Lantana
13 Charlotte Place
Fitzrovia
London W1T 1SN
020 7637 3347
www.scramblingeggs.blogspot.com
by Blake Pudding
I’ll start with the food because the food is good. Lantana bills itself as a little bit of Australia in Fitrovia. By this they mean the new Australia of good coffee and Baz Luhrman rather than piss-poor lager and Paul Hogan. I ordered ricotta pancakes with baked fruit and yoghurt. This was pudding and an excellent pudding at that, with beautifully cooked pears and autumn berries. I was with John O’ Connell, regular breakfast companion and writer; he had smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. The eggs were properly scrambled, not mashed up omelette like you get in America, and the salmon tasted, according to John, organic. It came with delightfully fluffy bread and salad. Salad for breakfast? Only in the new Australia!
So modern is Lantana that there was a media presentation happening when we arrived so we had to wait outside. Once the media team had filed out in their flared jeans and flat brown shoes like 2nd division footballers on a night out we made to go in but John was stopped by the “terrible acoustic serenading” coming from within. The waitress asked if we were coming in, John said do you mind if we wait outside until the music was turned down. “You can do what you like mate,” replied our waitress sounding a bit like Alf from Home and Away.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Green and Fortune Cafe, Kings Cross
Green and Fortune Cafe
Kings Place
York Way
Kings Cross
N1 9AG
020 7014 2840
www.kingsplace.co.uk/food-drink/cafe
by Hashley Brown
Trout in the morning is not one of my usual breakfastly ambitions, but today the trout in question was lightly griddled into a set of variations by Franz Schubert, from his perky lieder Die Forelle. Served by the Schubert Ensemble this seems to be what they do for morning entertainment at Kings Cross's latest architectural triumph.
Let's take a step back. Kings Place, soon to be a new home to the Guardian and the London Sinfonietta amongst others, was having a bit of a party to celebrate its glass and steel entrance into the world. Packed full of art, music, restaurants and, well, liberal lefty office tenants, this is the new face of the arse-end of York Way, and by means of an introduction they were putting on 100 concerts in 5 days. Trotting down on the vélo, I'd picked a morning recital to experience the acoustics of the new halls and for a spot of Friday morning elevation before the first wearisome meeting of the day. I knew that the music would be impeccable, and had heard that the acoustics were sparkly, but what I hadn't banked on was the breakfast.
Green and Fortune is the umbrella corp set up to man the food decks for Kings Place, and their cafe sits prettily in a corner of the building's central atrium. The breakfast selection glistening on a hot-plate offered plump cumberland sausages and thick cut cumbrian bacon as well as a veggie flat mushroom and grilled tomato combo. Ever the glutton I combined the veggie option with the bacon and watched with glee as they split a fresh crusty roll and applied liberal amounts of real butter before cramming in the fillings. This was quite some roll, absolutely top notch ingredients that had suffered not one bit for sitting out on display. The nicely smoked bacon was rich in flavour, the mushroom was suitably earthy and the tomato, as well as exploding down my shirt, was grilled to a succulent softness. Capped with a dark brooding latte and coming in at just under a fiver, there really was no better way to prepare for the breakfast trout that followed.
Kings Place
York Way
Kings Cross
N1 9AG
020 7014 2840
www.kingsplace.co.uk/food-drink/cafe
by Hashley Brown
Trout in the morning is not one of my usual breakfastly ambitions, but today the trout in question was lightly griddled into a set of variations by Franz Schubert, from his perky lieder Die Forelle. Served by the Schubert Ensemble this seems to be what they do for morning entertainment at Kings Cross's latest architectural triumph.
Let's take a step back. Kings Place, soon to be a new home to the Guardian and the London Sinfonietta amongst others, was having a bit of a party to celebrate its glass and steel entrance into the world. Packed full of art, music, restaurants and, well, liberal lefty office tenants, this is the new face of the arse-end of York Way, and by means of an introduction they were putting on 100 concerts in 5 days. Trotting down on the vélo, I'd picked a morning recital to experience the acoustics of the new halls and for a spot of Friday morning elevation before the first wearisome meeting of the day. I knew that the music would be impeccable, and had heard that the acoustics were sparkly, but what I hadn't banked on was the breakfast.
