Cafe Aion
1235 Pennsylvania Avenue
Boulder, CO 80302-7095
United States
(303) 993-8131
www.cafeaion.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Boulder is one of America’s most interesting cities: like an experimental new age version of America. It’s nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, a 40 minute drive from Denver which is known as Mile High City because of a stratospheric altitude that makes everything just a little bit tiring. Outdoor sports zealots mix with Colorado University students and hippies by the hemp sack-load. Walking around the immaculately clean streets meanwhile it’s not hard to imagine what it was like back in the days of real horsepower and saloon bars. Locals have to be careful of the wildlife that roams around town: dogs frequently get snatched by mountain lions and it’s very common to see deer stretching their legs around the leafier areas of town.
Whilst Boulder feels so different from mainstream America, thankfully it still excels at brunch. Only in America could you get away with eating braised short ribs first thing in the morning. At newly opened Café Aion, near Boulder’s University of Colorado campus, they serve them with shoe string fries and poached eggs on their sunny terrace. You eat and you watch a view of the Flat Iron Mountains, changing colour like a chameleon snoozing in front of a disco light. It makes you want to do a Paddington Bear and bottle the combination in a jam jar.
The short ribs were braised until tender and then grilled to add some charry flavour. The succulent meat was a perfect foil for the flawlessly poached eggs. But the shoe string fries were so thin and crispy that they were impossible to grapple with. Each time you tried to spear them with your fork they splintered into tinier and tinier pieces of carbo-shrapnel. Forget about any yolk absorbtion.
A bowl of granola, yoghurt and Moroccan stewed fruit made us feel more healthy whilst a Bellini cocktail seemed rude to refuse and let us linger for longer as we watched the natives of Boulder go about their lives: students tried to break into a car that had been abandoned in the middle of a main road; runners eased down the hill and struggled on the way back up; Enormous SUVs with tyres the size of Denver rumbled past like earthquakes on wheels; and sprinklings of aspiring writers tapped away at laptops no doubt watching us watching them in a seemingly infinite regression of observation.
Café Aion’s brunch was first class. It’s rare to find such an interesting menu, graced with a range of dishes you hardly ever see at breakfast time. And it’s worth a visit for the short ribs alone.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Campania Gastronomia, Shoreditch
Campania Gastronomia
95 Columbia Rd
Shoreditch
E2 7RG
020 7613 0015
by Malcolm Eggs
Campania is as authentic a rustic Italian café deli as it's humanly possible to be when you're based at the Shoreditch end of Hackney. There is ramshackle wooden furniture, a tall rack of sepia-tinted bottles and a tiny kitchen manned by a proud-looking cook. In a large, wide fridge sit hunks of meat, blocks of cheese and cans of amusingly named continental fizzy drinks.
But the breakfast menu is about as Italian as Castlemaine XXXX is Australian. Take my 'benerica': fried eggs in olive oil, Neopolitan sausages, pancetta, rocket. A British fry-up, basically, viewed through Rossini-tinted glasses - the chicken tikka masala of fare colazione.
But is this a terrible thing? As we've pointed out before, Italy is known for many things, and many of these are culinary, but none of them are breakfast. It has always been thus: evidence from Pompeii suggests mornings powered merely by bread and water, but at least there was food. Barring remarkable luck, today's breakfasting tourist must learn to get by on dense espresso washed down with strong cigarette.
Give me a Campania breakfast any day of the week - unctuous, dense sausages and tasty pancetta satisfyingly laced with ovals of unyielding fat. My faultless eggs had a healthy - virtually Deep South - olive oil glow. You'll be wondering about the rocket, because rocket on a breakfast plate is always weird: it was true here too, but given that proviso it played its role strangely well - a deft junior partner in an oddball coalition.
Looking around smugly after an excellent double macchiato I noticed an even more telling East London tic: a chandelier. But hey, I reflected, if the breakfasts are this good, I wouldn't care if the whole place turned out to be run by Vice magazine, who it transpired had been bought by Café Rouge, who in turn were a subsidiary of Nestlé. That would be fine, I realised cheerily.
95 Columbia Rd
Shoreditch
E2 7RG
020 7613 0015
by Malcolm Eggs
Campania is as authentic a rustic Italian café deli as it's humanly possible to be when you're based at the Shoreditch end of Hackney. There is ramshackle wooden furniture, a tall rack of sepia-tinted bottles and a tiny kitchen manned by a proud-looking cook. In a large, wide fridge sit hunks of meat, blocks of cheese and cans of amusingly named continental fizzy drinks.
But the breakfast menu is about as Italian as Castlemaine XXXX is Australian. Take my 'benerica': fried eggs in olive oil, Neopolitan sausages, pancetta, rocket. A British fry-up, basically, viewed through Rossini-tinted glasses - the chicken tikka masala of fare colazione.
