The Shakespeare Bed and Breakfast
96 St. Leonards Gate
Lancaster LA1 1NN
England
01524 841 041
by Henrietta Crumpet
Not long ago I took time out from my very busy and important life teaching homeless people to train cats to stand on their shoulders and experienced a Wedding Weekend consisting of two expressions of conjugal bliss at opposite ends of the country. Now before you ask, dear reader, if either of these were mine, I ask you to consider your positions on bigamy and Mormonism and let me know if you wouldn’t mind sharing your nether regions with a partner who shares their nether regions.
I am, of course, still unmarried.
These celebrations, being as they were in Lancaster and Dorset - the north preceding the south by twenty four hours - required myself and my erstwhile companion to travel at an un-holy hour of the morning after the one in order to get to the other. Not being familiar with all Lancaster has to offer I popped along to the Internet and had a little browse. Choosing a small, unassuming place with some marvellous reviews, I rang to book a night there. Sally, who was to be our attentive host, rang me back with a rather worried tone to her voice ‘You left a message saying you were booking because you had read all of our nice reviews, well, Fred and I don’t want you to expect too much or think that it will be as nice as they say.’ With this endorsement ringing in our ears we promptly booked, and set off.
I offer you this preamble in order to impress upon you two things: the antisocial hour of our departure at 6am in order to get to Dorset for the second ceremonial coupling of the weekend, and the demeanour of our hostess. I had already explained that despite a penchant for breakfast and a particular fondness for the B & B buffet option, I was expecting to have to forgo this pleasure in order to stumble groggily onto a train on time. Our hostess was horrified. ‘We’ll leave you a bit of Continental out,’ She said, ‘Is 5.45 alright?’ ‘Lovely,’ I said, ‘perfectly wondrous.’ Five minutes later she was back. ‘So how would you like your eggs? Scrambled, fried or boiled?’ There was a slight pause. ‘We can’t send you off without a cooked breakfast now can we?’
And so, very tired and a little worse for wear the next day we rolled ourselves into the living room for a full cooked breakfast. Sally and Fred were up, already unfeasibly cheerful, and had laid out for us everything they could possibly think of that could be called Breakfast. There were cereals in mini boxes, bowls of fruit, cheese and ham, small, pleasingly squidgy packets of butter and tiny jars of jam. Tea and coffee were proffered alongside glasses of orange juice and just as I was about to start panicking that this was too much too early and I was therefore probably still asleep and about to miss my train, turn up late to the second wedding, crash into the bride on my way in causing her to fall and chip a tooth and thus ruin the whole day, the cooked breakfast arrived.
I cannot in all honesty proclaim this as the best breakfast I have ever had. The beans were slightly too runny for my liking and the tomato sliced to such a thickness that the lovely goo on the outside does not permeate its raw interior, but the bacon was meaty and flavoursome and the eggs cooked to perfection – yolk that cascades over the shiny surface of your knife but has started to cook just a few millimetres from the white, leaving you in no doubt that the milky exterior will be fit for consumption. It was a breakfast of kings at a time when the royal head is definitely ordinarily still nuzzling into its well-fluffed pillow. If you ever find yourself in Lancaster, I can think of no better place for breakfast after bed, but don’t tell Sally and Fred I sent you, it will only make them worry.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Workers Cafe, Islington
Workers Cafe
172 Upper Street
Islington
N1 1RG
020 7226 3973
by Henrietta Crumpet
Ah, The Workers Cafe, bastion of socialist Islington, beacon of light for the Marx-reading, poll tax rioting, Labour voting reds from the time when builders were builders, new developments with loft living were factories, and all local primary schools were run by women who read Germaine Greer whilst chain smoking outside the school gates. Those were the days.
I have been a local at The Workers since that fateful day in 1987 when, on a lightly hazy summer morning, Thatcher was re-elected for the third time and I arrived at school to find mothers silently weeping in the playground. I was a local when my father ruined my own mother’s favourite red lipstick by writing ‘WE WON!’ in giant, jubilant capitals on the bathroom mirror on May Day ten years later. And I’m still a local now, when Edward’s Machinery has long gone, Bella’s and Smokes have disappeared from the high street, and the cafe’s interior is no longer concealed in a haze of cigarette smoke.
My breakfast habits have broadened a little since I was six and would only order fried tomatoes on two white toasts (the tomatoes to be served separately) accompanied by a Snapple iced tea. I even eat mushrooms now. The Worker’s horizons have broadened too. Gone are the faded yellow Formica tables with round red seats affixed, the bad instant coffee and the lakes of grease gently pooling around your chosen morning fare. Worried about the impending doom the smoking ban could have wreaked on their loyal clientele, they’ve installed a coffee machine, seats that move, and at-seat ordering, making it the best place to grab a quick cup of reasonably priced coffee on Upper St. It’s still run by the same extended family, a variation on the socialist worker’s collective that the name suggests, and is delightfully devoid of pretension (and music).