Green and Fortune is the umbrella corp set up to man the food decks for Kings Place, and their cafe sits prettily in a corner of the building's central atrium. The breakfast selection glistening on a hot-plate offered plump cumberland sausages and thick cut cumbrian bacon as well as a veggie flat mushroom and grilled tomato combo. Ever the glutton I combined the veggie option with the bacon and watched with glee as they split a fresh crusty roll and applied liberal amounts of real butter before cramming in the fillings. This was quite some roll, absolutely top notch ingredients that had suffered not one bit for sitting out on display. The nicely smoked bacon was rich in flavour, the mushroom was suitably earthy and the tomato, as well as exploding down my shirt, was grilled to a succulent softness. Capped with a dark brooding latte and coming in at just under a fiver, there really was no better way to prepare for the breakfast trout that followed.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Jellystone Park, Pennsylvania, USA
Jellystone Park
P.O. Box 91
Mill Run, Pa. 15464
1-800-HEY-YOGI
www.jellystonemillrun.com
By T. N. Toost
We hadn’t planned on camping, much less at a Yogi Bear-themed campground. However, she had wanted to see Fallingwater, we’d arrived after it had shut and we were 200 miles from home. Camping was cheap and somehow made sense despite the fact that we didn’t have a tent or sleeping bags. Four hours, three lagers and a half-bottle of Boone’s Farm later, I was making out with a 23-year-old semi-crippled Kosovar architect on the roof of my car, denting it. We awoke in two extraordinarily uncomfortable positions.
I entered the restaurant while she made her face. A family large in number and girth ate in the middle of the room as Fox News blared on a 1980s colour television about Russia invading Georgia. I sat in the corner and suddenly realised that the fact that everything in the park was Yogi Bear-themed wasn’t the weird part – it was that all of the Yogi Bear-themed crap, from the bear in the corner to the gingham curtains, was decorated as if it was Halloween. In early August. Science fiction pretends that people suddenly thrust into new worlds find it difficult to adjust; really, we respond daily to absurd situations with remarkable adaptability. Weak coffee occupied my hands as I tried to focus and she limped in.
Three rubbery eggs, well-spiced, firm sausage, perfectly crisp hash browns, tinned mushrooms, green peppers, fresh tomato chunks, American cheese, wheat toast and grease formed the “mess.” At first, everything blended together grotesquely, but then I started to realise that the combination was actually perfectly balanced. The American cheese, which stuck to the roof of my mouth, could be scraped away by the potatoes, and the eggs, sub-par alone, were somehow excellent when wrapped intimately around the sausage. When I was done, a puddle of grease remained, fully coating the bottom of the plate. At $5.99, the mess was a steal.
We paid. Twenty minutes later, she slipped and fell in the water at Fallingwater, then spent four hours in my car in soaking jeans. When I dropped her off there was no goodbye kiss; instead I helped her with her crutches and watched her stumble into her apartment building. When she was safely inside, fifty metres and three layers of glass away, and I didn’t have to be self-conscious, I let out a long, satisfying fart and thought of Yogi, Cindy and Boo Boo.
P.O. Box 91
Mill Run, Pa. 15464
1-800-HEY-YOGI
www.jellystonemillrun.com
By T. N. Toost
We hadn’t planned on camping, much less at a Yogi Bear-themed campground. However, she had wanted to see Fallingwater, we’d arrived after it had shut and we were 200 miles from home. Camping was cheap and somehow made sense despite the fact that we didn’t have a tent or sleeping bags. Four hours, three lagers and a half-bottle of Boone’s Farm later, I was making out with a 23-year-old semi-crippled Kosovar architect on the roof of my car, denting it. We awoke in two extraordinarily uncomfortable positions.
I entered the restaurant while she made her face. A family large in number and girth ate in the middle of the room as Fox News blared on a 1980s colour television about Russia invading Georgia. I sat in the corner and suddenly realised that the fact that everything in the park was Yogi Bear-themed wasn’t the weird part – it was that all of the Yogi Bear-themed crap, from the bear in the corner to the gingham curtains, was decorated as if it was Halloween. In early August. Science fiction pretends that people suddenly thrust into new worlds find it difficult to adjust; really, we respond daily to absurd situations with remarkable adaptability. Weak coffee occupied my hands as I tried to focus and she limped in.