But is this a terrible thing? As we've pointed out before, Italy is known for many things, and many of these are culinary, but none of them are breakfast. It has always been thus: evidence from Pompeii suggests mornings powered merely by bread and water, but at least there was food. Barring remarkable luck, today's breakfasting tourist must learn to get by on dense espresso washed down with strong cigarette.
Give me a Campania breakfast any day of the week - unctuous, dense sausages and tasty pancetta satisfyingly laced with ovals of unyielding fat. My faultless eggs had a healthy - virtually Deep South - olive oil glow. You'll be wondering about the rocket, because rocket on a breakfast plate is always weird: it was true here too, but given that proviso it played its role strangely well - a deft junior partner in an oddball coalition.
Looking around smugly after an excellent double macchiato I noticed an even more telling East London tic: a chandelier. But hey, I reflected, if the breakfasts are this good, I wouldn't care if the whole place turned out to be run by Vice magazine, who it transpired had been bought by Café Rouge, who in turn were a subsidiary of Nestlé. That would be fine, I realised cheerily.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Lucile's, Boulder, USA
Lucile's
2124 14th Street
Boulder, CO 80302-4804
United States
001 (303) 442-4743
www.luciles.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Gaunt and be-shorted men, women and children loitered around the wooden creole house like addicts gagging for a shot of methadone to sooth them through the sticky morning. Names were called out and faces blossomed as their turn was announced. Being British, the sight of a queue got us hooked and within a skipped heartbeat we were jostling for position wondering what all the fuss was about.
Once invited inside it became clear that the emaciated people around us weren’t druggies. They were just far leaner than their normal American compatriots, which isn’t surprising seeing as most of Boulder lives off lentils, hemp and a healthy intake of medicinal marijuana.
Lucile’s is a creole restaurant housed inside a New Orleans style weatherboard building with a brunch menu that is enough to give you jaw ache just from looking at it. Whilst sipping grapefruit juice we gawped at the food being devoured around us and ordered the most unusual things we could see.
My “Eggs Pontchartrain” arrived with a thud: Colorado mountain trout and two poached eggs slathered in béarnaise sauce and flanked by both grits and sautéed potatoes. The eggs were so perfectly soft that they ran all over the trout like a flash flood, while the béarnaise sauce was so naughty that it had probably just put drawing pins on its teacher’s chair whilst giving its brother a Chinese burn. The white trout flesh flaked sensuously under the weight of the eggs to create a flavour combination not a million miles away from that British summer lunchtime treat of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce garnished with dill.
Washed down with some bitter chicory coffee, it was as delicious as it was filling and unusual. Next door a creole breakfast with stewed beans, spicy sausage, poached eggs and sautéed potatoes was every bit as gut busting – so much so that we were unforgivably unable to order their famous beignets, watching sadly as the sugar dusted square doughnuts wafted past on trays.
Lucile’s is rightly revered as one of Colorado’s leading breakfast institutions and deserves a visit if you are near Mile High City. After just one hit I am gagging for more.
2124 14th Street
Boulder, CO 80302-4804
United States
001 (303) 442-4743
www.luciles.com
by Shreddie Kruger
Gaunt and be-shorted men, women and children loitered around the wooden creole house like addicts gagging for a shot of methadone to sooth them through the sticky morning. Names were called out and faces blossomed as their turn was announced. Being British, the sight of a queue got us hooked and within a skipped heartbeat we were jostling for position wondering what all the fuss was about.
Once invited inside it became clear that the emaciated people around us weren’t druggies. They were just far leaner than their normal American compatriots, which isn’t surprising seeing as most of Boulder lives off lentils, hemp and a healthy intake of medicinal marijuana.
Lucile’s is a creole restaurant housed inside a New Orleans style weatherboard building with a brunch menu that is enough to give you jaw ache just from looking at it. Whilst sipping grapefruit juice we gawped at the food being devoured around us and ordered the most unusual things we could see.
My “Eggs Pontchartrain” arrived with a thud: Colorado mountain trout and two poached eggs slathered in béarnaise sauce and flanked by both grits and sautéed potatoes. The eggs were so perfectly soft that they ran all over the trout like a flash flood, while the béarnaise sauce was so naughty that it had probably just put drawing pins on its teacher’s chair whilst giving its brother a Chinese burn. The white trout flesh flaked sensuously under the weight of the eggs to create a flavour combination not a million miles away from that British summer lunchtime treat of poached salmon with hollandaise sauce garnished with dill.
Washed down with some bitter chicory coffee, it was as delicious as it was filling and unusual. Next door a creole breakfast with stewed beans, spicy sausage, poached eggs and sautéed potatoes was every bit as gut busting – so much so that we were unforgivably unable to order their famous beignets, watching sadly as the sugar dusted square doughnuts wafted past on trays.
Lucile’s is rightly revered as one of Colorado’s leading breakfast institutions and deserves a visit if you are near Mile High City. After just one hit I am gagging for more.
Monday, May 17, 2010
British Airways breakfast, somewhere over northern Portugal
British Airways breakfast
(somewhere over northern Portugal)
by hAshley Brown
Altitude: 32000 feet, Speed: 532 mph, Outside temp: -55 C.
