glasses for our juice, long after we’d finished drinking it. We are forced to read The Sun to pass the time.

The food arrives. The eggs are poached too hard, and aren't especially hot: the yolks are a deep shade that indicate that happy hens were their source, but they don’t run, which makes Nurse Friend unhappy. The hollandaise could do with some more joie de vivre, but it’s nice enough. But the fact that I have mushroom only on one half muffin, and spinach only on the other half, makes me frown: it just seems stingy. Oh, Franze. Oh, Evans. Being stingy is neither sophisticated nor cool, and now I don’t want to sleep with either of you.

Breakfasts and Beds: Phileas Fogg, Brussels, Belgium

Phileas Fogg
Rue Van Bemmel 6
1210 Sint-Joost-ten-Node
Sint-Joost-ten-Node
Brussels
Belgium
+32 495 22 09 85
www.phileasfogg.be

by Sunni Sidup

On the one hand, Phileas Fogg is a strange name for a Belgian Bed and Breakfast. The English explorer didn’t so much as set foot in the country, nor, I see, do the eponymous crisps come in a ‘Belgium Frite’ flavour. On the other hand, alongside Tintin and European Unions, food is high on the list of things the country is best known for. Chocolate, waffles, and, of course, beer: all Belgian specialities that are as delicious as they are bad for you. I was intrigued to see exactly what a Belgian breakfast held in store.

It’s probably worth mentioning at this point that I’m not, in fact, British. I come from a country where a ‘Full English’ is (perhaps more aptly) called a ‘Big Breakfast’, reserved only for weightlifters and those nursing the severest of hangovers, and I still, despite having lived here for over two years, find the idea of chips with my breakfast morally wrong. Yet on my first morning of waking up for breakfast at Phileas Fogg, I felt decidedly on the nationalistic side of the establishment’s namesake. Having regrettably fallen into the category of those nursing severe hangovers, all I really wanted was a good cup of tea. An Earl Grey would have been lovely, an English Breakfast even better, but when I was handed a cup of hot water with a lemon-infused green tea-bag on the side, I knew that it was going to be a very long morning indeed.

A night at the Phileas Fogg feels rather like you are staying with an eccentric French aunt, then for breakfast you gather around her kitchen table with the various other guests, all of whom cannot speak a word of English. You have two options: embarrassingly try out your limited school-level French, or explore the art of the awkward silence. The table is set with two baskets in the middle; one containing cold croissants and a lonely pain au chocolat, the other filled with pieces of miserly sliced multigrain bread. It will take you a while to realise that this is not just a starter. The bread will not be taken to be toasted. There will be no eggs, no bacon, no fruit, no cereal, no other options. It is a coeliac’s nightmare: bread or bread. The highlight of my morning was a Laughing Cow cheese sandwich; the rest I fed to the two Rottweilers circling my ankles.

The place itself is lovely, the eccentric aunt hospitable, the dogs’ barks worse than their bites, but the breakfast is appalling. Stay there by all means, but do so in the knowledge that you will need an early lunch.

Casa Madeira, Vauxhall

Casa Madeira
48 Albert Embankment
Vauxhall
SE1 7TL
020 7735 0592

by Shreddie Kruger

Tucked away under the arches in Vauxhall, just a short mince from Chariots Roman Spa and well within eavesdropping range of MI6 is Casa Madeira. On arrival we were greeted with a pall of smoke from charring baps and a shudder inducing rattle from the trains chugging overhead that made it seem as though we were entering the Battle of Britain experience. The corrugated roof seemed to quake and we all held our breath as the roof to our would-be-air-raid-shelter held true.

With the chaos around us we feared not only a return to wartime rationing but also for our lives and so ordered fast from the Portuguese staff. During our short wait, for what we thought might be our last ever breakfast, we were relieved to see from Sky News that London was not actually under attack - or if it was, that the state of the lap dancing industry was more important to report on.

My full English breakfast was a joy, although I felt like an annoyed dwarf whilst trying to lift my comically oversized fork. The beans weren’t just warmed up, they had been allowed to break down to a slightly sludgy consistency that some hate, but I love. Yes, the sausage was made by robotic machine and not from a family recipe handed down from generation to generation like haemophilia, but that was just what was needed. The poached eggs were perfect with yolks that were so bright they could have been used as the amber in a set of traffic lights and not a trace of detestable vinegar. Bacon was salty and crisp. But the star of the show was a platter of buns that had been lovingly charred on the grill. They were still billowing little feathers of smoke that filled the air of our bomb shelter café like burnt out cars after a riot.

A trip to Casa Madeira is not complete without a shot of their espresso at the end. It was the caffeine equivalent of being woken up on a sleepy Monday morning with Dennis Hopper playing The Flight of the Valkyries out of the side of his helicopter.

This is by far and away the best breakfast meets Blitz experience that you’re likely to get in London. I’m just surprised that it’s not in the guidebooks. Or maybe I got the wrong end of the stick.

