Brew
45 Northcote Road
Clapham Junction
SW11 1NJ
by Dee Caff
It’s all very bourgeois urbanite chic in Brew, with its edgy grey paint-job and wonky hanging mirrors and clock. A well thought-out Sinatra/Franklin soundtrack and a counter flaunting hand-made cakes, cookies and pastries seem promising as me, my companion, and our plummeting blood sugar levels stop in for some much needed breakfast.
It’s packed out and, after squeezing our way onto a table next to a couple who are eating in belligerent silence, we squint at the blackboard. To my horror there’s no sign of a full English. ‘Tomatoes on sour dough’ and ‘granola with blueberries’ just isn’t going to cut it. “I’ll make my own full English, you fools,” I think smugly as I piece together some components in a grasping attempt to bring some substance to the table. I’m hoping that poached eggs on toast with a side of ‘field mushrooms with pesto and cream’ and ‘Lincolnshire sausages’ will do the job.
Now, you may be imagining, from my onslaught about the unsubstantial nature of this wholesome sounding fare, that I’m some kind of meat guzzling, oil slugging philistine. I’m not, I just don’t like getting ripped off by people with pretensions that only serve to make their customers miserable. When, after about 15 minutes our breakfasts finally come, my Lincolnshire sausages are served cut lenthways in half and lightly griddled. I think the Brew crew should familiarise themselves with the expression “If it ain’t broke...”
My field mushrooms are tasty at first, but after two mouthfuls, I’m stopped in my tracks by the cloying, creamy pesto sauce they’re drowning in. My companion’s ‘Ham, cheese, tomato and poached egg, pesto melt’ has the same problem. There’s just too much going on for this time in the morning. The whole sorry episode comes to a whopping £24, and we’re quite aggressively probed to buy more coffee as we sink into the morning papers. We opt to leave instead.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Café Grill, Camden Town
Café Grill
40 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1 0JH
020 7383 0494
by Nelson Griddle
“The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins.”
What was it in a brisk walk through Camden on a summer’s day which could call to mind this, D.H. Lawrence’s famous pronouncement on the state of the world in the 1920s?
Was it the credit crunch? The election of Boris Johnson as overlord of City Hall? I’m afraid, dear Reader, it was an événement much closer to home. What shook me was the fact that the Café Crescent, ancient greasy spoon stalwart of Camden High Street, has closed down. And in its place, almost as swiftly as night follows day, had appeared an upstart establishment, the Café Grill.
Well, a man has to eat, and decent breakfasts are thin on the ground in NW1, so I decided to give the Café Grill a whirl. At first glance, the changes are glaring. Broaching the entrance is no longer like stepping back in time. Or is it? That burgundy and silver sign is oh-so-2002. And the terracotta walls are distinctly 90s. Yet the menu, despite a hike in prices, is largely unchanged.
I opt for eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms. It’s all good, standard fare, served on a reassuringly oval plate. The mushrooms are doubtless the highlight (why are greasy-spoon mushrooms so often slightly slimy and tasteless? - these aren’t). And the whole is accompanied by pleasingly thick toast and rather good coffee.
Quibbles? Well, they were a bit late bringing the bill (This is one thing I never understand about eating out: when people offer me money, I accept like a shot). Apart from that, I left feeling that the end of the world might be survivable after all. But then, in the words of D.H.L.:
“We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”
40 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1 0JH
020 7383 0494
by Nelson Griddle
“The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins.”
What was it in a brisk walk through Camden on a summer’s day which could call to mind this, D.H. Lawrence’s famous pronouncement on the state of the world in the 1920s?
Was it the credit crunch? The election of Boris Johnson as overlord of City Hall? I’m afraid, dear Reader, it was an événement much closer to home. What shook me was the fact that the Café Crescent, ancient greasy spoon stalwart of Camden High Street, has closed down. And in its place, almost as swiftly as night follows day, had appeared an upstart establishment, the Café Grill.
Well, a man has to eat, and decent breakfasts are thin on the ground in NW1, so I decided to give the Café Grill a whirl. At first glance, the changes are glaring. Broaching the entrance is no longer like stepping back in time. Or is it? That burgundy and silver sign is oh-so-2002. And the terracotta walls are distinctly 90s. Yet the menu, despite a hike in prices, is largely unchanged.
I opt for eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms. It’s all good, standard fare, served on a reassuringly oval plate. The mushrooms are doubtless the highlight (why are greasy-spoon mushrooms so often slightly slimy and tasteless? - these aren’t). And the whole is accompanied by pleasingly thick toast and rather good coffee.
Quibbles? Well, they were a bit late bringing the bill (This is one thing I never understand about eating out: when people offer me money, I accept like a shot). Apart from that, I left feeling that the end of the world might be survivable after all. But then, in the words of D.H.L.:
“We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”
Monday, July 07, 2008
Book Review: AA Grill on AA Gill
Book Review
Breakfast at the Wolseley
by AA Gill
Reviewed by AA Grill
I suppose we should feel good about it really: one of Britain’s most lauded food writers has chosen to write a whole book on our repas de choix. It’s a surprise, in fact, for those of us here on this site, those of us who’ve long been celebrating the most important meal of the day, that there are so few books out there on the subject. So it is with relief that we open Mr Gill’s book and read the gleeful proclamation: “Breakfast is everything.” Great, we think. He’s one of us. He gets it.
But I should stop there. There’s a problem with the last paragraph. And it stems from the use of the word “chosen.” For Mr Gill has not “chosen” to write this book… there’s something a little more cynical at work that rather undermines his critical disinterest.