It's 5.32am (time at destination) and somewhere between an ashcloud and an impending strike, flight BA246 hopes to land at Heathrow sooner rather than later. Rumour has it that whilst we've been in the air (en route from Buenos Aires via Sao Paolo) Heathrow has closed and may well reopen again. But right now, in the cycle of false dusks and dawns regulated by the steely yet good-humoured will of the air stewardesses, the fitful mid night slumbers of my cabin compadres has been forcefully truncated by cabin lights and an offer of breakfast.
It's full English breakfasts, or cheese croissants, that are hidden alluringly below the foil lids and have been tucked up warm since we left Brazil. My stewardess assures me that all the cheese croissants will go, as Brazilians don't really 'get' the bacon and eggs. It's a heavy responsibility for our national carrier: for many, their first taste of our national dish may come on a little tray and be eaten with branded plastic cutlery. (The irony being of course that this pivotal meal is never assembled on home shores. I imagine they have good reason for not calling this one the full Brazilian.)
Considering the challenges faced by anyone trying to keep a breakfast warm and decent-tasting for 12 hours, this meal certainly tries. A fattier cut of streaky bacon, once grilled, now taking on a braised demeanour, is full of flavour if somewhat oversalted. A little sausage lurks behind a pile of baked tomato slices, the tomato prone to blandness, the sausage coarse cut and lightly spiced. But there is a blot on the horizon, like the belching Eyjafjallajökull - a pile of scrambled eggs, ruining everything for everyone. With a granularity not dissimilar to that of looming ashcloud, these eggs are not of this world and certainly not from any chicken i've ever met.
Elsewhere on the tray - a fruit medley of papaya, pineapple and over-eager melon join some brazillian orange juice, the ubiquitous plain muffin (prizes to whoever can get it out of the plastic wrapper with glazed muffin top intact), and some perfunctory coffee.
It's not the greatest breakfast, yet the novelty of its arrival, and the lucky-break in airspace restrictions that followed, makes it taste all the better.
(somewhere over northern Portugal)
by hAshley Brown
Altitude: 32000 feet, Speed: 532 mph, Outside temp: -55 C.
It's 5.32am (time at destination) and somewhere between an ashcloud and an impending strike, flight BA246 hopes to land at Heathrow sooner rather than later. Rumour has it that whilst we've been in the air (en route from Buenos Aires via Sao Paolo) Heathrow has closed and may well reopen again. But right now, in the cycle of false dusks and dawns regulated by the steely yet good-humoured will of the air stewardesses, the fitful mid night slumbers of my cabin compadres has been forcefully truncated by cabin lights and an offer of breakfast.
It's full English breakfasts, or cheese croissants, that are hidden alluringly below the foil lids and have been tucked up warm since we left Brazil. My stewardess assures me that all the cheese croissants will go, as Brazilians don't really 'get' the bacon and eggs. It's a heavy responsibility for our national carrier: for many, their first taste of our national dish may come on a little tray and be eaten with branded plastic cutlery. (The irony being of course that this pivotal meal is never assembled on home shores. I imagine they have good reason for not calling this one the full Brazilian.)
Considering the challenges faced by anyone trying to keep a breakfast warm and decent-tasting for 12 hours, this meal certainly tries. A fattier cut of streaky bacon, once grilled, now taking on a braised demeanour, is full of flavour if somewhat oversalted. A little sausage lurks behind a pile of baked tomato slices, the tomato prone to blandness, the sausage coarse cut and lightly spiced. But there is a blot on the horizon, like the belching Eyjafjallajökull - a pile of scrambled eggs, ruining everything for everyone. With a granularity not dissimilar to that of looming ashcloud, these eggs are not of this world and certainly not from any chicken i've ever met.
Elsewhere on the tray - a fruit medley of papaya, pineapple and over-eager melon join some brazillian orange juice, the ubiquitous plain muffin (prizes to whoever can get it out of the plastic wrapper with glazed muffin top intact), and some perfunctory coffee.
It's not the greatest breakfast, yet the novelty of its arrival, and the lucky-break in airspace restrictions that followed, makes it taste all the better.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Towpath, De Beauvoir Town
Towpath
Regent's Canal Towpath by DeBeauvoir Bridge
42 De Beauvoir Crescent
De Beauvoir Town
N1 5SB
Open from 8am, Mon - Fri; 10am Sat; 11am Sun
by Joyce Carol Oats
Porridge: at once the most hated of breakfast foods and one of the most beloved. Porridge done well is amazing, while porridge done badly (the default of too many chefs) can result in a culinary ennui that might put one off eating breakfast for ever. With a name like Oats (of the Dumfries Oatses), you’ll not be surprised to learn that I take my porridge with salt, with honey or maple syrup, and very seriously. Such is the passion of my love affair with porridge that I'll rarely relinquish control over my morning grains to anyone.