Sveti Vrach Spa Hotel, Sandanski, Bulgaria

Sveti Vrach Spa Hotel
Sandanski 2800
Bulgaria
+359 746 000 000
Breakfast from 8am to 10am daily.

by Nelson Griddle

Breakfast on the Continent can be a fraught affair.

The French, supposedly, revel in café au lait and croissants, although in my experience the latter tend quite often to be usurped by strange, dry, stick-like biscuits. The Germans have two breakfasts, but even with two goes they never seem to get it right. And one of the worst breakfasts I have eaten came courtesy of a youth hostel in Amsterdam (the exact details have faded mercifully from memory but sour coffee and indigestible cheese figured prominently).

So expectations of breakfasting in God’s Own Country of Bulgaria were not exactly sky high.

Especially when staying for a week or two at Sveti Vrach, a sprawling, neglected hotel in the hills above the southern spa town of Sandanski. Once a retreat for the Bulgarian Politburo, the place features a Henry Moore sculpture, a petting zoo, endless gloomy marble corridors, modernist chandeliers in which 90% of the bulbs don’t work, and a strange aura of repressed menace.

A cavernous, near empty dining room filled with wood panelling, pounding Europop and pistachio-coloured linen is the mise-en-scene for a breakfast as resolutely unchanging as the communist regime Todor Zhivkov imposed between 1954 and 1989. Each morning brings a fried egg, a couple of pieces of feta cheese, half a tomato, half a cold frankfurter, a slice of indifferent ham, a slice of tasteless cheese, two slices of toast with butter and honey and a choice of tea or coffee.

It’s a strange business being presented with exactly the same heavy-going assemblage, morning after morning after morning, and two months after leaving, the experience is etched uncannily on my memory.

Although I can’t say I wasn’t warned. In the guidebook it says Bulgarians usually begin the day with an espresso and a cigarette, and if that doesn’t kill the hunger pangs, they simply repeat the process.

If the alternative is a Sveti Vrach breakfast, one begins to understand why.

Automat, Mayfair

Automat
33 Dover Street
Mayfair
W1S 4NF
www.automat-london.com
020 7499 3033

by Rhys Chris Peese

If you really want to hear about it, you’ll probably want to know what an American brasserie is doing in Mayfair, and the décor and the service and all that kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it. OK, so there’s chairs and tables and white tiles. You happy now? This ain’t some kind of interior design website, this is about breakfast.

I like the British, they do a good breakfast. But you ever seen a British breakfast with a steak in it? 'Cos I ain’t. I’ve seen all kinds of crap in their breakfasts, like blood sausage and all, but not that. You go to Automat, though, you get a goddam steak. You got to pay fifteen British pounds for the privilege, but you get it. I guess you’re thinking that twenty-five dollars is a hell of a price for a breakfast, but that steak is USDA premium non-hormone treated Nebraskan corn-fed beef. That stuff don’t come cheap. And it don’t come large, neither: go to this joint expecting some kinda twenty-four ounce T-bone and you leave disappointed. Two small pieces of fillet, that’s what you get. But that’s OK, 'cos this is breakfast. And it’s the best goddam breakfast you gonna find in London: steak, bacon, sausage, eggs, mushrooms, and a grilled tomato as big as a man’s fist. That might be extra: this was such a goddam amazing breakfast that I was distracted from taking notes.

Anyway, I been going on about steak so much, you’re probably thinking, you crazy bastard, what else is on the menu? Well, there’s all kinds of crap, but if you order the fifteen dollar muesli or the sixteen dollar pancakes, all you gonna end up doing is looking enviously at other folks’ plates while they tuck into their steaks and all. No, you pick the Automat Big Breakfast. Best goddam breakfast in London.

Jack N Jill's, Beverly Hills, USA

Jack N Jill's
342 North Beverly Drive
Beverly Hills CA 90210
USA
+1 310 247 4500
www.eatatjacknjills.com

by Des Ayuno

I hadn't seen C in 12 or 13 years, and we were never really friends. But when my mum ran into his mum at the shops and reported back that he was now a wildly successful soundtrack composer in Los Angeles, I was curious. While I had sneered at the tall, tanned bullies in our class, C was their nerdy, eternally good-natured tagalong. “Wow, you're coming to LA! It would be great to see you!!” he emailed, friendly as ever, and suggested Jack N Jill's, a Beverly Hills joint considerately close to my lodgings.

Jack N Jill's is a long, clattering, airy room full of identikit ageless blondes in bikini tops, denim short shorts, golf ball-sized diamonds and pneumatic busoms. Whilst the rest of our classmates are busy hitting 30, bearing unattractive children and going soft round the edges, C was skinnier than ever, the wire-framed glasses that must have looked so punchable on his 13-year-old face now lending a thoughtful air. His girlfriend was not just LA-standard gorgeous but also funny, sharp-tongued and immediately likeable. All boded well.