Three rubbery eggs, well-spiced, firm sausage, perfectly crisp hash browns, tinned mushrooms, green peppers, fresh tomato chunks, American cheese, wheat toast and grease formed the “mess.” At first, everything blended together grotesquely, but then I started to realise that the combination was actually perfectly balanced. The American cheese, which stuck to the roof of my mouth, could be scraped away by the potatoes, and the eggs, sub-par alone, were somehow excellent when wrapped intimately around the sausage. When I was done, a puddle of grease remained, fully coating the bottom of the plate. At $5.99, the mess was a steal.
We paid. Twenty minutes later, she slipped and fell in the water at Fallingwater, then spent four hours in my car in soaking jeans. When I dropped her off there was no goodbye kiss; instead I helped her with her crutches and watched her stumble into her apartment building. When she was safely inside, fifty metres and three layers of glass away, and I didn’t have to be self-conscious, I let out a long, satisfying fart and thought of Yogi, Cindy and Boo Boo.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Davy's Wine Bar, Fitzrovia
Davy’s Wine Bar
Euston Tower
283 Euston Rd
Fitzrovia
NW1 3DP
020 7387 6622
www.davy.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
I think most restaurateurs think that breakfast is easy. Just put a sign outside saying “now open for breakfast” and you can increase your profits without going to the trouble of paying for someone in kitchen. At least I assume that there was no one in the kitchen, if they were then they must have been purely decorative. No, instead I think that Davy’s, in an act of awesome cynicism towards its staff, employed two people to prepare the food and to serve. The unfortunate two ran around producing a lot of sweat, body odour and nervous smiles but not a lot of food.
When the food arrived it was horrible. Only scrambled egg was available so that it could be prepared in the microwave. It tasted like it had been made from a powder and rehydrated. All the food tasted pre-prepared and reheated. The mushrooms were grilled until they were as dry as porcinis. The toast was underdone, soggy and made from that bread that costs 10p a loaf and lasts a month. We had to ask for napkins, condiments, cutlery, butter, in fact everything you would need to make our revolting breakfast edible.
I know that Davy’s would respond that that there were two big groups in that morning – our group of 8 and another of 15 – but both of us had booked, the menu was very short and the two groups were the only customers. A competent cook in greasy spoon would have coped easily but then Davy’s were thinking only of the balance sheet. A memorandum to head office: do not offer breakfast if you’re not going to employ someone to cook it.
Euston Tower
283 Euston Rd
Fitzrovia
NW1 3DP
020 7387 6622
www.davy.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
I think most restaurateurs think that breakfast is easy. Just put a sign outside saying “now open for breakfast” and you can increase your profits without going to the trouble of paying for someone in kitchen. At least I assume that there was no one in the kitchen, if they were then they must have been purely decorative. No, instead I think that Davy’s, in an act of awesome cynicism towards its staff, employed two people to prepare the food and to serve. The unfortunate two ran around producing a lot of sweat, body odour and nervous smiles but not a lot of food.
When the food arrived it was horrible. Only scrambled egg was available so that it could be prepared in the microwave. It tasted like it had been made from a powder and rehydrated. All the food tasted pre-prepared and reheated. The mushrooms were grilled until they were as dry as porcinis. The toast was underdone, soggy and made from that bread that costs 10p a loaf and lasts a month. We had to ask for napkins, condiments, cutlery, butter, in fact everything you would need to make our revolting breakfast edible.
I know that Davy’s would respond that that there were two big groups in that morning – our group of 8 and another of 15 – but both of us had booked, the menu was very short and the two groups were the only customers. A competent cook in greasy spoon would have coped easily but then Davy’s were thinking only of the balance sheet. A memorandum to head office: do not offer breakfast if you’re not going to employ someone to cook it.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Breakfasts and Beds: Bailiffscourt Hotel & Spa, Climping, West Sussex
Bailiffscourt Hotel & Spa
Climping
West Sussex
BN17 5RW
T: +44 (0)1903 723511
by Cher E Jamm
Allow me to set the scene: a lovingly restored country hotel, manicured lawns, peacocks trotting around as if they own the place. Two infinity pools, a hot tub and more spa treatments than you can dream of. Our room is absolutely beautiful with a bathroom the size of your average London one-bedroom flat. S&T’s wedding was very special. Perfect, even.