But there was just something promising about the porridge at the Towpath, a little cafe tucked into a former canalboat house on the Regent’s Canal towpath (surprise!), now serving breakfast and lunch and cake and coffee to hipsters of a certain age under a modicum of shelter. The seats face outwards, in the manner of the best French cafes, perfect for watching people and dogs and birds go by. The service at the Towpath is shambolic, but this is suited to the shabby-chic (burlap sacks, mismatched cutlery) aesthetic: the staff are friendly and cute and seem capable, but ill-equipped to handle volume. They get testy behind their small counter and you begin to feel a bit nervous that one of them might chuck another one into the canal. This would also be suited to the shabby-chic aesthetic.
The breakfast menu is brief, perhaps because of the limitations of a tiny kitchen, but the porridge stands out: not unreasonably priced (£3), topped with poached pears, something that even this self-described porridge professional had never encountered. And it was pure poetry. Served in twee, chintzy porcelain, the oats themselves were substantial, with just a touch of chewiness, cooked in milk but not too creamy, and with the essential touch of salt that my people (the Scottish ones, anyway) insist upon. The poaching of the pears was perfect: like the oats, they were soft but firm, not mushy, and they had been steeped in – wait for it – rosemary. I know! With a touch of brown sugar, which was supplied separately, this was only slightly short of orgasm-by-porridge. Did you not previously associate porridge with sex, dear reader? You will.
Regent's Canal Towpath by DeBeauvoir Bridge
42 De Beauvoir Crescent
De Beauvoir Town
N1 5SB
Open from 8am, Mon - Fri; 10am Sat; 11am Sun
by Joyce Carol Oats
Porridge: at once the most hated of breakfast foods and one of the most beloved. Porridge done well is amazing, while porridge done badly (the default of too many chefs) can result in a culinary ennui that might put one off eating breakfast for ever. With a name like Oats (of the Dumfries Oatses), you’ll not be surprised to learn that I take my porridge with salt, with honey or maple syrup, and very seriously. Such is the passion of my love affair with porridge that I'll rarely relinquish control over my morning grains to anyone.
But there was just something promising about the porridge at the Towpath, a little cafe tucked into a former canalboat house on the Regent’s Canal towpath (surprise!), now serving breakfast and lunch and cake and coffee to hipsters of a certain age under a modicum of shelter. The seats face outwards, in the manner of the best French cafes, perfect for watching people and dogs and birds go by. The service at the Towpath is shambolic, but this is suited to the shabby-chic (burlap sacks, mismatched cutlery) aesthetic: the staff are friendly and cute and seem capable, but ill-equipped to handle volume. They get testy behind their small counter and you begin to feel a bit nervous that one of them might chuck another one into the canal. This would also be suited to the shabby-chic aesthetic.
The breakfast menu is brief, perhaps because of the limitations of a tiny kitchen, but the porridge stands out: not unreasonably priced (£3), topped with poached pears, something that even this self-described porridge professional had never encountered. And it was pure poetry. Served in twee, chintzy porcelain, the oats themselves were substantial, with just a touch of chewiness, cooked in milk but not too creamy, and with the essential touch of salt that my people (the Scottish ones, anyway) insist upon. The poaching of the pears was perfect: like the oats, they were soft but firm, not mushy, and they had been steeped in – wait for it – rosemary. I know! With a touch of brown sugar, which was supplied separately, this was only slightly short of orgasm-by-porridge. Did you not previously associate porridge with sex, dear reader? You will.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Garufa Argentine Grill, Highbury
Garufa Argentine Grill
104 Highbury Park
Highbury
N5 2XE
020 7226 0070
www.garufa.co.uk
by Sigmund Fried
The idea of steak for breakfast is ostensibly ridiculous; bloody and parlous it’s synonymous with late nights, shouty conversations and red wine. In the context of a Saturday morning meal, which is all softly delineated regrets and coffee, it seems kind of wrong. But what the hell, I’d made a date with Hashley Brown and compared to his increasingly esoteric culinary forays into the world of the Leopold Bloom-esque breakfast (“Inner organs of beasts and fowls…”), steak was child’s play: a black livered, pastis-slurping French child perhaps, but child’s play nonetheless.
We’d decided on the Garufa Grill by virtue of it being about 30 seconds from Hashley’s house and because we’d had a pretty satisfying late dinner at this charming Argentinian restaurant two weeks previously with Mrs Brown and her visiting sister. So with Ed Benedict and a couple of others in tow we made it to Garufa bleary-eyed and ordered the “Full Argentine Breakfast” (£9.80). Except for Ed, that is, who as a veggie opted, much to his chagrin — and our amusement – for organic muesli with 'milk or yogurt' (£2.50). Still, despite the tears and cursing he seemed to like it, as we all did the numerous, delicious café lattes we mainlined.
Back to the main event, we were more than satisfied. The scrambled eggs were creamy, the Portobello mushroom juicy and garlicky, and the 150g Argentine rump steak an artery-clogging treat, but it was the “Argentine-style” sausage’s pleasing spiciness that garnered the biggest plaudits. And the grilled tomato and toast were as good a supporting cast as could be hoped for. Happily sated and surrounded by good friends, I made up my mind about the steak issue there and then. Would I have it again? Yes I said yes I will Yes.