We’ve all done it I’m sure. Started reading a spread in a Sunday supplement only to realise, somewhere in the midst of the third paragraph, that the tone is rather too cloyingly effusive to stand as journalism proper - that there is a singular lack of distance. And then our eyes alight to the top corner of the page: “Advertisement feature”. A cunning attempt at dressing up an advert as journalistic endeavour, surely something that most writers spend their lives trying to avoid, for fear of compromising their art.
Not so AA Gill. However you read this book, you can’t escape the fact that it’s a marketing man’s commission, first and foremost, rather than a passion of Gill’s. You can see the logic in it from the Wolseley’s point of view. Why throw a few grand the way of an advertising exec when you can buy AA Gill and get him to write a book about your estimable eatery? Much less work all round.
I suppose it’s a sign of the times: not long ago, pre-Moby, Coldplay et al, it was considered a bit of a sell-out to allow your music on a TV advert, but now it’s pretty much ubiquitous. And ever since Fay Weldon wrote a novel for Bulgari, it seems that the world of literature is fair game too.
That said, Gill hasn’t taken his commission too seriously here, and “literature” would be an overstatement: Breakfast at the Wolseley runs to barely 35 pages of text by Gill, intermingled, with little consideration for the reader, with some fine recipes from the Wolselely’s kitchens and bound together with some rather outdated book design.
So, what meat is there within these 35 pages? To kick off, Gill refers dutifully to a Wolselely press pack and gives us a brief rundown of its history – well written brochure copy, essentially – its origins as a car showroom (well I never!) and more recent history as a branch of Barclays. He then does a little google-research into the various forms of breakfast matter: Viennoiserie, Eggs, English Breakfast, Fruits and Cereals, and Tea, Coffee and Hot Chocolate. He has also, it seems, spent a morning hanging out in the kitchens to better get a sense of place. And, evidently, spent a little too much time with the Tourier (a specialist patissier, flown in from France, no less) who sends him off down an-ever-so-slightly-too-long cul-de-sac about the origins of French pastry in Vienna.
It is Gill in Sunday Times magazine mode, with his incisors removed.
Once in a while, you see the real Gill trying to break through. When, say, criticising the Wolseley “Full English” for having beans (“de trop”, he exclaims, “and there should be fried bread,”) but it really is only once in a while. In fact, this is literally the only moment I could find in which Gill really breaks free from the shackles of his commission and dares bite the hand that feeds.
He still has time for some great writing – let’s not forget, he really does know how to write - particularly about the English breakfast, delightfully referring to the “piggy unctuous brilliance of a British banger”. And I particularly like the phrase “Double-Benny” for a double Eggs Benedict.
But then, just as Gill embarks on a rather enjoyable paragraph in which we learn the origins of bacon (actually invented in Britain, we discover - which is, again, all a little too google-researched for my liking), we reach its end only to be reminded of the real purpose of the book: “The Wolseley will serve 15,000 rashers of bacon a month,” Gill declaims. Woop-di-do, Adrian. Woop-di-do.
Whichever way you look at it, Gill’s heart really isn’t in it. Which is a real pity. I’d have quite happily ingested his Breakfast-related musings without added Wolseley flavouring – but the overpowering taint of commercialism leaves such a bitter taste. His writing can be as dependable as a Full English. As his says early on, breakfast is “the most personal and idiosyncratic construction… the most intimate of meals, a euphemism, a glance and a sly smile.” The same could be said of Gill at his best. When on form, he can serve the literary equivalent of a perfect “Double Benny”, but here, I’m sorry to say, he’s barely rustled up a runny serving of scrambled eggs.
Breakfast at the Wolseley is published by Quadrille with an RRP of £12.99 (or £6.49
from Amazon)
Breakfast at the Wolseley
by AA Gill
Reviewed by AA Grill
I suppose we should feel good about it really: one of Britain’s most lauded food writers has chosen to write a whole book on our repas de choix. It’s a surprise, in fact, for those of us here on this site, those of us who’ve long been celebrating the most important meal of the day, that there are so few books out there on the subject. So it is with relief that we open Mr Gill’s book and read the gleeful proclamation: “Breakfast is everything.” Great, we think. He’s one of us. He gets it.
But I should stop there. There’s a problem with the last paragraph. And it stems from the use of the word “chosen.” For Mr Gill has not “chosen” to write this book… there’s something a little more cynical at work that rather undermines his critical disinterest.
We’ve all done it I’m sure. Started reading a spread in a Sunday supplement only to realise, somewhere in the midst of the third paragraph, that the tone is rather too cloyingly effusive to stand as journalism proper - that there is a singular lack of distance. And then our eyes alight to the top corner of the page: “Advertisement feature”. A cunning attempt at dressing up an advert as journalistic endeavour, surely something that most writers spend their lives trying to avoid, for fear of compromising their art.
Not so AA Gill. However you read this book, you can’t escape the fact that it’s a marketing man’s commission, first and foremost, rather than a passion of Gill’s. You can see the logic in it from the Wolseley’s point of view. Why throw a few grand the way of an advertising exec when you can buy AA Gill and get him to write a book about your estimable eatery? Much less work all round.
I suppose it’s a sign of the times: not long ago, pre-Moby, Coldplay et al, it was considered a bit of a sell-out to allow your music on a TV advert, but now it’s pretty much ubiquitous. And ever since Fay Weldon wrote a novel for Bulgari, it seems that the world of literature is fair game too.
