Fortess Cafe Restaurant, Tufnell Park

Fortess Cafe Restaurant
122 Fortess Road
Tufnell Park
NW5 2HL
[Street view]

by Nelson Griddle

Greasy spoons, in my experience, come in two varieties: there are Harolds and there are Alberts.

These two categories derive, of course, from the two Steptoes of the TV sitcom. Harold, the son, is undoubtedly on the rough and ready side, but possesses a certain debonair charm, a puppyish enthusiasm. Greasy spoons of the Harold variety try to make you feel comfortable. They have aspirations - like serving cappuccinos or sandwiches made on ciabatta.

Alberts, meanwhile, are determined to stay as they are, however grim and impoverished that might be. Echoing some innate stubbornness in the British character, they almost seem to revel in their status at the bottom of the pile.

Such cafes are the gathering places of the dispossessed and unhinged of the earth. The semi-legendary Rock Steady Eddie’s in Camberwell is a good example - containing on an average morning more loonies than a scene of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Alberts nurse the misfortunes of their customers. They offer no consolation but the consolation of despair. In short, they are depressing, and often not terribly clean.

Fortess is one of the London’s Alberts. The food is average greasy-spoon fare. Nothing about the set breakfast I order is particularly bad (or good). But what marks the place out as an Albert is the unmistakable atmosphere. Despite walls painted heavy red and actually quite friendly service, there’s something comfortless and vaguely Soviet about the place. You feel as though you could be in hospital or prison.

Maybe it’s the insufficient lighting, which makes the main eating area feel gloomy and cavernous. Or perhaps it’s the long, cold, peeling corridor that leads to the none-too-clean toilet. Then again, it could be the condensation, which mists the plate-glass frontage of the café and trickles down endlessly, seeming to whisper to each and every passerby: “I am an Albert... All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”

Pastis, New York

Pastis
9 9th Ave
New York, NY 10014
USA
+1 212-929-4844

by Emma Ricano

Three months trawling LA casting circuit (see Dottie's True Blue Cafe) and no work to show for it. Agent says economy is hindering chances for young actresses but that I should update my Michael Bolton haircut first. No dice, I say, has taken me ages to foster that look. Occurs to me that maybe I was put on God’s Green Earth to procreate rather than earn a dime; read in Grazia that Angelina Jolie is looking for pad in NYC's Meatpacking District so I head over to the East Coast to mine her for information on How to Create the Perfect Family, Step 1.

Collar an undernourished Manhattanite dressed in hip acid colours and beg to be told where people like Angie and the SATC girls hang. He points me in the direction of Pastis, whose plain yet stylish exterior plus cobbles are matchy-matchy with Grazia article. Bingo.

Staff friendly and helpful, particularly when seating me in far corner after I decline their offer to stow my high-vis jerkin and hat. Notice that clientele are all dressed in slim black cigarette pants and worry that Angie might not be let in wearing pregnancy kaftan.

Drink huge bowl of excellent, strong milky coffee to remain alert for her arrival.  Disregard light dishes clearly designed for celebs e.g. omelette aux fines herbes and head straight for a carbo rocket: brioche French toast with maple syrup. Knock back a freshly squeezed orange juice (essential to dose up on the vitamins necessary to prepare body for birth and/or adoption) then remove high vis gloves to applaud arrival of breakfast plate, a gravy boat of colourful seasonal fruits and two pieces of brioche so large and angular I worry how anyone without a gob the size of a truck will manage. Feel sure Angie would help me out if she were here but in her absence I carve off hefty chunks of what turns out to be light and eggy heaven dosed liberally with maple syrup and powdered sugar. The accompanying fresh fruits take the edge off the sweetness and I relax back to enjoy food high.

Half an hour later I come crashing down and start searching menu desperately for further fix, like side of bacon, pastry or house specialty, tartine. In the end I plump for a glass of champagne which emboldens me for some crucial groundwork ahead; must attract mate if I am to procreate so suggestively wink at likely looking gents. Ten minutes later kindly waiter approaches with eye drops and the bill. Engage him in conversation over excellent quality of breakfast and discover he is big fan of Michael Bolton.