104 Highbury Park
Highbury
N5 2XE
020 7226 0070
www.garufa.co.uk
by Sigmund Fried
The idea of steak for breakfast is ostensibly ridiculous; bloody and parlous it’s synonymous with late nights, shouty conversations and red wine. In the context of a Saturday morning meal, which is all softly delineated regrets and coffee, it seems kind of wrong. But what the hell, I’d made a date with Hashley Brown and compared to his increasingly esoteric culinary forays into the world of the Leopold Bloom-esque breakfast (“Inner organs of beasts and fowls…”), steak was child’s play: a black livered, pastis-slurping French child perhaps, but child’s play nonetheless.
We’d decided on the Garufa Grill by virtue of it being about 30 seconds from Hashley’s house and because we’d had a pretty satisfying late dinner at this charming Argentinian restaurant two weeks previously with Mrs Brown and her visiting sister. So with Ed Benedict and a couple of others in tow we made it to Garufa bleary-eyed and ordered the “Full Argentine Breakfast” (£9.80). Except for Ed, that is, who as a veggie opted, much to his chagrin — and our amusement – for organic muesli with 'milk or yogurt' (£2.50). Still, despite the tears and cursing he seemed to like it, as we all did the numerous, delicious café lattes we mainlined.
Back to the main event, we were more than satisfied. The scrambled eggs were creamy, the Portobello mushroom juicy and garlicky, and the 150g Argentine rump steak an artery-clogging treat, but it was the “Argentine-style” sausage’s pleasing spiciness that garnered the biggest plaudits. And the grilled tomato and toast were as good a supporting cast as could be hoped for. Happily sated and surrounded by good friends, I made up my mind about the steak issue there and then. Would I have it again? Yes I said yes I will Yes.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Volcanic Dispash: Cafe 1916, Palma, Mallorca
Cafe 1916
Plaza de España, 4
07002 Palma
Mallorca
Spain
++34 971 71 88 19
by Caff Kidston
Mallorcans are generally a happy bunch. Stranded Brits however are morose and sulky. It is suspected that this Hispanic cheerfulness can be attributed to the weather or the plentiful supplies of sun-burnt foreigners, but no, there is a more surprising reason: the Mallorcan breakfast.
This is no bacon or porridge fest. It consists of four basic items, one of them quite surprising. First, coffee; a macho 'solo' for the gents, so strong you can (and indeed for entertainment value probably should) stand a spoon in it. Added fun comes in its being served in a glass and thus impossible to pick up due to the volcanic (topical bit there) temperature. The weaker ladies get a 'con leche' as befits their more delicate nature.
Then, sumo de naranja - orange juice. For some reason this sweet sun-warmed nectar comes with optional sugar to add, presumably for those planning to fly home without a plane, powered solely by the glucose rush.
The carbs are provided by the ensaimada, a snail shaped (though not flavoured) pastry covered in icing sugar which ensures that you will carry the evidence of your breakfast with you on your shirt for the rest of the day.
But the crowning glory of this bracer for the day, the thing which made King Jaime I a true conqueror (nope, me neither), the factor which makes the Spanish mad enough to get into confined spaces with angry bovines is... the shot of Torres brandy which comes as a compulsory ' side dish'. No wonder every day is a sunny one. Viva Espana indeed.
Plaza de España, 4
07002 Palma
Mallorca
Spain
++34 971 71 88 19
by Caff Kidston
Mallorcans are generally a happy bunch. Stranded Brits however are morose and sulky. It is suspected that this Hispanic cheerfulness can be attributed to the weather or the plentiful supplies of sun-burnt foreigners, but no, there is a more surprising reason: the Mallorcan breakfast.
This is no bacon or porridge fest. It consists of four basic items, one of them quite surprising. First, coffee; a macho 'solo' for the gents, so strong you can (and indeed for entertainment value probably should) stand a spoon in it. Added fun comes in its being served in a glass and thus impossible to pick up due to the volcanic (topical bit there) temperature. The weaker ladies get a 'con leche' as befits their more delicate nature.
Then, sumo de naranja - orange juice. For some reason this sweet sun-warmed nectar comes with optional sugar to add, presumably for those planning to fly home without a plane, powered solely by the glucose rush.
The carbs are provided by the ensaimada, a snail shaped (though not flavoured) pastry covered in icing sugar which ensures that you will carry the evidence of your breakfast with you on your shirt for the rest of the day.