And so to breakfast. For a small number of English Pounds (£4.95) there are breakfast selections including a traditional English, a Vegetarian and a Turkish, all with toast and tea or coffee. For that price I’m not expecting hand-selected sausages from Borough Market or Portobello mushrooms, and I don’t get them. What I do get is a really good greasy spoon breakfast at any time of the day or night. This is breakfast with sliced white or brown bread covered with lashings of margarine, pork sausages with a high bread content and unsmoked bacon. But it does exactly what you want it to. No more, no less. The thinly sliced mushrooms are nicely sizzled without being over-greasy, the tomatoes are browned and caramelised, the hash browns crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside and the eggs – served any way you want them – are cooked through: no sloppy white but a soldier-ready yolk. So put on your Vote Labour badge; grab a paper from the newsagent’s next door; smile at the local characters, the builders on their tea breaks, the council workers, and most importantly, the charming family busily shouting at each other in the open kitchen; and bed down. I can think of no better place for a no nonsense fry-up. And they still have a fridge full of Snapple iced tea.
172 Upper Street
Islington
N1 1RG
020 7226 3973
by Henrietta Crumpet
Ah, The Workers Cafe, bastion of socialist Islington, beacon of light for the Marx-reading, poll tax rioting, Labour voting reds from the time when builders were builders, new developments with loft living were factories, and all local primary schools were run by women who read Germaine Greer whilst chain smoking outside the school gates. Those were the days.
I have been a local at The Workers since that fateful day in 1987 when, on a lightly hazy summer morning, Thatcher was re-elected for the third time and I arrived at school to find mothers silently weeping in the playground. I was a local when my father ruined my own mother’s favourite red lipstick by writing ‘WE WON!’ in giant, jubilant capitals on the bathroom mirror on May Day ten years later. And I’m still a local now, when Edward’s Machinery has long gone, Bella’s and Smokes have disappeared from the high street, and the cafe’s interior is no longer concealed in a haze of cigarette smoke.
My breakfast habits have broadened a little since I was six and would only order fried tomatoes on two white toasts (the tomatoes to be served separately) accompanied by a Snapple iced tea. I even eat mushrooms now. The Worker’s horizons have broadened too. Gone are the faded yellow Formica tables with round red seats affixed, the bad instant coffee and the lakes of grease gently pooling around your chosen morning fare. Worried about the impending doom the smoking ban could have wreaked on their loyal clientele, they’ve installed a coffee machine, seats that move, and at-seat ordering, making it the best place to grab a quick cup of reasonably priced coffee on Upper St. It’s still run by the same extended family, a variation on the socialist worker’s collective that the name suggests, and is delightfully devoid of pretension (and music).
And so to breakfast. For a small number of English Pounds (£4.95) there are breakfast selections including a traditional English, a Vegetarian and a Turkish, all with toast and tea or coffee. For that price I’m not expecting hand-selected sausages from Borough Market or Portobello mushrooms, and I don’t get them. What I do get is a really good greasy spoon breakfast at any time of the day or night. This is breakfast with sliced white or brown bread covered with lashings of margarine, pork sausages with a high bread content and unsmoked bacon. But it does exactly what you want it to. No more, no less. The thinly sliced mushrooms are nicely sizzled without being over-greasy, the tomatoes are browned and caramelised, the hash browns crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside and the eggs – served any way you want them – are cooked through: no sloppy white but a soldier-ready yolk. So put on your Vote Labour badge; grab a paper from the newsagent’s next door; smile at the local characters, the builders on their tea breaks, the council workers, and most importantly, the charming family busily shouting at each other in the open kitchen; and bed down. I can think of no better place for a no nonsense fry-up. And they still have a fridge full of Snapple iced tea.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Special Dispatch: Urban Angel, Edinburgh
Urban Angel
121 Hanover St
121 Hanover St
New Town
by Emma Ricano
Since hearing that dear, damnable Yvette had hit the big time starring in an NBC cop drama, I’d been raising my game like a poker player jacked up on 94 espressos. I wanted my own pool of light, the colour of a thousand limes, which was how I found myself at this year’s Edinburgh Festival trying my hand at stand-up comedy.
But I soon discovered that pithy one-liners about Dungeons & Dragons weren’t going to cut it with The Common People. I needed new material if I was going to be a self-proclaimed Prophet of Laughter, so I did what I always do when I need an inspiration injection. I breakfasted.
I chose Urban Angel in New Town which I’d visited once before when Edinburgh’s rain damn nearly drowned me. I recalled its sourdough – large and tasty portions with not nearly enough unsalted butter and preserve to cover a single slice; cappuccino that tasted like Nescafe but with a healthy foam hairpiece made from the creamiest of organic milk. In short, it had potential - exactly like me and my future as a stand-up comedian.
I sought out this warm and innocuous looking deli plus restaurant, again. It was much busier than I recalled but had the same range of choices I knew would keep me busy.
On the first of several inspiration missions, I spied some game looking twins dressed in kimonos and platforms who looked like they might have a story or two. I pulled up a chair and we breakfasted on Eggs Florentine. They talked animatedly about their careers in fashion and analysed my own choice of tartan slacks, as I bit down onto a springy mattress of muffin, spinach and oozing poached egg. Alas, I soon noticed the hollandaise was as vinagery as a party in a Sarson's factory and it unbalanced the whole. I swiftly ordered an antidote in the form of a chocolate double whammy - a quite outstanding chocolate muffin which was more choc chip than sponge, twinned with a hot chocolate with chocolate on top. I ate with slapping chops and gusto as the twins declared me a Fashion No-Fly Zone.