I ordered a Mexican-ish scramble, perky with tomato and coriander. The tortillas were a bit soggy, but the fruit in the accompanying salad - strawberries, pineapple, kiwi - was lusciously ripe. The girlfriend had a similarly sprightly-looking scramble with tomato, feta and parsley, which she sweetly pronounced “delish”. C's plate, though, was breathtaking: a Matterhorn of Reese's Pieces pancakes, with melting chunks both embedded into fluffy half-inch-thick cakes and carpeting the top of the stack like gravel on a drive. Butter and maple syrup were also piled on generously, for a textbook heart attack on a plate. C made a noble effort and got halfway through before collapsing in distended delight. He also insisted on treating me, mentioning a recent, slightly cheesy box-office number one I hadn't seen. “Yeah, that paid for my new studio,” he said a bit sheepishly. “It can pay for breakfast too.” We all sat back and admired one another for a moment, me at least reflecting, blessed are the geek, for they shall inherit the earth.

The Luxe, Spitalfields

The Luxe
109 Commercial Street,
Spitalfields
E1 6BG
020 7101 1751
www.theluxe.co.uk

by Sunni Sidup

One of the things that I like best about Saturday morning breakfasts is the routine of dividing and reading the paper. Sarah gets the self-torture out of the way early by reading the Work section first. I start with the magazine and then swap with Kate for the Review, and Raoul goes straight for the news, dictating the world’s events to me as I salivate over Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s latest recipe. Sport is ignored entirely, and it takes a particularly long and lingering breakfast for the Family section to make an appearance. We can be quiet like this for hours, with only the crunching of toast and the trickle of tea to disturb us.

Not so at The Luxe, recently opened in Spitalfields market. Sat beneath a speaker blaring electronic remixes of generic British boy bands, the music is so loud that I’m having trouble discerning if I ever actually left last night’s party. Time is also against us. It seems that half of East London has come to sample the new local, and so the waiters fuss around us, clearing our plates before we can even put our forks down. It’s evident that we’re wanted out, and I’m not even halfway through the Review yet.

For £5.50 the vegetarian breakfast is generous and well-priced: eggs, beans, bubble and squeak, mushrooms, tomatoes, veggie sausage and toast all vie for attention on the same plate. The toast is soggy on the bottom but overall no one complains too much. I opt for poached eggs on toast with bacon and am similarly disappointed with my limp and unappealing slice of white bread. The poached eggs make up for it somewhat with solid white exteriors and gushing yolky goodness, and the bacon is cooked to a crispy perfection.

I am in need of caffeine and order a tea and an espresso coffee, and I am disappointed with both. The tea comes in a mug with the bag still in. As someone who usually drinks her tea black, I am dismayed that the brew (or should I say stew?) is totally undrinkable without milk. The lukewarm and bitter espresso is also a let-down. Despite my fatigue and its diminutive size, I cannot get it all down.

Having only been open a mere few weeks, I’m willing to put my gripes down to teething issues and return to The Luxe at a later date. Open until 11pm and serving as a bar as well as a restaurant, perhaps it's best to enjoy this place from lunchtime onwards, and leave the breakfast papers at home.

Olympia Restaurant, Mount Airy, USA

Olympia Restaurant
602 Linville Rd
Mount Airy
North Carolina
USA 27030
+1 (336) 786-7556

by Hashley Brown

...

OUTSIDE RESTAURANT

Hashley Brown rushes from his Cadillac Escalade with New York licence plates through the torrential summer rain. Peering through the steamed up windows of the restaurant, he can just make out the outline of bearded men in dungarees. Most of them are wearing caps.

…

INSIDE RESTAURANT

Taking a seat Hashley is joined by the City Commissioner and his wife. This is the first time they have met.

Waitress: “Hey, how y’all doin?, Whadda y’all gonna have to drink”

HB: “Splendid, thank you. Coffee please”

Waitress: “I just love you're ah-ccent. Hello ‘Lundun’, ‘Splendid’, huh-huh!”

…

IN KITCHEN

Hashley is talking noisily to the owner of the restaurant.

Proprietor: “To have a true Southern breakfast you’ve gotta have grits, you’ve gotta have home-made sausage gravy, gotta make your biscuits from scratch; sell every part of the pig, tenderloin, ham, sausage, bacon..

HB: “What about eggs?”

Proprietor: “Eggs are very important, you can get ‘em scrambled, scrambled soft, scrambled medium, scrambled well, over light, over easy, over medium, over medium well, over well, over hard, now which ones did I leave out? poached, boiled, basted, so I guess that’s what about twenty different ways, at least.”

…

AT TABLE

The order arrives. Pale cornmeal grits like anaemic porridge are doused with butter and salt. The fluffy biscuits, like savoury scones, come with their own paddling pool of sausage gravy. Like a meaty white sauce it slowly thickens as the languorous Southern morning drifts by. Country Ham is the saltiest thing on the table, if not in the whole state. The City Commissioner smiles.

…

OUTSIDE RESTAURANT

Hashley struggles from the table, the last biscuit starting to weigh heavily on his constitution. As he crosses the car park, now sparkling with the clarity that only a rainstorm can bring to a summer morning, the waitress accosts him.

Waitress: “Will you say ‘Splendid’ again?”

HB: “Um, splendid?”

Waitress: “Huh-huh! Now y’all come back and see us again y’hear”

Hashley embraces the waitress.

…