That said, Gill hasn’t taken his commission too seriously here, and “literature” would be an overstatement: Breakfast at the Wolseley runs to barely 35 pages of text by Gill, intermingled, with little consideration for the reader, with some fine recipes from the Wolselely’s kitchens and bound together with some rather outdated book design.
So, what meat is there within these 35 pages? To kick off, Gill refers dutifully to a Wolselely press pack and gives us a brief rundown of its history – well written brochure copy, essentially – its origins as a car showroom (well I never!) and more recent history as a branch of Barclays. He then does a little google-research into the various forms of breakfast matter: Viennoiserie, Eggs, English Breakfast, Fruits and Cereals, and Tea, Coffee and Hot Chocolate. He has also, it seems, spent a morning hanging out in the kitchens to better get a sense of place. And, evidently, spent a little too much time with the Tourier (a specialist patissier, flown in from France, no less) who sends him off down an-ever-so-slightly-too-long cul-de-sac about the origins of French pastry in Vienna.
It is Gill in Sunday Times magazine mode, with his incisors removed.
Once in a while, you see the real Gill trying to break through. When, say, criticising the Wolseley “Full English” for having beans (“de trop”, he exclaims, “and there should be fried bread,”) but it really is only once in a while. In fact, this is literally the only moment I could find in which Gill really breaks free from the shackles of his commission and dares bite the hand that feeds.
He still has time for some great writing – let’s not forget, he really does know how to write - particularly about the English breakfast, delightfully referring to the “piggy unctuous brilliance of a British banger”. And I particularly like the phrase “Double-Benny” for a double Eggs Benedict.
But then, just as Gill embarks on a rather enjoyable paragraph in which we learn the origins of bacon (actually invented in Britain, we discover - which is, again, all a little too google-researched for my liking), we reach its end only to be reminded of the real purpose of the book: “The Wolseley will serve 15,000 rashers of bacon a month,” Gill declaims. Woop-di-do, Adrian. Woop-di-do.
Whichever way you look at it, Gill’s heart really isn’t in it. Which is a real pity. I’d have quite happily ingested his Breakfast-related musings without added Wolseley flavouring – but the overpowering taint of commercialism leaves such a bitter taste. His writing can be as dependable as a Full English. As his says early on, breakfast is “the most personal and idiosyncratic construction… the most intimate of meals, a euphemism, a glance and a sly smile.” The same could be said of Gill at his best. When on form, he can serve the literary equivalent of a perfect “Double Benny”, but here, I’m sorry to say, he’s barely rustled up a runny serving of scrambled eggs.
Breakfast at the Wolseley is published by Quadrille with an RRP of £12.99 (or £6.49
from Amazon)
Friday, July 04, 2008
Special Dispatch: Café Tango, Glastonbury
Café Tango
The Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
You know the sinking feeling you get in your stomach when you think the party's over before it's even started? Well, last Thursday afternoon, when I woke up gasping for air to the sound of fat rain drops hitting the roof of my polyester tent, I panicked. I woke up Mr Jamm and declared I was going home after breakfast as I couldn't bear another mudfest. He said I was being dramatic, but he humoured me anyway. We got into our wellies and raincoats and I self righteously packed all my stuff ready to head home a mere 24 hours into being there. The day before had been beautiful, and I knew, I just knew that this would happen. I don't like rain, I don't like having wet socks and hands, I don't like not being able to sit down anywhere. Yes, after breakfast, I would be going home. The decision had been made.
We trudged over to Café Tango and ordered two veggie breakfasts’ and took our coffees to the comfy low chairs and tables. Watching people slip and slide in the mud as they walked past depressed me. Breakfast arrived on recycled paper plates and wooden cutlery. Eggs, beans, veggie sausage, wholemeal toast and a spinach and mushroom extravaganza. The beans were homemade and I'd usually turn my nose up at the ponciness of it all, but these were delicious. Veggie sausages were impressive - crispy on the outside and a herby taste sensation on the inside. The mushrooms and spinach were my favourite bit – sautéed with spring onions and black pepper. The only let down was the wholemeal toast which came without butter (or anything for that matter). The eggs were fine, if slightly over cooked.
The highlight and light at the end of my blue funk was the coffee. If I could have coffee like that every day it would change my life. And indeed, it helped change my mind about leaving. I stopped seeing the slipping and sliding and noticed that people were actually laughing in the mud while I'd sat there fuming and thinking about the nearest train station. I suddenly felt ridiculous for coming over all prudish. And sure enough, by the next morning, the sun had started to shine again. I even got a tan. And I got to see Leonard Cohen. Café Tango can have my £7 any day.
The Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
You know the sinking feeling you get in your stomach when you think the party's over before it's even started? Well, last Thursday afternoon, when I woke up gasping for air to the sound of fat rain drops hitting the roof of my polyester tent, I panicked. I woke up Mr Jamm and declared I was going home after breakfast as I couldn't bear another mudfest. He said I was being dramatic, but he humoured me anyway. We got into our wellies and raincoats and I self righteously packed all my stuff ready to head home a mere 24 hours into being there. The day before had been beautiful, and I knew, I just knew that this would happen. I don't like rain, I don't like having wet socks and hands, I don't like not being able to sit down anywhere. Yes, after breakfast, I would be going home. The decision had been made.