The next day I joined a lady in sensible shoes tucking into a pedestrian looking bowl of porridge. But by jiminy what those oats lacked in looks they certainly made up for in taste – I was transported to the clover, salty air, heather and fresh breezes of my otherwise turbulent family holidays in the Scottish highlands. But the portion was small and I was left both physiologically and conversationally starved as the woman in sensible shoes chose not to answer any of my questions.
By the weekend I was feeling desperate and honed in on a man with a face as sad as a clown. He said he wanted to be alone but I insisted. We both ordered the pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. I took some of his bacon. He spooned some of the syrup off my plate. I slapped his wrists. I took his napkin. He took my fork. Then we enjoyed our heavenly meal with its pancakes like pillows and all the excitement and drama that the combination of maple syrup and good quality bacon bring to a person’s life. By the end of breakfast he was bitch-slapping the table in glee as I recounted my days as a young buck in marketing. Who knew a story about a Sandra from accounts and a piece of Brie could be so entertaining? I’d say Live At The Apollo is just around the corner for a girl like me.
But I soon discovered that pithy one-liners about Dungeons & Dragons weren’t going to cut it with The Common People. I needed new material if I was going to be a self-proclaimed Prophet of Laughter, so I did what I always do when I need an inspiration injection. I breakfasted.
I chose Urban Angel in New Town which I’d visited once before when Edinburgh’s rain damn nearly drowned me. I recalled its sourdough – large and tasty portions with not nearly enough unsalted butter and preserve to cover a single slice; cappuccino that tasted like Nescafe but with a healthy foam hairpiece made from the creamiest of organic milk. In short, it had potential - exactly like me and my future as a stand-up comedian.
I sought out this warm and innocuous looking deli plus restaurant, again. It was much busier than I recalled but had the same range of choices I knew would keep me busy.
On the first of several inspiration missions, I spied some game looking twins dressed in kimonos and platforms who looked like they might have a story or two. I pulled up a chair and we breakfasted on Eggs Florentine. They talked animatedly about their careers in fashion and analysed my own choice of tartan slacks, as I bit down onto a springy mattress of muffin, spinach and oozing poached egg. Alas, I soon noticed the hollandaise was as vinagery as a party in a Sarson's factory and it unbalanced the whole. I swiftly ordered an antidote in the form of a chocolate double whammy - a quite outstanding chocolate muffin which was more choc chip than sponge, twinned with a hot chocolate with chocolate on top. I ate with slapping chops and gusto as the twins declared me a Fashion No-Fly Zone.
The next day I joined a lady in sensible shoes tucking into a pedestrian looking bowl of porridge. But by jiminy what those oats lacked in looks they certainly made up for in taste – I was transported to the clover, salty air, heather and fresh breezes of my otherwise turbulent family holidays in the Scottish highlands. But the portion was small and I was left both physiologically and conversationally starved as the woman in sensible shoes chose not to answer any of my questions.
By the weekend I was feeling desperate and honed in on a man with a face as sad as a clown. He said he wanted to be alone but I insisted. We both ordered the pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. I took some of his bacon. He spooned some of the syrup off my plate. I slapped his wrists. I took his napkin. He took my fork. Then we enjoyed our heavenly meal with its pancakes like pillows and all the excitement and drama that the combination of maple syrup and good quality bacon bring to a person’s life. By the end of breakfast he was bitch-slapping the table in glee as I recounted my days as a young buck in marketing. Who knew a story about a Sandra from accounts and a piece of Brie could be so entertaining? I’d say Live At The Apollo is just around the corner for a girl like me.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Guy Fawkes Inn, York
Guy Fawkes Inn
25 High Petergate
York YO1 7HP
www.gfyork.com
01904 623 716
by OJ Simpson
Why must we remember the 5th of November
For gunpowder treason and plot?
It’s much more pleasing to order two teas and
Sit down to eat something hot.
Guy Fawkes in York
Was where we went,
To see where Guy was born, and then,
To break our fast and ease the woe,
With slices of hot toasted dough.
By God's providence this she match'd,
With egg and haddock freshly catch’d.
Holloa Boys, Holloa boys, I chose fried things,
Holloa Boys, Holloa Boys, fit for a King!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Tomatoes, mushroom, two eggs poached,
Black pudding, beans and bacon,
A pot of tea to rinse it down,
Until you’re filled to bursting.
Much tastier this way by far,
To celebrate a blazing star.
Don’t burn his body, toast your bread.
Then we'll say: ol' hunger’s dead.
25 High Petergate
York YO1 7HP
www.gfyork.com
01904 623 716
by OJ Simpson
Why must we remember the 5th of November
For gunpowder treason and plot?
It’s much more pleasing to order two teas and
Sit down to eat something hot.
Guy Fawkes in York
Was where we went,
To see where Guy was born, and then,
To break our fast and ease the woe,
With slices of hot toasted dough.
By God's providence this she match'd,
With egg and haddock freshly catch’d.
Holloa Boys, Holloa boys, I chose fried things,
Holloa Boys, Holloa Boys, fit for a King!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Tomatoes, mushroom, two eggs poached,
Black pudding, beans and bacon,
A pot of tea to rinse it down,
Until you’re filled to bursting.