We stumble to our room full of joy and gin and decide to give breakfast with everyone else a miss and order breakfast in bed. A romantic gesture we rarely have time to bother with in real life. I suspect this is where it went wrong. And so, at 9am, there is a knock at the door and a silver-domed tray is sitting at the end of the bed.
Three croissants sit in a napkin that has been origami’d into a basket. They are solid and empty at the same time, so burnt they’re crispy on the inside. No mini-jars of jam accompany them, just a sad looking pat of butter the size of a 10p coin. The fry up, if one is to call it that, consists of a cold, overcooked poached egg sitting aloft half a small mushroom, herbed breadcrumbs masquerading as a (cocktail) sausage and, surprisingly, the finest, crispiest, tastiest bacon the Jamms have ever squabbled over.
As we arrive in the breakfast room to join our friends three things become clear:
1) A hotel that is overstretched with a private function is not going to make sure that the annoying couple in Room 23 are going to get a decent spread. They have 150 guests to feed the morning after a night that finished at 5am.
2) If you order room service the morning after a friend's wedding instead of joining everyone else, you’re a total moron.
3) We’d missed the boat to breakfast bliss in the form of the Bailiffscourt buffet.
Climping
West Sussex
BN17 5RW
T: +44 (0)1903 723511
by Cher E Jamm
Allow me to set the scene: a lovingly restored country hotel, manicured lawns, peacocks trotting around as if they own the place. Two infinity pools, a hot tub and more spa treatments than you can dream of. Our room is absolutely beautiful with a bathroom the size of your average London one-bedroom flat. S&T’s wedding was very special. Perfect, even.
We stumble to our room full of joy and gin and decide to give breakfast with everyone else a miss and order breakfast in bed. A romantic gesture we rarely have time to bother with in real life. I suspect this is where it went wrong. And so, at 9am, there is a knock at the door and a silver-domed tray is sitting at the end of the bed.
Three croissants sit in a napkin that has been origami’d into a basket. They are solid and empty at the same time, so burnt they’re crispy on the inside. No mini-jars of jam accompany them, just a sad looking pat of butter the size of a 10p coin. The fry up, if one is to call it that, consists of a cold, overcooked poached egg sitting aloft half a small mushroom, herbed breadcrumbs masquerading as a (cocktail) sausage and, surprisingly, the finest, crispiest, tastiest bacon the Jamms have ever squabbled over.
As we arrive in the breakfast room to join our friends three things become clear:
1) A hotel that is overstretched with a private function is not going to make sure that the annoying couple in Room 23 are going to get a decent spread. They have 150 guests to feed the morning after a night that finished at 5am.
2) If you order room service the morning after a friend's wedding instead of joining everyone else, you’re a total moron.
3) We’d missed the boat to breakfast bliss in the form of the Bailiffscourt buffet.
Friday, October 03, 2008
J + A Cafe, Clerkenwell
J + A Cafe
4 Sutton Lane
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5PU
by Moose Lee
Now, I know that some of the LRB massive would argue that a bacon and egg sandwich is not sufficient evidence upon which to judge an entire establishment but, I believe, within this salty microcosm are all the good and bad habits upon which everything else is based.
Questions to ask your Bacon and Egg sandwich:
1) When they slice the sandwich in half (as they surely must) have they cut through the middle of the egg yolk?
The answer should be yes. No-one wants to discover that one half of their sandwich is all work, no play. For me, the yolk had been halved perfectly. The yellow ran in a gooey sunset amid the dark, perfectly crunchy bacon. They’d even made sure the bacon fat was properly cooked.
2) Is the bread the colour and texture of a cloud?
The answer should be yes and, again, yes. I knew they were professionals because, as I took my first bite, the bread retained my finger prints. It turns out J and A bake their own bread, which explains the delicious crusts that I used for wiping up spills.
3) Has it been given the right condiments?
In a world where perfection exists – thanks to Heinz and Daddy – it’s always a risk to go off-piste, condiment-wise. Here they gave me fantastic Tiptree sauces, both red and brown, to use at my discretion. Let me tell you, I abused their good will.
4) Finally, predictably, how much does it cost?
In this case, just over a fiver with a good cup of tea. That stung a little, but not so much that I won’t be back.