But the crowning glory of this bracer for the day, the thing which made King Jaime I a true conqueror (nope, me neither), the factor which makes the Spanish mad enough to get into confined spaces with angry bovines is... the shot of Torres brandy which comes as a compulsory ' side dish'. No wonder every day is a sunny one. Viva Espana indeed.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Bistrot Bruno Loubet, Clerkenwell
Bistrot Bruno Loubet
The Zetter
86-88 Clerkenwell Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
www.bistrotbrunoloubet.com
by Shreddie Kruger
With a name like Bruno Loubet you only have two choices in life: porn star or chef. Sadly for the sex industry Bruno Loubet opted for the latter, which is also great news for anyone who likes rich French bistrot grub.
His boudoir of a restaurant is nestled in the buxom bosom of Clerkenwell on the ground floor of the Zetter hotel. The bistrot has gained a fine reputation since its recent launch for its full on, card-carrying French food, including a hare dish that has the density and delicacy of a porn star’s vagina - so we expected a sensual breakfast of silky eggs and slippery butter.
Several waiters and waitresses danced around like fluffers awaiting orders before bringing us cappuccinos that would have been at their peak five minutes before they arrived on our table. Whilst this works perfectly for roasted meats, it doesn’t for coffee.
As for breakfast itself, we all know that classic Eggs Benedict is composed of a toasted English muffin, a layer of grilled ham, soft poached eggs and lashings of hollandaise sauce. But while the version that was presented to me featured a perfectly poached egg and good if slightly under-acidic hollandaise, I must object to the inclusion of bacon rather than grilled ham. I love bacon. But not with my Eggs Bennie thank you very much. The history of Eggs Benedict is worthy of a tome of biblical proportions. Some charlatans suggest that bacon should be used but many more prefer grilled ham. One item of historical relevance is a letter by Mabel C. Butler of Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts to The New York Times Magazine November 1967:
“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, when they lived in New York around the turn of the century, dined every Saturday at Delmonico's. One day Mrs. Benedict said to the maitre d'hotel, "Haven't you anything new or different to suggest?" On his reply that he would like to hear something from her, she suggested poached eggs on toasted English muffins with a thin slice of ham, hollandaise sauce and a truffle on top.”
The reason that ham works so well and bacon so poorly is twofold. The extra fat in the bacon pushes the dish's richness over edge – instead of taking one year off your life it detracts a full three and adds a heart bypass in for good measure as well. Secondly, the texture of this dish should be soft. You should be able to eat it without using your teeth, therefore allowing the brain to do other important tasks such as reading the paper and waking up.
But don’t let the cold coffee and bacony Eggs Benedict put you off. Bistrot Bruno Loubet also offers a fine array of fruits, juices, breads, yoghurts and people watching as well as other interesting offerings such as poached eggs on pea pancake with crisp pancetta, which was excellent, or fennel seed cured salmon, vegetable muffin and cottage cheese.
It’s a breakfast for both curious adventurers who want to experiment a little and of course amateur porn stars. We just wish they’d been less ham fisted on the bacon front
The Zetter
86-88 Clerkenwell Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
www.bistrotbrunoloubet.com
by Shreddie Kruger
With a name like Bruno Loubet you only have two choices in life: porn star or chef. Sadly for the sex industry Bruno Loubet opted for the latter, which is also great news for anyone who likes rich French bistrot grub.
His boudoir of a restaurant is nestled in the buxom bosom of Clerkenwell on the ground floor of the Zetter hotel. The bistrot has gained a fine reputation since its recent launch for its full on, card-carrying French food, including a hare dish that has the density and delicacy of a porn star’s vagina - so we expected a sensual breakfast of silky eggs and slippery butter.
Several waiters and waitresses danced around like fluffers awaiting orders before bringing us cappuccinos that would have been at their peak five minutes before they arrived on our table. Whilst this works perfectly for roasted meats, it doesn’t for coffee.
As for breakfast itself, we all know that classic Eggs Benedict is composed of a toasted English muffin, a layer of grilled ham, soft poached eggs and lashings of hollandaise sauce. But while the version that was presented to me featured a perfectly poached egg and good if slightly under-acidic hollandaise, I must object to the inclusion of bacon rather than grilled ham. I love bacon. But not with my Eggs Bennie thank you very much. The history of Eggs Benedict is worthy of a tome of biblical proportions. Some charlatans suggest that bacon should be used but many more prefer grilled ham. One item of historical relevance is a letter by Mabel C. Butler of Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts to The New York Times Magazine November 1967:
“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, when they lived in New York around the turn of the century, dined every Saturday at Delmonico's. One day Mrs. Benedict said to the maitre d'hotel, "Haven't you anything new or different to suggest?" On his reply that he would like to hear something from her, she suggested poached eggs on toasted English muffins with a thin slice of ham, hollandaise sauce and a truffle on top.”
The reason that ham works so well and bacon so poorly is twofold. The extra fat in the bacon pushes the dish's richness over edge – instead of taking one year off your life it detracts a full three and adds a heart bypass in for good measure as well. Secondly, the texture of this dish should be soft. You should be able to eat it without using your teeth, therefore allowing the brain to do other important tasks such as reading the paper and waking up.