Much tastier this way by far,
To celebrate a blazing star.
Don’t burn his body, toast your bread.
Then we'll say: ol' hunger’s dead.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Roast, Borough
Roast
The Floral Hall
Stoney Street
Borough
SE1 1TL
0845 034 7300
www.roast-restaurant.com
by T.N. Toost
Malcolm recognized me from my pictures online, shouting “Mr. Toost!” when I passed the London Bridge newsstand. We embraced and walked through Borough Market to Roast. Its cathedral-like dining room was populated with businesspeople and dealmakers and one other guy who looked out of place, like us.
“I’m glad someone else is wearing a t-shirt,” I whispered, and Malcolm grinned.
It was somewhat awkward to peruse the menu and try to keep a conversation going at the same time, but we managed, making small talk about the options. Ten-year-old tea what? That sounds Chinese and I thought this is a purely English establishment. It either makes no sense orrrr there’s 10-year-old tea on the menu and it’s not a purely English establishment... There was no point, really, as there was no question as to what we would be ordering.
“Full English, please.” £15.00. He wasn’t a cheap date.
“And one for myself as well, thanks.” Neither was I.
It’s a distinct feature of this generation that people can correspond for years without ever meeting face-to-face and, when it finally happens, real conversation can be awkward. There were at least two points at which I wished we’d had computers; emailing would have felt more normal. Proper conversation over proper coffee is a precious commodity, though, and soon everything started to feel more normal.
Besides, we didn’t have much time for awkwardness; the food came out before we’d had time to take three sips of coffee.
“Fantastic,” I said as I saw the waitress approaching.
“Shit,” Malcolm said after she’d left.
What he had immediately realized was that serving speed is not a virtue here as it is in the States, where we want things fast and damn the consequences. Speed means that the food was reheated rather than cooked to order. If you shell out £15 for a full English, you should be served just-picked tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade sausage, beans hand-selected and matched for aesthetic consistency, bacon cut from a live pig and eggs still smelling like a hen’s hooha.
Which is not what we got. The eggs were warm, bordering on hot. The bacon yielded flaccidly to my teeth. In a £15 breakfast, the mushroom should make you hallucinate; we got a non-descript portobello. The sausage had a crisp outer shell but the inside cloyed to our gums and cheeks. The blood sausage was admittedly delicious, but knowing that Roast is widely considered to serve the best breakfast in London, this was a consolation as lukewarm as the food.
We left; I think Malcolm felt a bit embarrassed at having taken me there. He had said that he needed a special occasion to go to Roast, and that my visit was it. I hope he doesn't invite me there next time, as that would be an elaborate insult of the kind that email can never convey.
The Floral Hall
Stoney Street
Borough
SE1 1TL
0845 034 7300
www.roast-restaurant.com
by T.N. Toost
Malcolm recognized me from my pictures online, shouting “Mr. Toost!” when I passed the London Bridge newsstand. We embraced and walked through Borough Market to Roast. Its cathedral-like dining room was populated with businesspeople and dealmakers and one other guy who looked out of place, like us.
“I’m glad someone else is wearing a t-shirt,” I whispered, and Malcolm grinned.
It was somewhat awkward to peruse the menu and try to keep a conversation going at the same time, but we managed, making small talk about the options. Ten-year-old tea what? That sounds Chinese and I thought this is a purely English establishment. It either makes no sense orrrr there’s 10-year-old tea on the menu and it’s not a purely English establishment... There was no point, really, as there was no question as to what we would be ordering.
“Full English, please.” £15.00. He wasn’t a cheap date.
“And one for myself as well, thanks.” Neither was I.
It’s a distinct feature of this generation that people can correspond for years without ever meeting face-to-face and, when it finally happens, real conversation can be awkward. There were at least two points at which I wished we’d had computers; emailing would have felt more normal. Proper conversation over proper coffee is a precious commodity, though, and soon everything started to feel more normal.
Besides, we didn’t have much time for awkwardness; the food came out before we’d had time to take three sips of coffee.
“Fantastic,” I said as I saw the waitress approaching.
“Shit,” Malcolm said after she’d left.
What he had immediately realized was that serving speed is not a virtue here as it is in the States, where we want things fast and damn the consequences. Speed means that the food was reheated rather than cooked to order. If you shell out £15 for a full English, you should be served just-picked tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade sausage, beans hand-selected and matched for aesthetic consistency, bacon cut from a live pig and eggs still smelling like a hen’s hooha.
Which is not what we got. The eggs were warm, bordering on hot. The bacon yielded flaccidly to my teeth. In a £15 breakfast, the mushroom should make you hallucinate; we got a non-descript portobello. The sausage had a crisp outer shell but the inside cloyed to our gums and cheeks. The blood sausage was admittedly delicious, but knowing that Roast is widely considered to serve the best breakfast in London, this was a consolation as lukewarm as the food.
We left; I think Malcolm felt a bit embarrassed at having taken me there. He had said that he needed a special occasion to go to Roast, and that my visit was it. I hope he doesn't invite me there next time, as that would be an elaborate insult of the kind that email can never convey.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
The Counter Cafe, Hackney Wick
The Counter Cafe
4a Roach Rd
Hackney Wick
E3 2PA
07952 696 388
www.thecountercafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
I had never really spent any time in Hackney Wick, at least not deliberately. Based on its reputation I was imagining an outland of free expression, a place where creativity could run untethered and naked. Monkeys playing accordions on the streets, men in berets judging my scale with gnawed thumbs. But deep down I knew I’d find a handful of timber depots plus the occasional person in a sleeveless flannel top.