Other notes:
Having just recently opened, the staff of J and A Café have the lovely, gushing, slightly embarrassing kindness of a start-up business. They welcomed me warmly, sat me down, took my order promptly and happily let me borrow a pen to write my review on one of their napkins.
4 Sutton Lane
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5PU
by Moose Lee
Now, I know that some of the LRB massive would argue that a bacon and egg sandwich is not sufficient evidence upon which to judge an entire establishment but, I believe, within this salty microcosm are all the good and bad habits upon which everything else is based.
Questions to ask your Bacon and Egg sandwich:
1) When they slice the sandwich in half (as they surely must) have they cut through the middle of the egg yolk?
The answer should be yes. No-one wants to discover that one half of their sandwich is all work, no play. For me, the yolk had been halved perfectly. The yellow ran in a gooey sunset amid the dark, perfectly crunchy bacon. They’d even made sure the bacon fat was properly cooked.
2) Is the bread the colour and texture of a cloud?
The answer should be yes and, again, yes. I knew they were professionals because, as I took my first bite, the bread retained my finger prints. It turns out J and A bake their own bread, which explains the delicious crusts that I used for wiping up spills.
3) Has it been given the right condiments?
In a world where perfection exists – thanks to Heinz and Daddy – it’s always a risk to go off-piste, condiment-wise. Here they gave me fantastic Tiptree sauces, both red and brown, to use at my discretion. Let me tell you, I abused their good will.
4) Finally, predictably, how much does it cost?
In this case, just over a fiver with a good cup of tea. That stung a little, but not so much that I won’t be back.
Other notes:
Having just recently opened, the staff of J and A Café have the lovely, gushing, slightly embarrassing kindness of a start-up business. They welcomed me warmly, sat me down, took my order promptly and happily let me borrow a pen to write my review on one of their napkins.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Docklands Diner, Docklands
Docklands Diner
76 Cannon Drive
West India Dock
Docklands
E14 4AS
020 7515 7160
by Gracie Spoon
Docklands is an area of unsettling and awe-inspiring new. However, nooked amongst the dizzying glass, salt water smells and box fresh pavements, there are wisps of an East End past of 0171 phone codes and first name familiarity. The Docklands Diner is one such wisp.
Sepia-tinted formica tables with bolted-on plastic chairs, neat clusters of condiments and lace frills claim the 'classic caff' badge of identity. The numerous and very large St George’s flags stake out a different and more ambiguous territory. The five standard brunch options (ranging from £3.60 to £4.90) are served – school dinner style – from rectangular chrome vats behind a glass counter.
Being veggie, the brunches didn't quite match me, and I had some explaining to do. Neither hostile nor unhelpful, the response was nonetheless: “well I don’t know what’s veggie and what ain’t darling”. I attempted some direction. “Um, like, fried slice?” I suggested hopefully, with positive results. “Uh, hash browns? Maybe mushrooms?” I continued. By this point she was getting the idea: “What about tomatoes?”. “Yes. Brilliant. Yes”.
I settled down to an ample plate of promising grease. I wanted to love this breakfast. The retroist in me loved the feel of the place, and the anti-corporate in me saluted it for existing when so many of its comrades have fallen to the armies of advancing Starbucks and Prets. But the breakfast was awful. My coffee was so unremittingly wrong that I didn’t get past two sips. The hash browns, stiffened with age, were a particularly disturbing discovery, while the fried slice left me with a querulous stomach for some hours to come. The fried egg was passable, but had no strong supporting actors to interact with. The grilled tomato was the only real player, a moment of fresh, raw red in aged and overcooked company.
I tried to gain some measure of space from my toughened meal, with a gaze up and away, designed for the middle distance. Instead I found myself looking at photoshopped picture of the Sydney Opera House draped in another very large St George’s Flag. This, I don’t get. On many levels.
Perhaps, I wondered as I made a quick exit, perhaps if my inclinations were a little less vegetarian and a bit more colonial, I would have enjoyed my breakfast more. But as I passed the the impersonal glamour of the banker restaurants 200 metres away, and headed into the expensive shimmer of Canary Wharf, I couldn't help but feel that even if I hated my Diner experience, I'm glad its there to be had.