We trudged over to Café Tango and ordered two veggie breakfasts’ and took our coffees to the comfy low chairs and tables. Watching people slip and slide in the mud as they walked past depressed me. Breakfast arrived on recycled paper plates and wooden cutlery. Eggs, beans, veggie sausage, wholemeal toast and a spinach and mushroom extravaganza. The beans were homemade and I'd usually turn my nose up at the ponciness of it all, but these were delicious. Veggie sausages were impressive - crispy on the outside and a herby taste sensation on the inside. The mushrooms and spinach were my favourite bit – sautéed with spring onions and black pepper. The only let down was the wholemeal toast which came without butter (or anything for that matter). The eggs were fine, if slightly over cooked.
The highlight and light at the end of my blue funk was the coffee. If I could have coffee like that every day it would change my life. And indeed, it helped change my mind about leaving. I stopped seeing the slipping and sliding and noticed that people were actually laughing in the mud while I'd sat there fuming and thinking about the nearest train station. I suddenly felt ridiculous for coming over all prudish. And sure enough, by the next morning, the sun had started to shine again. I even got a tan. And I got to see Leonard Cohen. Café Tango can have my £7 any day.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Shoreditch House, Shoreditch
Shoreditch House
Ebor St
Shoreditch
E1 6AW
020 7739 5040
www.shoreditchhouse.com
(Members and guests only)
by Malcolm Eggs
As you enter, the clientele look you up and down. They check your shoes, observe your hair and guess your position in life’s unwritten hierarchy. “I’m in Shoreditch House. Who are you?” go their internal monologues – over and over and over, like coked up metronomes.
As with all members’ clubs, this is about the childhood desire to be included rather than excluded, or rather what happens to this basic need when it’s masked with grown-up condiments: bricks, mortar, a marketing plan, money, chefs, other stuff and – at Shoreditch House – a great interior designer. The décor really sweeps you away, each sofa being as rejuvenating as an upmarket milkshake, each chandelier having its own personality, every cascade of bookshelves scattered with yellowed manuscripts, old globes, antique cameras, board games... Oh god, it’s mesmerising. Like the secret HQ of a creative industries Bond villain. A waiter briskly delivers aromatic coffee and cool iced water to us both – and as I wait for my Full English I sink into a sort of comfortable acceptance and find myself ranking the people who were looking at me as I entered.
Everything about my breakfast is wonderful. Apart from the emptiness at its heart. And I don’t mean that metaphorically; I mean that the bacon and eggs – surely the Romeo and Juliet of any proper fry-up – are a disgrace. The sausage, mushrooms, beans, toast and tomatoes are perfect, juicy, hot, perfect and juicy respectively – but so what? When the egg has the wrong things in common with frogspawn, and the bacon shares the wrong values with Ian Beal, everything else is a consolation prize, a wooden spoon, Christina from the 1990s Neighbours twins.
They say a members’ club gets the breakfast it deserves. In a strange way, I think I wanted Shoreditch House to deserve better. I don’t know why. Maybe it got to me with its almost preposterous comfiness, or maybe the urge to be a paid-up member of something – dormant since I joined Desparate Dan’s Cowpie Eaters Club at the age of 8 – is still rattling around in there, somewhere.
Ebor St
Shoreditch
E1 6AW
020 7739 5040
www.shoreditchhouse.com
(Members and guests only)
by Malcolm Eggs
As you enter, the clientele look you up and down. They check your shoes, observe your hair and guess your position in life’s unwritten hierarchy. “I’m in Shoreditch House. Who are you?” go their internal monologues – over and over and over, like coked up metronomes.
As with all members’ clubs, this is about the childhood desire to be included rather than excluded, or rather what happens to this basic need when it’s masked with grown-up condiments: bricks, mortar, a marketing plan, money, chefs, other stuff and – at Shoreditch House – a great interior designer. The décor really sweeps you away, each sofa being as rejuvenating as an upmarket milkshake, each chandelier having its own personality, every cascade of bookshelves scattered with yellowed manuscripts, old globes, antique cameras, board games... Oh god, it’s mesmerising. Like the secret HQ of a creative industries Bond villain. A waiter briskly delivers aromatic coffee and cool iced water to us both – and as I wait for my Full English I sink into a sort of comfortable acceptance and find myself ranking the people who were looking at me as I entered.
Everything about my breakfast is wonderful. Apart from the emptiness at its heart. And I don’t mean that metaphorically; I mean that the bacon and eggs – surely the Romeo and Juliet of any proper fry-up – are a disgrace. The sausage, mushrooms, beans, toast and tomatoes are perfect, juicy, hot, perfect and juicy respectively – but so what? When the egg has the wrong things in common with frogspawn, and the bacon shares the wrong values with Ian Beal, everything else is a consolation prize, a wooden spoon, Christina from the 1990s Neighbours twins.
They say a members’ club gets the breakfast it deserves. In a strange way, I think I wanted Shoreditch House to deserve better. I don’t know why. Maybe it got to me with its almost preposterous comfiness, or maybe the urge to be a paid-up member of something – dormant since I joined Desparate Dan’s Cowpie Eaters Club at the age of 8 – is still rattling around in there, somewhere.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Coco Momo Cafe Bar, Marylebone
Coco Momo Cafe Bar
79 Marylebone High St
Marylebone
W1U 5JZ
www.cocomomo.co.uk
by Farls Bronson
Early Sunday. At no other point does London feel so muted, like the whole place has taken a cue from its inhabitants and remains wrapped in a duvet until the excesses of the night before wear off. On the rare occasion I’m up, I love this chance to watch the city yawn and stretch back to life. Steve and I were early for an appointment and had designs on a breakfast.