When we finally glimpsed our target, alarm bells rang – those internal alerts we each install when we realise hipsters don’t run or frequent good food businesses.
For here they were both sides of the counter: girls with short bleached hair and billowing ethnic-print trousers; men with long hair, longer beards, NHS glasses, orange gingham shirts. A waiter’s cartoon-bear T-shirt, tucked into his tiny polyester shorts. Another’s braces hand-made from an unravelled length of blue packaging rope. Shouty folk music on the speakers and psychedelic art on the walls. Guardian newspapers everywhere. Hardly were those sights met when I closed my eyes and was troubled by a vast image: a stoned chef and a passive aggressive owner, pissing away a trust fund. In the background flashed mood-words such as ‘screenplay’, ‘site-specific theatre’ and ‘guerrilla gardening’. I braced myself for a bad breakfast.
Then my Big Breakfast (£8) arrived and it was really, really good. As good as the breakfast in Bistrotheque or Caravan, perhaps better for the genuine shock. The yolk of my fried egg? As golden as the voice of St Gregory of Nazianzus, mingling harmoniously with the baritone carbs - the jolly potato cake and ebullient buttered Vogel toast. Bacon and sausages were fit for a duke, and the beans, oh my, they were a rarity - homemade yet worth the effort: butter beans in a salacious sauce of tomato, rosemary, garlic and lemon. A large, succulent mushroom, a ramekin of tangy inhouse relish and good coffee completed the picture.
As if by magic a canal bridge made itself visible, enabling us to leave without retracing our steps. The Olympic Stadium loomed over us as if it wanted to say – there, now you know the truth about 2012. It’s whatever’s important to you. Follow your dream, my dear Malcolm. Yeah whatevs, I replied.
4a Roach Rd
Hackney Wick
E3 2PA
07952 696 388
www.thecountercafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
I had never really spent any time in Hackney Wick, at least not deliberately. Based on its reputation I was imagining an outland of free expression, a place where creativity could run untethered and naked. Monkeys playing accordions on the streets, men in berets judging my scale with gnawed thumbs. But deep down I knew I’d find a handful of timber depots plus the occasional person in a sleeveless flannel top.
When we finally glimpsed our target, alarm bells rang – those internal alerts we each install when we realise hipsters don’t run or frequent good food businesses.
For here they were both sides of the counter: girls with short bleached hair and billowing ethnic-print trousers; men with long hair, longer beards, NHS glasses, orange gingham shirts. A waiter’s cartoon-bear T-shirt, tucked into his tiny polyester shorts. Another’s braces hand-made from an unravelled length of blue packaging rope. Shouty folk music on the speakers and psychedelic art on the walls. Guardian newspapers everywhere. Hardly were those sights met when I closed my eyes and was troubled by a vast image: a stoned chef and a passive aggressive owner, pissing away a trust fund. In the background flashed mood-words such as ‘screenplay’, ‘site-specific theatre’ and ‘guerrilla gardening’. I braced myself for a bad breakfast.
Then my Big Breakfast (£8) arrived and it was really, really good. As good as the breakfast in Bistrotheque or Caravan, perhaps better for the genuine shock. The yolk of my fried egg? As golden as the voice of St Gregory of Nazianzus, mingling harmoniously with the baritone carbs - the jolly potato cake and ebullient buttered Vogel toast. Bacon and sausages were fit for a duke, and the beans, oh my, they were a rarity - homemade yet worth the effort: butter beans in a salacious sauce of tomato, rosemary, garlic and lemon. A large, succulent mushroom, a ramekin of tangy inhouse relish and good coffee completed the picture.
As if by magic a canal bridge made itself visible, enabling us to leave without retracing our steps. The Olympic Stadium loomed over us as if it wanted to say – there, now you know the truth about 2012. It’s whatever’s important to you. Follow your dream, my dear Malcolm. Yeah whatevs, I replied.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Joe Allen, Covent Garden
Joe Allen
13 Exeter Street
Covent Garden
WC2E 7DT
www.joeallen.co.uk
020 7836 0651
by Rhys Chris Peese
INT. JOE ALLEN - MORNING
Dark wood-panelled walls are covered with posters of long-forgotten musicals. On one side of the room is a well-stocked bar. It looks like it’s around 3am: it always looks like that in here, away from the natural light.
JAMES, a screenwriter, is typing on a Macbook. A waiter comes to refill his coffee. He grunts acknowledgement. He is the only customer: others have come and gone. Pull out to take in the door to the street. As it opens we realise that it’s actually 10am: daylight silhouettes RHYS, who walks in and joins JAMES. He speaks in a British accent.
RHYS
Sorry I’m late. Traffic in Kennington.
JAMES
No problem.
We take in the posters – all of which are for London productions. This confirms that we’re not in New York at all. The WAITER comes over: immaculately dressed, he looks like a younger Russell Crowe.
WAITER
Are you ready to order?
RHYS
I’ll have the full English please, with
scrambled eggs. And coffee.