76 Cannon Drive
West India Dock
Docklands
E14 4AS
020 7515 7160
by Gracie Spoon
Docklands is an area of unsettling and awe-inspiring new. However, nooked amongst the dizzying glass, salt water smells and box fresh pavements, there are wisps of an East End past of 0171 phone codes and first name familiarity. The Docklands Diner is one such wisp.
Sepia-tinted formica tables with bolted-on plastic chairs, neat clusters of condiments and lace frills claim the 'classic caff' badge of identity. The numerous and very large St George’s flags stake out a different and more ambiguous territory. The five standard brunch options (ranging from £3.60 to £4.90) are served – school dinner style – from rectangular chrome vats behind a glass counter.
Being veggie, the brunches didn't quite match me, and I had some explaining to do. Neither hostile nor unhelpful, the response was nonetheless: “well I don’t know what’s veggie and what ain’t darling”. I attempted some direction. “Um, like, fried slice?” I suggested hopefully, with positive results. “Uh, hash browns? Maybe mushrooms?” I continued. By this point she was getting the idea: “What about tomatoes?”. “Yes. Brilliant. Yes”.
I settled down to an ample plate of promising grease. I wanted to love this breakfast. The retroist in me loved the feel of the place, and the anti-corporate in me saluted it for existing when so many of its comrades have fallen to the armies of advancing Starbucks and Prets. But the breakfast was awful. My coffee was so unremittingly wrong that I didn’t get past two sips. The hash browns, stiffened with age, were a particularly disturbing discovery, while the fried slice left me with a querulous stomach for some hours to come. The fried egg was passable, but had no strong supporting actors to interact with. The grilled tomato was the only real player, a moment of fresh, raw red in aged and overcooked company.
I tried to gain some measure of space from my toughened meal, with a gaze up and away, designed for the middle distance. Instead I found myself looking at photoshopped picture of the Sydney Opera House draped in another very large St George’s Flag. This, I don’t get. On many levels.
Perhaps, I wondered as I made a quick exit, perhaps if my inclinations were a little less vegetarian and a bit more colonial, I would have enjoyed my breakfast more. But as I passed the the impersonal glamour of the banker restaurants 200 metres away, and headed into the expensive shimmer of Canary Wharf, I couldn't help but feel that even if I hated my Diner experience, I'm glad its there to be had.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Op-Egg: The Credit Brunch
by Cher E Jamm
We live in frugal times my friends, and it is in times like these that we must band together. It is the time to become stoic. A time to remember the tales our grandparents regaled us with, of rations and reuse.
Credit Crunch is a phrase that has become synonymous with our daily lives. At every turn apocalyptic headlines herald the end of our credit-frenzied existence. No more credit cards, mortgages, personal loans. Frivolity is now frowned upon.
It is time, good people, to shun lunches and dinners at restaurants, and, dare I say it, resurrect brunch. Later than breakfast, and earlier than lunch, brunch lives in that grey area we all too often fill with cups of tea and biscuits (or in my case, a cheeky second croissant) in the run up to 1pm. But what waste! Brunch is where you can have breakfast and lunch at the same time, thereby saving on two meals by rolling them into one. Brunch is where you can have a Full English or Fish and Chips or quite possibly both and still not be singled out for being a pig. Brunch is the future.
All our favourite caffs still serve food at brunchtime, so you can still enjoy your usual fare at the usual price and give two fingers to Pret-a-Manger at lunchtime, or better still, why not cook it yourself? Invite some friends round and get every person attending to bring one breakfast ingredient – bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, and toast – even black pudding if you’re feelin’ fancy. What a lovely way to start the day - friends, brunch and a chin-wag before setting off to work. And if you’re a little bit late into the office, just explain – with a nod to Gordon Brown – that it’s economic factors outside your control that have made you late.
A recession does not have to mean the end of the world as we know it. Many things are born out of hardship – art thrives in difficult times. It gives musicians something to sing about, painters something to, erm, paint about and writers something to write about. It reminds us what is important and teaches us there is more to life than living beyond our means. It is a time when we should turn to our fellow human and ask: fancy a spot of brunch?
We live in frugal times my friends, and it is in times like these that we must band together. It is the time to become stoic. A time to remember the tales our grandparents regaled us with, of rations and reuse.
Credit Crunch is a phrase that has become synonymous with our daily lives. At every turn apocalyptic headlines herald the end of our credit-frenzied existence. No more credit cards, mortgages, personal loans. Frivolity is now frowned upon.