Walking up a deserted Marylebone High Street we came across Coco Momo Cafe bar. Its colonial exterior was bathed in early sunlight and we quickly decided to shun the smart, wooden interior for an alfresco breakfast. It may have been our untidy appearance next to the well-groomed locals (Steve McBean had been up gathering foodstuffs from the hedgerows of Abney Park) but it took a while for our smiley waitress to arrive with our coffees and subsequently disappear with an order of one meat and one veggie breakfast. The coffee was decent though. Black and strong, exactly the caffeinated defibrillation needed, and time spent enjoying the sunshine is never wasted... But when the food arrived I was shaken from this bright bliss. The portions were meagre given the £7.25 price tag, and I was hungry.
I couldn’t fault the ingredients. The bacon was lightly smoked and streaky. The sausages were coarse, with a hint of sage and pepper (although I’d be surprised to find inferior pork this close to the Ginger Pig). The problem was how they were cooked. The bacon was cold and uncrisp and the sausage was lukewarm. Steve reckoned that the veggie sausages were the same standard brand that he buys. I pointed out that nothing highlights the folly of vegetarianism like a veggie sausage, but was told to shut up. The fried eggs were O.K. but with a ring of uncooked white surrounding the yolk. The one salvation was a large field mushroom, perfectly seasoned, with a hint of garlic and cooked just long enough to be juicy throughout. But it’s a sad state of affairs when a side act has to take centre stage.
We left not quite satisfied. The staff had been friendly and the surrounding idyllic. If only the breakfast had lived up to the setting.
79 Marylebone High St
Marylebone
W1U 5JZ
www.cocomomo.co.uk
by Farls Bronson
Early Sunday. At no other point does London feel so muted, like the whole place has taken a cue from its inhabitants and remains wrapped in a duvet until the excesses of the night before wear off. On the rare occasion I’m up, I love this chance to watch the city yawn and stretch back to life. Steve and I were early for an appointment and had designs on a breakfast.
Walking up a deserted Marylebone High Street we came across Coco Momo Cafe bar. Its colonial exterior was bathed in early sunlight and we quickly decided to shun the smart, wooden interior for an alfresco breakfast. It may have been our untidy appearance next to the well-groomed locals (Steve McBean had been up gathering foodstuffs from the hedgerows of Abney Park) but it took a while for our smiley waitress to arrive with our coffees and subsequently disappear with an order of one meat and one veggie breakfast. The coffee was decent though. Black and strong, exactly the caffeinated defibrillation needed, and time spent enjoying the sunshine is never wasted... But when the food arrived I was shaken from this bright bliss. The portions were meagre given the £7.25 price tag, and I was hungry.
I couldn’t fault the ingredients. The bacon was lightly smoked and streaky. The sausages were coarse, with a hint of sage and pepper (although I’d be surprised to find inferior pork this close to the Ginger Pig). The problem was how they were cooked. The bacon was cold and uncrisp and the sausage was lukewarm. Steve reckoned that the veggie sausages were the same standard brand that he buys. I pointed out that nothing highlights the folly of vegetarianism like a veggie sausage, but was told to shut up. The fried eggs were O.K. but with a ring of uncooked white surrounding the yolk. The one salvation was a large field mushroom, perfectly seasoned, with a hint of garlic and cooked just long enough to be juicy throughout. But it’s a sad state of affairs when a side act has to take centre stage.
We left not quite satisfied. The staff had been friendly and the surrounding idyllic. If only the breakfast had lived up to the setting.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Carluccio's, Terminal 5, Heathrow
Carluccio’s
Terminal 5 (pre-security)
Heathrow
TW6
www.carluccios.com
by Hashley Brown
In the past I’ve been somewhat disappointed by airport breakfasts; all that early morning struggling is seldom rewarded by the delicious breakfasty bounty it surely deserves. So when faced with an imminent departure from Heathrow Terminal 5, I succumbed to an understandable degree of scepticism (whilst narrowly avoiding any lost bag jokes at check-in).
This glorious cavern of international travel (it really is very nice inside), home to so many shattered dreams, now seems to have picked itself up from recent catastrophes - although one brief look at the website shows that post-security breakfasting options are limited to the mundane. Giraffe, Eat, Starbucks and Generic-Airport-Pub sit alongside more off-beat options such as Itsu and Wagamama (whose Japanese breakfasts I’ll be trying next time), but overall it displays a singular lack of imagination in airport service design. It must be the same people who are responsible for sticking a ‘Caviar House and Prunerie’ and a ‘Win a supercar’ stall in every British airport; such a peculiar reflection on the British psyche.
However there is one breakfasting ray of light in this whole situation, and it shines in pre-security land. Just after check-in sits Carluccio’s, whose breakfasting options are wonderfully robust. My uova e funghi, rich scrambled eggs and those famous Carluccio’s mushrooms sad side by side on a chunk of good fresh country bread. Although this humble public servant’s expense account didn't run to the full Italo-English melee, which throws pancetta into the mix, the quality of food on my plate was enough to reassure me that that just about anything this behemoth of Italy in England churns out will be good. Add great coffee and Terminal 5 looked more enticing by the mouthful.
The only problem being that with fast broken before one passes security, there really is nothing else to do but munch that beluga and dream of Ferraris.
PS. If you do try this, look out for the entertaining antics of the eyebrow plucking manager (permanently surprised v. terrahawks extra) and the surly waiter who looks disarmingly like the fat stupid one from The Wire.