JAMES
I’ll have the same.
The WAITER goes. RHYS stares at the table. JAMES leafs through Variety. Silence.
RHYS
I am massively hungover.
JAMES nods. Fade out.
Fade up. The WAITER returns with two plates and puts them in front of JAMES and RHYS. They each have two pale sausages, some bacon, scrambled eggs, black pudding, properly grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and half an English muffin. JAMES and RHYS set to eating.
JAMES
This is the best black pudding I’ve ever
tasted.
RHYS
The mushrooms are a bit watery.
JAMES
I don’t like mushrooms anyway. Do you
want mine?
RHYS
Yeah. OK.
The WAITER returns and refills their coffee. He leaves.
RHYS
Next time I might try the broiled
grapefruit.
Fade. End.
13 Exeter Street
Covent Garden
WC2E 7DT
www.joeallen.co.uk
020 7836 0651
by Rhys Chris Peese
INT. JOE ALLEN - MORNING
Dark wood-panelled walls are covered with posters of long-forgotten musicals. On one side of the room is a well-stocked bar. It looks like it’s around 3am: it always looks like that in here, away from the natural light.
JAMES, a screenwriter, is typing on a Macbook. A waiter comes to refill his coffee. He grunts acknowledgement. He is the only customer: others have come and gone. Pull out to take in the door to the street. As it opens we realise that it’s actually 10am: daylight silhouettes RHYS, who walks in and joins JAMES. He speaks in a British accent.
RHYS
Sorry I’m late. Traffic in Kennington.
JAMES
No problem.
We take in the posters – all of which are for London productions. This confirms that we’re not in New York at all. The WAITER comes over: immaculately dressed, he looks like a younger Russell Crowe.
WAITER
Are you ready to order?
RHYS
I’ll have the full English please, with
scrambled eggs. And coffee.
JAMES
I’ll have the same.
The WAITER goes. RHYS stares at the table. JAMES leafs through Variety. Silence.
RHYS
I am massively hungover.
JAMES nods. Fade out.
Fade up. The WAITER returns with two plates and puts them in front of JAMES and RHYS. They each have two pale sausages, some bacon, scrambled eggs, black pudding, properly grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and half an English muffin. JAMES and RHYS set to eating.
JAMES
This is the best black pudding I’ve ever
tasted.
RHYS
The mushrooms are a bit watery.
JAMES
I don’t like mushrooms anyway. Do you
want mine?
RHYS
Yeah. OK.
The WAITER returns and refills their coffee. He leaves.
RHYS
Next time I might try the broiled
grapefruit.
Fade. End.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
La Casita, Streatham
La Casita
122 Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16 1BW
020 8664 6033
Breakfast served from 9am - 3pm (at time of writing)
by Cherie Funghi
Waking up late with gin breath requires immediate action: breakfast. And I’m certainly not talking about any of your muesli or fruit stuffs. Wretched and dehydrated, we dragged our broken bodies to La Casita.
A sign boasting fresh ground coffee excited my caffeine-thirsty eyes, but my mug arrived with the sad, undissolved remnants of instant granules. I swallowed my disappointment, too tired to argue, before our confused looking waiter informed us that there were no continental breakfasts, no city breakfasts and no tomatoes. At all.
A city breakfast, in case it isn’t obvious, is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a bagel. That is what people in cities have for breakfast. But not this morning. No. We had the choice of a Vegetarian, a full English, or a La Casita breakfast - the same plus chips. I went for the full English, which turned out to be quite a serious plate-a-food. Two massive bangers, a generous helping of mushrooms, griddled smoked bacon, a hash brown, piles of buttered toast, beans and half a grilled tomato. Hello.
The sugar sachets came with 2 tsp-worth of sugar in them. I failed to notice and added two to my coffee. It made for a disgusting error of judgment, but I persevered. The scrambled eggs were dry and rubbery so I ate them first to get them out the way, washed down with the coffee-syrup. What a mistake! I’d left no room for the best bits. I managed to force down the pleasingly thick-cut smoked bacon and inoffensively average hash brown, but the delicious buttery, herby mushrooms and meaty pork sausages were a stomach-stretch too far and were left practically untouched. It was a regrettable personal failure and this unhappy turn of events is proof that the best shouldn’t always be saved until last.
122 Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16 1BW
020 8664 6033
Breakfast served from 9am - 3pm (at time of writing)
by Cherie Funghi
Waking up late with gin breath requires immediate action: breakfast. And I’m certainly not talking about any of your muesli or fruit stuffs. Wretched and dehydrated, we dragged our broken bodies to La Casita.
A sign boasting fresh ground coffee excited my caffeine-thirsty eyes, but my mug arrived with the sad, undissolved remnants of instant granules. I swallowed my disappointment, too tired to argue, before our confused looking waiter informed us that there were no continental breakfasts, no city breakfasts and no tomatoes. At all.
A city breakfast, in case it isn’t obvious, is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a bagel. That is what people in cities have for breakfast. But not this morning. No. We had the choice of a Vegetarian, a full English, or a La Casita breakfast - the same plus chips. I went for the full English, which turned out to be quite a serious plate-a-food. Two massive bangers, a generous helping of mushrooms, griddled smoked bacon, a hash brown, piles of buttered toast, beans and half a grilled tomato. Hello.