The Brill Restaurant and Cellar Bar, King's Cross

The Brill Restaurant and Cellar Bar
Omega Place
6-8 Caledonian Road
King's Cross
N1 9DT

by Salmon de Beauvoir

On my left there’s the psychotically painted façade of Tony’s Hemp Corner. On my right, the boarded-up windows and doors of The Flying Scotsman: strip-pub. This is the unlikely location of The Brill, a sophisticated-looking British eatery on Cally road, close to King’s Cross.

Everything’s beige and demure – and clean, which is ultimately why I go in (they also boast a dedicated breakfast/brunch menu). As the nervously smiling eastern European waitress shows me to a table (quelle elegance!), I approvingly note the artwork: watercolours of fish on plates. It’s not worth writing home about in any way, but it nicely counteracts the rather stiff atmosphere. Everywhere, couples sit quietly and obediently and wait for their food, which, let me tell you, is quite a wait. My companion comments that this bodes well, that a full English should take time to prepare.

Just as I start contemplating the disparity between this place’s deçor and its low prices (£4.50 for salmon and scrambled, £5.50 for full English) the food arrives. Aha! The Brill have aped the formula of the nearby St Pancras Champagne Bar: tiny bits of chopped-up smoked salmon nearly disappearing in a nightmare of overcooked scrambled eggs. Nothing stays together on my plate and the low price is suddenly explained. My companion's full English is “reasonable” – for the price, and for what you ordinarily get in London, but I feel like I was led to believe there’d be at least ‘Taste the Difference’-standard sausages, or slices of dense, “it’s-my-Polish-gran’s-recipe” bread. The absence of the advertised fried bread only makes matters worse. I wish I could tell you that their chrome espresso machine delivers something to savour, but alas, the cappuccino is some kind of mini Lait Russe.

It seems as if the owners spent all their money on the bohemian yellowy glass jars containing candles so could only afford to offer an uninteresting breakfast. I feel quite let down. From the waitress’ smile, the watermarked menu paper and the splendid name, I’d simply expected more. The old proverb has been proved right yet again; don’t judge a brekkie joint by the decorative mini trees flanking its entrance.

Oh, and they didn’t have any pastries... Scandal.

Cafe & Grill, Camden Town

Café & Grill
19 Kentish Town Road
Camden Town
NW1 8NH

by Nelson Griddle

Quite what made me decide on a full English breakfast baguette, I’m not quite sure, but almost immediately I came to regret the decision.

The meal started well enough. Café & Grill, a little eaterie that has sprung up like a daffodil between the British Boot Company and the United Reformed Church on Kentish Town Road, was bright and clean and smart - well, for Camden, anyway.

Décor-wise, it sported a couple of those mystifying photographs of central London with absolutely no one around (At what time of the day or night, I wonder, is Piccadilly Circus completely deserted? How do they do it - photoshop?) The waitress was certainly very pretty even if her command of English didn’t extend to being able to explain the ingredients of the breakfast baguette.

Not that she was concealing any wonderful secrets. The baguette, it turned out, contained that breakfast Holy Trinity of bacon, egg and sausage. But the bacon was under-done, the egg rubbery, the sausage bland. Even the bread was under-par: like all English attempts at baguettes, it failed to attain the crisp, celestial lightness of true French bread.

But ultimately I cannot just blame poor ingredients or execution. At the best of times the breakfast sandwich is a dubious institution. There’s something about stuffing the manifold ingredients of an English breakfast (all of which should be savoured alone or in carefully considered conjunction) into a bready bun that’s unnatural, uncalled for; strange and depraved.

Yet no one had forced this upon me. It was a calamity I had brought upon myself. I had tempted the gods, and got my come-uppance: a breakfasting tragedy of Sophoclean proportions.

Acorn House, King's Cross

Acorn House
69 Swinton Street
King's Cross
WC1X 9NT
0207 812 1842
www.acornhouserestaurant.com

by Blake Pudding

“You’re not going to bore us about organic food this year are you?” Stephen Fry-Up asked me over late night sherrys. “It’s just a bit dull you banging your anti-organic, anti- ethical drum. It makes you sound like James Delingpole.*”

This drunken, nearly-forgotten conversation jumped into my consciousness as I waited for Ian Tucker from the Observer for I was sitting in the non plus ultra of ethical restaurants, Acorn House. It would be too easy and, yes Stephen, dull to take pot shots at the worthiness of this place so I am going to review it on the food, service and general ambience alone.