It is time, good people, to shun lunches and dinners at restaurants, and, dare I say it, resurrect brunch. Later than breakfast, and earlier than lunch, brunch lives in that grey area we all too often fill with cups of tea and biscuits (or in my case, a cheeky second croissant) in the run up to 1pm. But what waste! Brunch is where you can have breakfast and lunch at the same time, thereby saving on two meals by rolling them into one. Brunch is where you can have a Full English or Fish and Chips or quite possibly both and still not be singled out for being a pig. Brunch is the future.
All our favourite caffs still serve food at brunchtime, so you can still enjoy your usual fare at the usual price and give two fingers to Pret-a-Manger at lunchtime, or better still, why not cook it yourself? Invite some friends round and get every person attending to bring one breakfast ingredient – bacon, eggs, sausage, beans, and toast – even black pudding if you’re feelin’ fancy. What a lovely way to start the day - friends, brunch and a chin-wag before setting off to work. And if you’re a little bit late into the office, just explain – with a nod to Gordon Brown – that it’s economic factors outside your control that have made you late.
A recession does not have to mean the end of the world as we know it. Many things are born out of hardship – art thrives in difficult times. It gives musicians something to sing about, painters something to, erm, paint about and writers something to write about. It reminds us what is important and teaches us there is more to life than living beyond our means. It is a time when we should turn to our fellow human and ask: fancy a spot of brunch?
Monday, September 22, 2008
myhotel, Bloomsbury
myhotel
11-13 Bayley St
Bedford Square
Bloomsbury
WC1B 3HD
020 3004 6000
www.myhotels.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
Some readers may have noted the sudden outbreak of breakfast specials across the some newspapers and magazines earlier this year. The Guardian ran extracts from the LRB, though rather spoilt it by turning their noses up at our secret identities. The Independent and Observer Food Monthly also did supplements but Time Out outdid them all with an innovative and iconic piece about breakfasting circumstances written by me. Unlike Malcolm Eggs they actually paid in real money so I decided to take out the beautiful and in many ways godlike Rachel Halliburton who commissioned the piece in the hope that she would make me a regular columnist.
We went to myhotel just off Tottenham Court Road. I walked in and my mind started thinking of how I could get myself worked up into a lather about the lower case lettering and the mission statements but the food was so good and of such good value that I don’t have space. Rachel had the bread basket which contained croissant, baguettes, pain au chocolat, rye bread - in fact enough grain-based fun to feed 2 or 3 for £4. One of the eggs in my eggs Benedict was cooked perfectly whilst the other was a little on the hard side but the hollandaise, ham and muffins were perky enough. A special mention should go to the orange juice which tasted as if there was a portal to Seville located in the juicing machine. myhotel itself has no discernable character and already looks dated despite having only been open for 4 years. We sat outside, soaked up the rare morning sunshine and enjoyed our breakfast. The column, alas, is still yet to materialise.
11-13 Bayley St
Bedford Square
Bloomsbury
WC1B 3HD
020 3004 6000
www.myhotels.co.uk
by Blake Pudding
Some readers may have noted the sudden outbreak of breakfast specials across the some newspapers and magazines earlier this year. The Guardian ran extracts from the LRB, though rather spoilt it by turning their noses up at our secret identities. The Independent and Observer Food Monthly also did supplements but Time Out outdid them all with an innovative and iconic piece about breakfasting circumstances written by me. Unlike Malcolm Eggs they actually paid in real money so I decided to take out the beautiful and in many ways godlike Rachel Halliburton who commissioned the piece in the hope that she would make me a regular columnist.