The sugar sachets came with 2 tsp-worth of sugar in them. I failed to notice and added two to my coffee. It made for a disgusting error of judgment, but I persevered. The scrambled eggs were dry and rubbery so I ate them first to get them out the way, washed down with the coffee-syrup. What a mistake! I’d left no room for the best bits. I managed to force down the pleasingly thick-cut smoked bacon and inoffensively average hash brown, but the delicious buttery, herby mushrooms and meaty pork sausages were a stomach-stretch too far and were left practically untouched. It was a regrettable personal failure and this unhappy turn of events is proof that the best shouldn’t always be saved until last.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Benjys Restaurant, Earl's Court
Benjys Restaurant
157 Earls Court Road
Earl's Court
London
SW5 9RQ
020 7373 0245
by Terry Teagleton
A fried English breakfast has to my mind one of two essential purposes - to line the stomach in preparation for a day's drinking; or to bring the comforts of stodgy, chewy grease to a body which has spent a yesterday drinking. We are here today for the first of these reasons and this caff - the first we came across on leaving Earl's Court tube - performs its task more than adequately.
Benjys gives the impression of a proper no-nonsense London establishment. The laminated menu supplies just three main breakfast options, a terse list of extras confined only to the absolute essentials (no fancy-schmancy hash browns here and even, to my great disappointment, no black pudding) plus tea, coffee and orange juice. In view of the profligate ingurgitations ahead of me, I opt for the builder's breakfast with extra fried mushrooms. Steve foolishly just has chips - a decision which is ill advised not for the lack of substance (Steve is a better drinker than me and anyway has already eaten) but because of the penny-filching minimum food cost of £3.90 per person in the menu's smallprint which will now catch him out.
Our food arrives in short order. The sausages are close to perfection - neither soggy nor dry, their unidentifiable contents pleasantly coating the mouth in greasy goodness and sliding effortlessly down the gullet. The same sadly cannot be said about the bacon, which has been incinerated almost into nonexistence and then, bizarrely, hidden *in between* the egg (on top) and the beans (underneath) as though the chef was rightly ashamed of his endeavour. The egg itself is uninspiring - not badly cooked, but one presumes produced by a chicken with little interest in life; and the beans are as beans are as beans always are - the great ubiquitous invariant of the breakfast plate.
Most of the other components are proficiently delivered but require little comment - there are chips, mushrooms and toast. The one remaining piece of the assembly is however noteworthy; it is the tomato. Benjys have eschewed the standard fried vegetable for an uncooked plum tomato forked out of a tin. I love the effrontery, the sheer chutzpah, of places which do this - we all know how cheap it is to buy a value tin of plum tomatoes from Tesco and how little effort is invoked in the opening of said tin and fishing out of said tomatoes, and yet it is a solution which Just Works, often better than a fried tomato which is frankly difficult for even the best of breakfasteers to make exciting. As I bite into my raw plum tomato a jet of bright red juice is sent spurting out right onto Steve’s shirt, adding to my general sense of satisfaction with the world.
The place is certainly popular, with intrepid tourists out of Earl's Court hotels rubbing shoulders with standard greasy spoon denizens - drifting urban wastrels and labouring men - to almost fill the place. But despite this the lone waitress manages to take orders and deliver plates of food and free refills of tea and coffee promptly and with a breezy professionalism. As we slowly finish our final coffees and get ready to pay and leave, I reflect that in spite of its several quirks Benjys has succeeded - it has produced a solid, ample, unashamedly physical fry up; a fry up to engage oneself with, to take one's time over - in other words, the very breakfast I needed.
157 Earls Court Road
Earl's Court
London
SW5 9RQ
020 7373 0245
by Terry Teagleton
A fried English breakfast has to my mind one of two essential purposes - to line the stomach in preparation for a day's drinking; or to bring the comforts of stodgy, chewy grease to a body which has spent a yesterday drinking. We are here today for the first of these reasons and this caff - the first we came across on leaving Earl's Court tube - performs its task more than adequately.
Benjys gives the impression of a proper no-nonsense London establishment. The laminated menu supplies just three main breakfast options, a terse list of extras confined only to the absolute essentials (no fancy-schmancy hash browns here and even, to my great disappointment, no black pudding) plus tea, coffee and orange juice. In view of the profligate ingurgitations ahead of me, I opt for the builder's breakfast with extra fried mushrooms. Steve foolishly just has chips - a decision which is ill advised not for the lack of substance (Steve is a better drinker than me and anyway has already eaten) but because of the penny-filching minimum food cost of £3.90 per person in the menu's smallprint which will now catch him out.
Our food arrives in short order. The sausages are close to perfection - neither soggy nor dry, their unidentifiable contents pleasantly coating the mouth in greasy goodness and sliding effortlessly down the gullet. The same sadly cannot be said about the bacon, which has been incinerated almost into nonexistence and then, bizarrely, hidden *in between* the egg (on top) and the beans (underneath) as though the chef was rightly ashamed of his endeavour. The egg itself is uninspiring - not badly cooked, but one presumes produced by a chicken with little interest in life; and the beans are as beans are as beans always are - the great ubiquitous invariant of the breakfast plate.