The place was nearly empty but the food was not forward in coming forwards. This hiatus was quickly explained by the presence of a camera and lighting crew in the kitchen filming near-celebrity head chef Arthur Potts-Dawson going about his morning routine. At one point APD himself came over and tried very forcefully to give us the wrong breakfasts before scuttling back to his media career. When the right breakfasts did appear they were lovely. The scrambled egg was impossibly rich and, well, eggy. They tasted like they had been laid by the happiest, most attractive hens in Hackney and then rushed to King’s Cross by bicycle courier. The bacon was meaty but very salty. The bread was unremarkable.

Ian was a bit disappointed by the blandness of the interior. He was hoping for something a bit more wattle and daub but I suppose you don’t want to scare away the non-environmentalists. Having had lunch here a few times, I can vouch for the deliciousness of the ingredients and the generally high standards in the kitchen. It isn’t cheap but considering all the hand-wringing and head-scratching that goes into every morsel, neither is it very expensive.

*James Delingpole is a novelist and columnist for the Spectator. Despite being youngish and into rock n’ roll he is also quite right wing.

Little Chef, Popham, Hampshire

Little Chef
A303 Popham Services
Micheldever
Winchester
Hampshire
SO21 3LP
01256 398490
www.littlechef.co.uk
Open from 7am

by Shreddie Kruger

What better way to start Valentine’s Day than to wake up at 5.30am and drive for two hours before dawn to a service station, where two other couples are meeting you for breakfast?

We arrived giddy with childish enthusiasm. Insanely charming Little Chef artwork in each of the parking bays had us smitten before we even got out of the car park.

When we got inside, things went from good to great. In an homage to Michelangelo on the one hand, and as a piss take of the prat in charge of Little Chef on the other, the ceiling tiles are painted to look like the sky. Other strokes of ingenuity include singing toilets, with tiles that offer up nuggets of cooking advice such as “use salt to take away bitterness, not sugar”. Who needs cookbooks when you’ve got... tiles?

With our team of 6 we divided and conquered. Girls gave thumbs up to omelettes, porridge, yoghurt, bacon sandwiches and scrambled eggs, even if they were a bit rubbery.

Boys manfully tackled the Olympic breakfast. We’d all opted for beans over tomatoes so when our heaving plates arrived with tomatoes balanced on the side we felt miffed. We politely murmured a complaint but were told we were wrong. Oddly this matronly service was brilliantly comforting.

Bacon was the perfect thickness and crispiness. We nodded approval at the thyme-infused mushrooms and sherry vinegar-anointed fried eggs, which poured out their yolky hearts like a kiss and tell whore having dinner with Max Clifford. Crisp toast, sliced from a fresh bloomer, mopped up their filthy stories with aplomb. Black pudding was a triumph. All was going so well.

Until sausagegate. Anaemic and grey, they tasted of the manufacturing rather than the pork. And we soon discovered the ketchup wasn’t from Heinz. Some raving psychopath had switched it for something with the acidic burn of battery acid and sweet kick of treacle. Predictably, our unwanted tomato was a let down too.

Putting sausage, tomato and ketchup mishaps to one side, however, this was a fine start to a great day. Because this was always more than just about breakfast. This was about hope. This is a new dawn for both Little Chef and - hopefully - the country as a whole. If somewhere as bad as Little Chef can turn itself around… then surely we can get Mighty Blighty back on track. All we need is a bad brief, some “blue sky thinking” and Heston Blumenthal’s genius. Who’s in?

Morrisons Café, Scunthorpe

Morrisons Café
Lakeside Parkway
Scunthorpe
DN16 3UA
01724 289212
www.morrisons.co.uk

by Hamish Pastry

A breakfast review, after Hardy and then Welsh.

The Knaptons are a noble pea farming family from the fertile fields of North Lincolnshire. The Munnerys made their name as the finest greengrocers in West Wittering. And so the fortuitous match of the only Knapton daughter and Munnery son was destined to bear wonderful fruit. And veg.

The wedding breakfast was an uproarious affair. Wine and ale flowed freely. And the guests dined on the very best local beef.

Two guests in particular – one Hamish Pastry and his flaxen-haired companion – made especially merry. As the next morning’s fierce winter sun awoke the two revellers in their modest lodgings, thoughts of breakfast and painkillers crept into their sodden brains.