We went to myhotel just off Tottenham Court Road. I walked in and my mind started thinking of how I could get myself worked up into a lather about the lower case lettering and the mission statements but the food was so good and of such good value that I don’t have space. Rachel had the bread basket which contained croissant, baguettes, pain au chocolat, rye bread - in fact enough grain-based fun to feed 2 or 3 for £4. One of the eggs in my eggs Benedict was cooked perfectly whilst the other was a little on the hard side but the hollandaise, ham and muffins were perky enough. A special mention should go to the orange juice which tasted as if there was a portal to Seville located in the juicing machine. myhotel itself has no discernable character and already looks dated despite having only been open for 4 years. We sat outside, soaked up the rare morning sunshine and enjoyed our breakfast. The column, alas, is still yet to materialise.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Breakfasts and Beds: Pentower, Fishguard, Pembrokeshire
Pentower
Tower Hill
Fishguard
Pembrokeshire
SA65 9LA
01348 874 462
by Egon Toast
In the distance, the ferries inched across the glassy Irish sea. Sat in a voluminous armchair in a quiet, turreted suite, up in a corner of this elegantly proportioned hillside retreat, I chortled smugly to myself: my ship, too, had finally come in. A sharp Easter sunshine had brought excitement such as to lift us from bed at a good hour. So it was that I and Ms Toast, my freshly betrothed, descended the oak-panelled staircase to breakfast a good 30 minutes before purported last orders, a first in our books.
Bare feet on cool, emerald tiles made their way to the wicker chairs in the dining room's enclosed verandah. We were swiftly overrun by Pentower's small squadron of cats. Binoculars to hand, I scoured the view laid out in front of me. A small seaside port waking up for the weekend; not a breath of wind to ruffle the scene. Kittiwakes wheeled over cliffs, while enigmatic breaks in the smooth surface of the harbour's waters had me seeking out seals' snouts, or a dolphin's fin.
A few more minutes' idling before our gracious hostess, Mary, arrived with a cafetière and a wicker basket full of toast. We took our seats at the sleek, sturdy dining table and began to graze, eyes ever drawn to the marvellous view encompassing the clefts and outcrops surrounding Fishguard harbour, and beyond to the horizon. On the dresser lay myriad pamphlets and brochures; I resisted the urge to input. The day had begun in too civilised a fashion to descend into sunken-headed silence.
Shortly, the main event was presented: two handsomely-sized plates of early-morning joy. Buttery, golden-hued scrambled eggs lay nestled beneath swathes of smoked salmon. One or two frisks of the pepper grinder, a squidge of quartered lemon, and life was complete. Although never too complete to resist further cups of coffee, oh, and possibly some more toasted granary to go with that alluring pot of homemade marmalade. Actually, these were not requested; rather, suggested. A fine, considerate hostess, alive to the needs of her greedy guests.
Such a quietly decadent spot. In Fishguard, too - who'd have thought it?
Tower Hill
Fishguard
Pembrokeshire
SA65 9LA
01348 874 462
by Egon Toast
In the distance, the ferries inched across the glassy Irish sea. Sat in a voluminous armchair in a quiet, turreted suite, up in a corner of this elegantly proportioned hillside retreat, I chortled smugly to myself: my ship, too, had finally come in. A sharp Easter sunshine had brought excitement such as to lift us from bed at a good hour. So it was that I and Ms Toast, my freshly betrothed, descended the oak-panelled staircase to breakfast a good 30 minutes before purported last orders, a first in our books.
Bare feet on cool, emerald tiles made their way to the wicker chairs in the dining room's enclosed verandah. We were swiftly overrun by Pentower's small squadron of cats. Binoculars to hand, I scoured the view laid out in front of me. A small seaside port waking up for the weekend; not a breath of wind to ruffle the scene. Kittiwakes wheeled over cliffs, while enigmatic breaks in the smooth surface of the harbour's waters had me seeking out seals' snouts, or a dolphin's fin.
A few more minutes' idling before our gracious hostess, Mary, arrived with a cafetière and a wicker basket full of toast. We took our seats at the sleek, sturdy dining table and began to graze, eyes ever drawn to the marvellous view encompassing the clefts and outcrops surrounding Fishguard harbour, and beyond to the horizon. On the dresser lay myriad pamphlets and brochures; I resisted the urge to input. The day had begun in too civilised a fashion to descend into sunken-headed silence.
Shortly, the main event was presented: two handsomely-sized plates of early-morning joy. Buttery, golden-hued scrambled eggs lay nestled beneath swathes of smoked salmon. One or two frisks of the pepper grinder, a squidge of quartered lemon, and life was complete. Although never too complete to resist further cups of coffee, oh, and possibly some more toasted granary to go with that alluring pot of homemade marmalade. Actually, these were not requested; rather, suggested. A fine, considerate hostess, alive to the needs of her greedy guests.
Such a quietly decadent spot. In Fishguard, too - who'd have thought it?
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