Most of the other components are proficiently delivered but require little comment - there are chips, mushrooms and toast. The one remaining piece of the assembly is however noteworthy; it is the tomato. Benjys have eschewed the standard fried vegetable for an uncooked plum tomato forked out of a tin. I love the effrontery, the sheer chutzpah, of places which do this - we all know how cheap it is to buy a value tin of plum tomatoes from Tesco and how little effort is invoked in the opening of said tin and fishing out of said tomatoes, and yet it is a solution which Just Works, often better than a fried tomato which is frankly difficult for even the best of breakfasteers to make exciting. As I bite into my raw plum tomato a jet of bright red juice is sent spurting out right onto Steve’s shirt, adding to my general sense of satisfaction with the world.
The place is certainly popular, with intrepid tourists out of Earl's Court hotels rubbing shoulders with standard greasy spoon denizens - drifting urban wastrels and labouring men - to almost fill the place. But despite this the lone waitress manages to take orders and deliver plates of food and free refills of tea and coffee promptly and with a breezy professionalism. As we slowly finish our final coffees and get ready to pay and leave, I reflect that in spite of its several quirks Benjys has succeeded - it has produced a solid, ample, unashamedly physical fry up; a fry up to engage oneself with, to take one's time over - in other words, the very breakfast I needed.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The brekkies: 10 of the best breakfasts available to humanity
by Malcolm Eggs
Exactly five years have passed since a morning when – in no small part to stave off the need to get up, have a shower and do something useful – I logged onto a blogging website and wrote something rousing about how a semi-invented ‘we’ was incredibly passionate about breakfast. It was surprising that the ‘we’ became a self-fulfilling overblown claim: no less than 80 individuals have joined my mission to cut out the gristle of lazy and disdainful breakfast-serving with the simple fork of truth and the trusty knife of literary pretension.
Five years in seems like a fitting moment to do something new, and compile a list of some of the best breakfasts we’ve sampled along the way. For the sake of usefulness I’m only including places that (a) are still open and (b) I’m reasonably confident have maintained their standards. A big apology goes to Konstam, recently closed in what is a tragedy both personal and regional – they consistently served some of the finest breakfasts we’d encountered and we miss them very much.
Here is the list, in alphabetical order. As always, we apologise for the East London bias.
Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson St, Bethnal Green E2
"It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning."
(Full review here)
Caravan, 11-13 Exmouth Market, Clerkenwell EC1R
"The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot"
(Full review here)
Hawksmoor, 157 Commercial St, Spitalfields E1
"The very definition of an event breakfast."
(Full review here)
Mess, 38 Amhurst Rd, Hackney E8
"Breakfast for two for just shy of a tenner - full marks for both, and happy tummies all round."
(Full review here)
Muratori, 162 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell EC1R
[Closed in early 2012] "I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast."
(Full review here)
Regency Cafe, 17-19 Regency St, Pimlico SW1P
"Explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness."
(Full review here)
The Uplands Cafe, 21 Upland Rd, East Dulwich SE22
"The kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?"
(Full review here)
The Walpole, 35 St Mary's Rd, Ealing W5
"A hearty, old-fashioned Full English."
(Full review here)
The Wapping Project, Wapping Wall, Wapping E1
"It was a good breakfast."
(Full review here)
York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, Camden Town NW1
"A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg…"
(Full review here)
Exactly five years have passed since a morning when – in no small part to stave off the need to get up, have a shower and do something useful – I logged onto a blogging website and wrote something rousing about how a semi-invented ‘we’ was incredibly passionate about breakfast. It was surprising that the ‘we’ became a self-fulfilling overblown claim: no less than 80 individuals have joined my mission to cut out the gristle of lazy and disdainful breakfast-serving with the simple fork of truth and the trusty knife of literary pretension.
Five years in seems like a fitting moment to do something new, and compile a list of some of the best breakfasts we’ve sampled along the way. For the sake of usefulness I’m only including places that (a) are still open and (b) I’m reasonably confident have maintained their standards. A big apology goes to Konstam, recently closed in what is a tragedy both personal and regional – they consistently served some of the finest breakfasts we’d encountered and we miss them very much.
Here is the list, in alphabetical order. As always, we apologise for the East London bias.
Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson St, Bethnal Green E2
"It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning."
(Full review here)
Caravan, 11-13 Exmouth Market, Clerkenwell EC1R
"The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot"
(Full review here)
Hawksmoor, 157 Commercial St, Spitalfields E1
"The very definition of an event breakfast."
(Full review here)
Mess, 38 Amhurst Rd, Hackney E8
"Breakfast for two for just shy of a tenner - full marks for both, and happy tummies all round."
(Full review here)
Muratori, 162 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell EC1R
[Closed in early 2012] "I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast."
(Full review here)
Regency Cafe, 17-19 Regency St, Pimlico SW1P
"Explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness."
(Full review here)
The Uplands Cafe, 21 Upland Rd, East Dulwich SE22
"The kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?"
(Full review here)
The Walpole, 35 St Mary's Rd, Ealing W5
"A hearty, old-fashioned Full English."
(Full review here)
The Wapping Project, Wapping Wall, Wapping E1
"It was a good breakfast."
(Full review here)
York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, Camden Town NW1
"A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg…"
(Full review here)
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