Terminal 5 (pre-security)
Heathrow
TW6
www.carluccios.com
by Hashley Brown
In the past I’ve been somewhat disappointed by airport breakfasts; all that early morning struggling is seldom rewarded by the delicious breakfasty bounty it surely deserves. So when faced with an imminent departure from Heathrow Terminal 5, I succumbed to an understandable degree of scepticism (whilst narrowly avoiding any lost bag jokes at check-in).
This glorious cavern of international travel (it really is very nice inside), home to so many shattered dreams, now seems to have picked itself up from recent catastrophes - although one brief look at the website shows that post-security breakfasting options are limited to the mundane. Giraffe, Eat, Starbucks and Generic-Airport-Pub sit alongside more off-beat options such as Itsu and Wagamama (whose Japanese breakfasts I’ll be trying next time), but overall it displays a singular lack of imagination in airport service design. It must be the same people who are responsible for sticking a ‘Caviar House and Prunerie’ and a ‘Win a supercar’ stall in every British airport; such a peculiar reflection on the British psyche.
However there is one breakfasting ray of light in this whole situation, and it shines in pre-security land. Just after check-in sits Carluccio’s, whose breakfasting options are wonderfully robust. My uova e funghi, rich scrambled eggs and those famous Carluccio’s mushrooms sad side by side on a chunk of good fresh country bread. Although this humble public servant’s expense account didn't run to the full Italo-English melee, which throws pancetta into the mix, the quality of food on my plate was enough to reassure me that that just about anything this behemoth of Italy in England churns out will be good. Add great coffee and Terminal 5 looked more enticing by the mouthful.
The only problem being that with fast broken before one passes security, there really is nothing else to do but munch that beluga and dream of Ferraris.
PS. If you do try this, look out for the entertaining antics of the eyebrow plucking manager (permanently surprised v. terrahawks extra) and the surly waiter who looks disarmingly like the fat stupid one from The Wire.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Breakfasts in Art: Bernard Sumner's fry up
Breakfasts in Art #2
Control by Anton Corbijn
by H.P. Seuss
I do not think any reader will mind my beginning this discussion by relaying the following joke:
I went to see that Joy Division film the other night. And you'll never guess who was sitting in front of me: Beth Ditto! Only she kept getting up and blocking my view. "Sit down Beth!", I cried. "You're standing in the way of Control!"
Unfortunately, Control is no longer in the cinemas, the Gossip's Standing in the Way of Control is not as ubiquitious as it was when it was, and this delightful joke, once so fresh, is as stale as a Victor Lewis Smith TV column. Fans of metatextuality will be pleased to note that since Victor
Lewis Smith no longer writes his stale TV column, this reference itself is stale, deliberately so. For such is the way with pop cultural ephemera, which is why the London Review of Breakfast purports to report the news from eternity as well as review breakfasts.
But this is all besides the point, the point being the scene in Control in which a cooked breakfast is prepared by Bernard Sumner for himself and Ian Curtis. I say breakfast, though the meal is clearly consumed in the evening, because its constituent parts are as follows:
Eggs
Beans
Sausage
Fried slice
It is a memorable scene. Ian (Sam Riley) is at a low ebb. Embroiled in an extra-marital affair, afflicted by epilepsy and exhaustion, he has left his long-suffering wife Deborah (beautifully portrayed by Samantha Morton) and has been forced to stay with his bandmate Bernard (played James Anthony Pearson). The meal is Bernard's way of accommodating, even comforting his friend, drawing him out of himself.
I do not imagine women in late-Seventies Macclesfield were stern advocates of the Five-a-Day, but even so, there is something very male about the unhealthiness of the concoction, its particular combination of ingredients, washed down with tea; the kitchen was then still foreign territory even for relatively mild, intellectual men such as Bernard, and you suspect Deborah would have done a better job, that Ian would need the HP Sauce on the table to render it palatable, had he any appetite at all.
Conversation is stilted; Ian does not open up; the meal does not mark a turning point. But Bernard is mothering Ian as far as the strictures of northern masculinity and his own competence will allow and this is very touching. There, in a pool of grease, is a sad truth about male friendship.
Control by Anton Corbijn
by H.P. Seuss
I do not think any reader will mind my beginning this discussion by relaying the following joke:
I went to see that Joy Division film the other night. And you'll never guess who was sitting in front of me: Beth Ditto! Only she kept getting up and blocking my view. "Sit down Beth!", I cried. "You're standing in the way of Control!"
Unfortunately, Control is no longer in the cinemas, the Gossip's Standing in the Way of Control is not as ubiquitious as it was when it was, and this delightful joke, once so fresh, is as stale as a Victor Lewis Smith TV column. Fans of metatextuality will be pleased to note that since Victor
Lewis Smith no longer writes his stale TV column, this reference itself is stale, deliberately so. For such is the way with pop cultural ephemera, which is why the London Review of Breakfast purports to report the news from eternity as well as review breakfasts.
But this is all besides the point, the point being the scene in Control in which a cooked breakfast is prepared by Bernard Sumner for himself and Ian Curtis. I say breakfast, though the meal is clearly consumed in the evening, because its constituent parts are as follows:
Eggs
Beans
Sausage
Fried slice
It is a memorable scene. Ian (Sam Riley) is at a low ebb. Embroiled in an extra-marital affair, afflicted by epilepsy and exhaustion, he has left his long-suffering wife Deborah (beautifully portrayed by Samantha Morton) and has been forced to stay with his bandmate Bernard (played James Anthony Pearson). The meal is Bernard's way of accommodating, even comforting his friend, drawing him out of himself.