We drive around deserted streets, looking for a greasy spoon. A pub. Anything. But there’s nothing. Until Scunthorpe.

“We can’t have breakfast in Morrisons. Scunthorpe f*cking Morrisons,” she says.

“There’s nowhere else,” I say. “Get out of the f*cking car.”

Inside, dismal pensioners eat sludgy Sunday roasts. At 11.30 in the morning. There are shell suits everywhere. Shell suits in 2009. WTF? We order full English. It’s cheap. We soon see why.

Slimy mushrooms rub flabby shoulders with sallow bacon. Fried bread oozes deathly yellow oil. I eat. She eats. She retches. Like a cat with a hairball. I fetch a paper cup. She spews bile and grease into it.

“Sh*t,” I say.

Albion, Shoreditch

Albion
2-4 Boundary St
Shoreditch
E1 7JE
020 7729 1051
www.albioncaff.co.uk

by Moose Lee

The front half of Albion is a deli and bakery – the walls are stacked with iconic brands – Heinz, Colman’s, Yorkshire Tea – and there’s bread boards covered with Chelsea buns, pork pies and sausage rolls. This area – which you walk through to get seated – acts as a kind of portal of nostalgia into an idealised version of the British cafe.

It’s a place where tea comes in big brown pots, each with a knitted tea-cosy. There’s bread and butter on every table. There’s white-tiled walls, an open kitchen and canteen-style seating.

I ordered the Albion Breakfast which, at just under a tenner, is not a bad deal. I got to choose how I’d like my egg. I thought I’d challenge them and ask for scrambled – not an easy thing to get right, on the quick – but they did a fantastic job, walking the runny/firm tightrope with aplomb. The sausages – although not brilliant – were a world away from the terrifying Frankensnags that come with the average fry up. The black pudding was perfectly oaty and crumbly, though it could have been twice as big. The only thing that really burst my bubble was the bubble and squeak. It tasted like baby food, little squidgy bits of carrot in the potato.

The atmosphere is lovely and the staff are relaxed and chatty; our friendly Aussie waiter sat at the table to take our order. It does get very busy on weekends, so best to try and get in there midweek. Albion (and Boundary – the restaurant downstairs) are owned by Terence Conran, which explains why the café has a Maitre D’. He seemed a little out of place, snooping around among the hungover trendies. That’s one thing that separates this place from your traditional greasy spoon: the clientele. One customer’s black glasses were so thick-rimmed and his moustache so prominent, that I thought at first he was wearing a rudimentary disguise.

Op-Egg: How to Be a Vegan at Breakfast

by La Soya Jackson

A lone organism navigates a hostile world, every circumstance threatens its survival... trust none but yourself, act fast, think faster... 'Eat me' reads the label on the bran and blueberry muffin... what harm can one small bite do?

Don't make the mistake of thinking that a vegetarian and a vegan are in any way alike. They are as different as black pudding and marmalade. A vegan demands to read the box the vegetarian sausage came in, needs you to remember not to spread flora on their toast, requires their mushrooms to be fried in a different pan from the other mushrooms (which you're lovingly sautéing in butter and fresh parsley). A vegan cannot be fobbed off with an extra egg. But the most important and crucial thing is that a vegan will not under any circumstances be satisfied with fruit (or muesli).

A vegan has been through an extreme and sometimes violent reprogramming process, has been unplugged from the matrix of breakfast enjoyment. The temptation and magic they used to feel is a distant memory (with unpleasant connotations). A piece of over-processed tofu impregnated with natural beetroot colouring and cut into the shape of a 'bacon rasher' is not what they seek. They aren't trying to simulate a meat/dairy experience: they are creating their own new universe. Above all of the vegan's survival skills the most crucial is the ability to read beyond the menu.

That and communication.

At first communication will be a highly traumatic experience for the vegan and all those who have the misfortune to breakfast with them. Embarrassing stand offs over soya milk, politically offensive claims to debilitating allergies, over-complicated descriptions about the rainforests, animal liberation and offsetting your carbon emissions, tears, apologies, regrets. Singularly any of these will curdle good porridge and an inexperienced breakfasting vegan may face all in the one sitting.

Fortunately this phase doesn't last for long. A vegan soon learns to stand on their own wobbly gelatine-free jelly legs and embark on the experimental delights which lie between choices three and four on the specials board. The dining car is serving breakfast, the train is ready for boarding, please go to platform 9¾.