But don’t let the cold coffee and bacony Eggs Benedict put you off. Bistrot Bruno Loubet also offers a fine array of fruits, juices, breads, yoghurts and people watching as well as other interesting offerings such as poached eggs on pea pancake with crisp pancetta, which was excellent, or fennel seed cured salmon, vegetable muffin and cottage cheese.
It’s a breakfast for both curious adventurers who want to experiment a little and of course amateur porn stars. We just wish they’d been less ham fisted on the bacon front
Monday, April 19, 2010
Greaseless Spoon Cafe, Holborn
Greaseless Spoon Cafe by Tefal
7-8 Little Turnstile
Holborn
WC1 7DX
Mon 19th – Fri 23rd April, 9am – 4pm daily
To book tickets on Facebook click here
by Stephen Fry-Up
What better way to spend a Sunday evening than at 32 Great Queen Street in the company of, among others, esteemed Lon Review of Breakfasts stalwarts Malcolm Eggs and Hashley Brown? The whole shindig was a celebration of the recent marriage of another LRB lynchpin, Blake Pudding, to his delightful wife, Mrs Blake Pudding. Monday morning in the office was something of a rude awakening – tweeted offers of morning sherry did little to improve things. The only solution – breakfast.
Thank goodness then for Tefal, who'd invited yours truly to come and experience their new pop-up cafe near Holborn. Now, as much as the phrase 'pop-up' fills me with dread (they really do seem to be popping everything up these days – even toast...) free breakfast is free breakfast. So off I popped.
The whole thing is designed to promote Tefal's range of Nutricious and Delicious healthy cooking gadgets – they're offering customers all the glory of a full fry-up, with none of the guilt-inducing fatty stuff. That's the theory anyway.
Certainly the place looks how you might imagine – a cross between a proper greasy spoon (gingham tablecloths? Check) but with that slightly nauseating cleanliness also radiated by places like Giraffe. The menu is limited (no black pudding or hash browns or bubble) so I thought best to sample as much as possible by ordering the all-day breakfast.
The first thing that stuck me was the odd appearance of the poached egg – it looked like a sort of ceramic cylinder, and didn't taste particularly eggy. The sausages were fine – a cut above the usual, but nothing special, and they did have a rather odd texture. Beans and toast were beans and toast, tomato was tomato, and nowt to write home about there. Two stand-outs though: excellent mushrooms, and more butter than you could ever dream of scoffing. It was as if they were trying to make up for something...
And that something was a lack of grease. The whole point in a fry-up is that it's fatty and delicious. If you want healthy, eat a salad. Upon leaving the Greaseless Cafe I felt strange – somehow both full, and oddly empty. Rather like life then, I suppose: without grease and guilt, it just ain't worth living.
7-8 Little Turnstile
Holborn
WC1 7DX
Mon 19th – Fri 23rd April, 9am – 4pm daily
To book tickets on Facebook click here
by Stephen Fry-Up
What better way to spend a Sunday evening than at 32 Great Queen Street in the company of, among others, esteemed Lon Review of Breakfasts stalwarts Malcolm Eggs and Hashley Brown? The whole shindig was a celebration of the recent marriage of another LRB lynchpin, Blake Pudding, to his delightful wife, Mrs Blake Pudding. Monday morning in the office was something of a rude awakening – tweeted offers of morning sherry did little to improve things. The only solution – breakfast.
Thank goodness then for Tefal, who'd invited yours truly to come and experience their new pop-up cafe near Holborn. Now, as much as the phrase 'pop-up' fills me with dread (they really do seem to be popping everything up these days – even toast...) free breakfast is free breakfast. So off I popped.
The whole thing is designed to promote Tefal's range of Nutricious and Delicious healthy cooking gadgets – they're offering customers all the glory of a full fry-up, with none of the guilt-inducing fatty stuff. That's the theory anyway.
Certainly the place looks how you might imagine – a cross between a proper greasy spoon (gingham tablecloths? Check) but with that slightly nauseating cleanliness also radiated by places like Giraffe. The menu is limited (no black pudding or hash browns or bubble) so I thought best to sample as much as possible by ordering the all-day breakfast.
The first thing that stuck me was the odd appearance of the poached egg – it looked like a sort of ceramic cylinder, and didn't taste particularly eggy. The sausages were fine – a cut above the usual, but nothing special, and they did have a rather odd texture. Beans and toast were beans and toast, tomato was tomato, and nowt to write home about there. Two stand-outs though: excellent mushrooms, and more butter than you could ever dream of scoffing. It was as if they were trying to make up for something...
And that something was a lack of grease. The whole point in a fry-up is that it's fatty and delicious. If you want healthy, eat a salad. Upon leaving the Greaseless Cafe I felt strange – somehow both full, and oddly empty. Rather like life then, I suppose: without grease and guilt, it just ain't worth living.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Breakfast from America: The Cleveland Clinic, Ohio
The Cleveland Clinic
9500 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland
Ohio
OH 44195
+1 (800) 223-2273
www.clevelandclinic.org
by T.N. Toost
The Cleveland Clinic is ranked as one of the top in the America by the US News and World Report, and is often seen as one of the best in the world. President Obama visited it repeatedly to discuss the healthcare bill; myriad celebrities, Saudi royalty and even Prince Charles have passed through for their medical care. Some of the doctors and staff are internationally famous for their publications, and with this fame brings wealth: walking through the spacious marble hallways, past well-appointed guards, expensive corporate art and well-placed leather sofas, one might be excused for thinking that one was in a 5-star hotel or a private airport.