I do not imagine women in late-Seventies Macclesfield were stern advocates of the Five-a-Day, but even so, there is something very male about the unhealthiness of the concoction, its particular combination of ingredients, washed down with tea; the kitchen was then still foreign territory even for relatively mild, intellectual men such as Bernard, and you suspect Deborah would have done a better job, that Ian would need the HP Sauce on the table to render it palatable, had he any appetite at all.
Conversation is stilted; Ian does not open up; the meal does not mark a turning point. But Bernard is mothering Ian as far as the strictures of northern masculinity and his own competence will allow and this is very touching. There, in a pool of grease, is a sad truth about male friendship.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Cecconi's, Mayfair
Cecconi’s
5 - 5a Burlington Gardens
Mayfair
W1X 1LE
020 7434 1500
www.cecconis.co.uk
From the diary of Miss Eggletina Benedict (as seen by Orva Easy)
Dear Diary,
Bunked off for breakfast at Cecconi’s with the girls today – Granola and Nutella are over from Capri - such a pair of darlings though Granola’s a bit on the neurotic side if you ask me - a mecca of the rich and famous, they said! Tinted windows and everything, though I didn’t recognise anyone. George (not the gardener, the new security man, lovely chap, one eye, neck like a Hummer tyre) had a squint at the menu while I waited in the Daimler and I was reassured to note the outrageous expense to which they put you for the privilege of breakfasting in such exclusive surroundings. That reminds me, must ask Daddy to transfer a few quid. Can’t imagine why I haven’t been there before!
Rather nice inside I must say! Lovely soft lighting (well, darking, more accurately, couldn’t see a bloody thing for the first five mins). Splendid velvet banquettes and green leather chairs, rather reminded me of the inside of the old man’s vintage MG, though he’d probably use those white tablecloths to wipe the oil off his hands, the old mucker. Just my sort of place anyway, I thought.
Breakfast was super, decidedly up to scratch. I had yummy eggs Florentine - perfect - oozy yolks, soft whites, absolute lashings of hollandaise, (not too sharp or vinegary like that strange yellow goop we get at school) and soooooooo much spinach! And of course, a deliciously doughy Good Old English muffin. Yum!
But you know what… I hesitate to complain. Really I do, it seems dreadfully vulgar, but frankly, I felt rather let down. The service is just awful. Really, spectacularly, almost amusingly dire. Truculent is the word Nutty used (she’s awfully clever!) but dozy isn’t far off. George was all for having a word but I thought that was a bit much. One doesn’t like to make a scene. Shopping in Bond Street after then back to school in time for double maths, bor-ring! Can't wait for the hols!!!
5 - 5a Burlington Gardens
Mayfair
W1X 1LE
020 7434 1500
www.cecconis.co.uk
From the diary of Miss Eggletina Benedict (as seen by Orva Easy)
Dear Diary,
Bunked off for breakfast at Cecconi’s with the girls today – Granola and Nutella are over from Capri - such a pair of darlings though Granola’s a bit on the neurotic side if you ask me - a mecca of the rich and famous, they said! Tinted windows and everything, though I didn’t recognise anyone. George (not the gardener, the new security man, lovely chap, one eye, neck like a Hummer tyre) had a squint at the menu while I waited in the Daimler and I was reassured to note the outrageous expense to which they put you for the privilege of breakfasting in such exclusive surroundings. That reminds me, must ask Daddy to transfer a few quid. Can’t imagine why I haven’t been there before!
Rather nice inside I must say! Lovely soft lighting (well, darking, more accurately, couldn’t see a bloody thing for the first five mins). Splendid velvet banquettes and green leather chairs, rather reminded me of the inside of the old man’s vintage MG, though he’d probably use those white tablecloths to wipe the oil off his hands, the old mucker. Just my sort of place anyway, I thought.
Breakfast was super, decidedly up to scratch. I had yummy eggs Florentine - perfect - oozy yolks, soft whites, absolute lashings of hollandaise, (not too sharp or vinegary like that strange yellow goop we get at school) and soooooooo much spinach! And of course, a deliciously doughy Good Old English muffin. Yum!
But you know what… I hesitate to complain. Really I do, it seems dreadfully vulgar, but frankly, I felt rather let down. The service is just awful. Really, spectacularly, almost amusingly dire. Truculent is the word Nutty used (she’s awfully clever!) but dozy isn’t far off. George was all for having a word but I thought that was a bit much. One doesn’t like to make a scene. Shopping in Bond Street after then back to school in time for double maths, bor-ring! Can't wait for the hols!!!
Monday, June 09, 2008
Op-Egg: What we talk about when we talk about wedding breakfasts
by Hashley Brown
Getting married is a fraught business. Not only do you have the standard barriers to progress: the mother-in-law, invitations, what socks to wear; you also have to think about feeding people. In the face of this sticky problem, the new Mrs Brown and I decided to ignore it altogether. We made this decision not only because wedding meals can be tedious, relative-filled affairs, but also because they are so inappropriately named. No wedding breakfast I can think of has ever had a fried egg in it.
Whilst you may argue that the significance of the name lies in the breaking of the fast of bachelor-hood, I feel this literal interpretation leaves much to be desired and casts breakfast in a thoroughly unsavoury light. To my mind, breakfast is a celebration. Each morning one revels in the light of a new day. It is an existential marker one eats to affirm that he or she made it through the night.