Vegan breakfast ordering is an art. It requires subtle but firm precision, gentle manipulation, and incredible foresight. A Vegan requires an expert insight into the mind of the chef, the ability to freeze time, telepathic powers, conflict resolution training, practice, perseverance and commitment.

So begin by drawing a circle around your table. Use ground pepper if it's available - ketchup will do otherwise. Summon the five sacred animal friends, the spirit guides which will accompany you through the choices you will face, carefully arrange your cutlery in the shape of a five pointed star and form the likeness of your spirit companions in salt at each magical tip.

When the waiter approaches don't ever declare yourself as a vegan. They won't understand, they will try to give you fish or refuse to give you toast. Begin as if everything is going to be very straightforward... order the vegetarian breakfast then take a deep breath. State clearly that you don't want an egg. If this goes well you can move on to tell them casually that you don't eat dairy products, inquisitively ask if they cook the mushrooms in butter, oil or dry fry, and if the answer is butter ask cautiously if they could possibly cook them in oil for you. All good? Now go for the big ask... They most certainly won't know if the vegetarian sausages contain eggs or dairy, but approach the question as if they will. When they look at you as if you'd just asked them to lay the egg, remain centred, repeat some deep breaths and return the exact same gaze. Normally this works but if nothing happens, ask if they could go and check with the chef.

When they return you're on the home straight. Firmly tell them you don't want any butter on your toast (avoid any conversation about margarine, they rarely have a tub of omega 3 linseed spread out back). Now just before they walk away, if you're feeling really lucky, go for it! Smiling appreciatively ask if they could possibly provide you with a little olive oil on the side.

A job well done, treat yourself to a decaf soya latte. Go on, be a devil and have a brown sugar in that. Now sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labour. The new world order is about to arrive.

McDonald's, Painesville, Ohio, USA

McDonald’s
95 Richmond St
Painesville
OH 44077
USA
www.mcdonalds.com

by T.N. Toost

I wept. It started when McCain gave his concession speech, far more gracious and mature than Hillary had been. Then, Barack strode to the podium, with the strong set behind him, Leni’s spotlights rising above the perfect flags, his words of victory passionate and portioned and pure, raucous, crazed crowds chanting the same words over and over again. My girlfriend, who is not a citizen and could not vote, held my hand while her sister, who is a citizen and did not vote, sat across the table and watched. The bar broke out in cheers at certain points; it was pseudo-revolutionary, after eight years of oppression by the Republicans, to suddenly find ourselves so totally in control of the government. There were tears, passionate embraces between absolute strangers and gangs of youth running down the street cheering.

I wondered if the rest of the world felt the same way.

The next morning I drove to Painesville, an economically depressed area in northeast Ohio, and parked between two massive trucks – a Chevy and a Ford, both loaded with some manner of construction gear and both beds higher than the roof of my car. Small groups of old people clustered around, but then it seemed they always did that out here. I walked in and was clearly the youngest person in the room and the only one in slacks and a button-up shirt. There was camouflage, there were grease-stained jeans and paint-stained boots, there was a tiny girl just learning to walk and smile at strangers. I walked to the counter and waited in line – waited for the voices to rise, for indignation, for violent political denouncements and vows of revenge, for my chance to order.

The menu was the same. Number Two had one sausage McMuffin, one hash brown and a small coffee. I’d been craving a McMuffin since the previous Friday, when I had actually driven to Chicago and stood near Grant Park; it was perfect. The English muffin was chewy, the sausage spiced and the egg actually tasted real and substantial. The hash brown was still way too salty; the coffee, with two creams and two sugars, was still coffee with two creams and two sugars. Low, indecipherable music hummed in the background and voices were subdued.

When I got into the office, the manager was haranguing a secretary about how Obama would raise the estate tax at the first opportunity, and a paralegal was talking to the only Muslim employee about how a Muslim was elected because of the “backward hillbilly” vote. (She didn’t know he was Muslim.) Then I looked at my McDonald’s receipt; a notice at the top said that they’re hiring for all shifts. It seems that the poor, and the ignorant, will always be with us – and that they will also always have jobs, and opinions, and the same right to vote as every other citizen. In short, despite all of the challenges of our time, our democracy will continue.