Scarlet Pumpernickel joined me at the Clinic one cold, cold morning. Girls make the best breakfast partners: if they’re quiet, it’s with the contemplative, distant-eyed silence that one doesn’t take personally, and when they’re talkative they will ramble on at length about nothing of consequence, which is a better accompaniment to a morning meal than orange juice and most types of tea. I got the eggs with cheese, hash browns and turkey sausage (a total of 769 calories), a blueberry muffin (144 - 266 calories) and hazelnut coffee (calories unknown); Scarlet got a dainty container of grits (143 calories). The grits were $1. My meal was much more expensive, but I would have switched with her any day of the week. The eggs were merely warm, and the cheese – packaged, shredded, American – didn’t melt into them, instead settling on almost like a spice. The hash browns were cold and flavorless, requiring salt, pepper and ketchup. The turkey sausage, also cold, tasted as if it had been mixed with plastic and then freezer-burned. The muffin was implausibly both oily and dry, with stale thrown in for good measure. The hazelnut coffee, the highlight of my meal, was merely passable, and that was mostly because it was warm. Scarlet’s grits were ok, but as she explained, “It’s really, really hard to fuck up grits.”
What left me with the worst taste in my mouth was the fact that my meal – a normal American breakfast, if a bit on the small side – ran to just under 1,000 calories. One would think hospitals would be temples of health, and that they would encourage their patients, visitors and employees to eat healthy food – that they would put as much thought into what went into people as they put into the expensive corporate art hanging on the walls. Instead, they serve garbage, and freely admit that it’s garbage – they post the nutritional information next to each item.
We left, walking through a long hallway filled with flat-screen televisions broadcasting the Clinic’s awards, and stopped by the Intercontinental Hotel (one of the poshest in Cleveland and built specifically for the families of wealthy patients). I hope I never have to stay in a hospital. If I do, though, it’ll likely be because of the kind of crap they serve in Cleveland Clinic cafeteria.
9500 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland
Ohio
OH 44195
+1 (800) 223-2273
www.clevelandclinic.org
by T.N. Toost
The Cleveland Clinic is ranked as one of the top in the America by the US News and World Report, and is often seen as one of the best in the world. President Obama visited it repeatedly to discuss the healthcare bill; myriad celebrities, Saudi royalty and even Prince Charles have passed through for their medical care. Some of the doctors and staff are internationally famous for their publications, and with this fame brings wealth: walking through the spacious marble hallways, past well-appointed guards, expensive corporate art and well-placed leather sofas, one might be excused for thinking that one was in a 5-star hotel or a private airport.
Scarlet Pumpernickel joined me at the Clinic one cold, cold morning. Girls make the best breakfast partners: if they’re quiet, it’s with the contemplative, distant-eyed silence that one doesn’t take personally, and when they’re talkative they will ramble on at length about nothing of consequence, which is a better accompaniment to a morning meal than orange juice and most types of tea. I got the eggs with cheese, hash browns and turkey sausage (a total of 769 calories), a blueberry muffin (144 - 266 calories) and hazelnut coffee (calories unknown); Scarlet got a dainty container of grits (143 calories). The grits were $1. My meal was much more expensive, but I would have switched with her any day of the week. The eggs were merely warm, and the cheese – packaged, shredded, American – didn’t melt into them, instead settling on almost like a spice. The hash browns were cold and flavorless, requiring salt, pepper and ketchup. The turkey sausage, also cold, tasted as if it had been mixed with plastic and then freezer-burned. The muffin was implausibly both oily and dry, with stale thrown in for good measure. The hazelnut coffee, the highlight of my meal, was merely passable, and that was mostly because it was warm. Scarlet’s grits were ok, but as she explained, “It’s really, really hard to fuck up grits.”
What left me with the worst taste in my mouth was the fact that my meal – a normal American breakfast, if a bit on the small side – ran to just under 1,000 calories. One would think hospitals would be temples of health, and that they would encourage their patients, visitors and employees to eat healthy food – that they would put as much thought into what went into people as they put into the expensive corporate art hanging on the walls. Instead, they serve garbage, and freely admit that it’s garbage – they post the nutritional information next to each item.
We left, walking through a long hallway filled with flat-screen televisions broadcasting the Clinic’s awards, and stopped by the Intercontinental Hotel (one of the poshest in Cleveland and built specifically for the families of wealthy patients). I hope I never have to stay in a hospital. If I do, though, it’ll likely be because of the kind of crap they serve in Cleveland Clinic cafeteria.
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