It is disingenuous then to talk of a wedding breakfast, when in reality there are two real wedding breakfasts to consider: what one eats at the start of their wedding day, as celebration of life so far, and to gird the loins for challenges ahead; and what one eats with their bride or groom on the first glorious morning of married life. To me these meals are crucial - setting the tenor of both the wedding and the marriage to come.
In a concession to tradition, Mrs Brown and I spent the night before our wedding apart. I was hosted by friends and when bleary eyed - and with a hint of trepidation - crawled down their stairs on the big day, I was greeted with that cheery and heart warming call of 'Breakfast?'. What to eat on a morning like this? Not enough and you risk collapsing at the altar, too much and that knot in your stomach becomes an unpleasant sausagey one. My host, A., took the decision out of my hands and within moments had plated up 2 poached eggs on granary, with a watercress salad on the side. In one fell swoop she had provided me with a hefty protein hit for the day, whilst eschewing any greasy unpleasantness. Full marks to the lady, I thought, as I sat around the table with my best-man and good friends feeling the warm glow of breakfasting communion. I felt prepared, both emotionally and physically, for the day ahead.
[What followed went smoothly and safe to say there was no altar collapsing thanks to the prescience of my host.]
As dawn broke on the first breakfast of my married life, Mrs Brown and I were ensconced in the warm 16th century embrace of the Rookery Hotel in Clerkenwell. Thankfully there was to be none of that awkward breakfast buffet small talk, or sipping from ludicrously small glasses of juice that one can often experience in a hotel breakfast, as the Rookery only serves breakfast in bed. Not all breakfast options are suitable for leisurely and prostrate eating either, and thankfully no plates of sloppy beans or obstinate egg combinations were on offer. What arrived, on a substantial and sturdy wooden tray, was a breakfast to remember.
A bacon sandwich for me and a basket of fresh pastries for her came surrounded with freshly squeezed juices, dark velvety coffee and reassuring tea in a generous pot. It was a simple yet luxurious way to start the day. The bacon was thick cut and old-spot in a fresh warm ciabatta, the pastries and bread were glowing in that just baked rather than just re-microwaved way, and once we'd opened the complimentary bottle of champagne that we hadn't had the wherewithal to pop in the small hours of our arrival, a sumptuous feast was guaranteed. This wedding breakfast had no need to be fat free or considerate of the events of the day ahead. What it needed was to be decadent, to celebrate the start of something special...
Mr & Mrs Brown are still married.
Getting married is a fraught business. Not only do you have the standard barriers to progress: the mother-in-law, invitations, what socks to wear; you also have to think about feeding people. In the face of this sticky problem, the new Mrs Brown and I decided to ignore it altogether. We made this decision not only because wedding meals can be tedious, relative-filled affairs, but also because they are so inappropriately named. No wedding breakfast I can think of has ever had a fried egg in it.
Whilst you may argue that the significance of the name lies in the breaking of the fast of bachelor-hood, I feel this literal interpretation leaves much to be desired and casts breakfast in a thoroughly unsavoury light. To my mind, breakfast is a celebration. Each morning one revels in the light of a new day. It is an existential marker one eats to affirm that he or she made it through the night.
It is disingenuous then to talk of a wedding breakfast, when in reality there are two real wedding breakfasts to consider: what one eats at the start of their wedding day, as celebration of life so far, and to gird the loins for challenges ahead; and what one eats with their bride or groom on the first glorious morning of married life. To me these meals are crucial - setting the tenor of both the wedding and the marriage to come.
In a concession to tradition, Mrs Brown and I spent the night before our wedding apart. I was hosted by friends and when bleary eyed - and with a hint of trepidation - crawled down their stairs on the big day, I was greeted with that cheery and heart warming call of 'Breakfast?'. What to eat on a morning like this? Not enough and you risk collapsing at the altar, too much and that knot in your stomach becomes an unpleasant sausagey one. My host, A., took the decision out of my hands and within moments had plated up 2 poached eggs on granary, with a watercress salad on the side. In one fell swoop she had provided me with a hefty protein hit for the day, whilst eschewing any greasy unpleasantness. Full marks to the lady, I thought, as I sat around the table with my best-man and good friends feeling the warm glow of breakfasting communion. I felt prepared, both emotionally and physically, for the day ahead.
[What followed went smoothly and safe to say there was no altar collapsing thanks to the prescience of my host.]
As dawn broke on the first breakfast of my married life, Mrs Brown and I were ensconced in the warm 16th century embrace of the Rookery Hotel in Clerkenwell. Thankfully there was to be none of that awkward breakfast buffet small talk, or sipping from ludicrously small glasses of juice that one can often experience in a hotel breakfast, as the Rookery only serves breakfast in bed. Not all breakfast options are suitable for leisurely and prostrate eating either, and thankfully no plates of sloppy beans or obstinate egg combinations were on offer. What arrived, on a substantial and sturdy wooden tray, was a breakfast to remember.
A bacon sandwich for me and a basket of fresh pastries for her came surrounded with freshly squeezed juices, dark velvety coffee and reassuring tea in a generous pot. It was a simple yet luxurious way to start the day. The bacon was thick cut and old-spot in a fresh warm ciabatta, the pastries and bread were glowing in that just baked rather than just re-microwaved way, and once we'd opened the complimentary bottle of champagne that we hadn't had the wherewithal to pop in the small hours of our arrival, a sumptuous feast was guaranteed. This wedding breakfast had no need to be fat free or considerate of the events of the day ahead. What it needed was to be decadent, to celebrate the start of something special...
Mr & Mrs Brown are still married.
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