Guy Fawkes Inn
25 High Petergate
York YO1 7HP
www.gfyork.com
01904 623 716
by OJ Simpson
Why must we remember the 5th of November
For gunpowder treason and plot?
It’s much more pleasing to order two teas and
Sit down to eat something hot.
Guy Fawkes in York
Was where we went,
To see where Guy was born, and then,
To break our fast and ease the woe,
With slices of hot toasted dough.
By God's providence this she match'd,
With egg and haddock freshly catch’d.
Holloa Boys, Holloa boys, I chose fried things,
Holloa Boys, Holloa Boys, fit for a King!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Hip Hip Hoorah!
Tomatoes, mushroom, two eggs poached,
Black pudding, beans and bacon,
A pot of tea to rinse it down,
Until you’re filled to bursting.
Much tastier this way by far,
To celebrate a blazing star.
Don’t burn his body, toast your bread.
Then we'll say: ol' hunger’s dead.
Friday, November 05, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Roast, Borough
Roast
The Floral Hall
Stoney Street
Borough
SE1 1TL
0845 034 7300
www.roast-restaurant.com
by T.N. Toost
Malcolm recognized me from my pictures online, shouting “Mr. Toost!” when I passed the London Bridge newsstand. We embraced and walked through Borough Market to Roast. Its cathedral-like dining room was populated with businesspeople and dealmakers and one other guy who looked out of place, like us.
“I’m glad someone else is wearing a t-shirt,” I whispered, and Malcolm grinned.
It was somewhat awkward to peruse the menu and try to keep a conversation going at the same time, but we managed, making small talk about the options. Ten-year-old tea what? That sounds Chinese and I thought this is a purely English establishment. It either makes no sense orrrr there’s 10-year-old tea on the menu and it’s not a purely English establishment... There was no point, really, as there was no question as to what we would be ordering.
“Full English, please.” £15.00. He wasn’t a cheap date.
“And one for myself as well, thanks.” Neither was I.
It’s a distinct feature of this generation that people can correspond for years without ever meeting face-to-face and, when it finally happens, real conversation can be awkward. There were at least two points at which I wished we’d had computers; emailing would have felt more normal. Proper conversation over proper coffee is a precious commodity, though, and soon everything started to feel more normal.
Besides, we didn’t have much time for awkwardness; the food came out before we’d had time to take three sips of coffee.
“Fantastic,” I said as I saw the waitress approaching.
“Shit,” Malcolm said after she’d left.
What he had immediately realized was that serving speed is not a virtue here as it is in the States, where we want things fast and damn the consequences. Speed means that the food was reheated rather than cooked to order. If you shell out £15 for a full English, you should be served just-picked tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade sausage, beans hand-selected and matched for aesthetic consistency, bacon cut from a live pig and eggs still smelling like a hen’s hooha.
Which is not what we got. The eggs were warm, bordering on hot. The bacon yielded flaccidly to my teeth. In a £15 breakfast, the mushroom should make you hallucinate; we got a non-descript portobello. The sausage had a crisp outer shell but the inside cloyed to our gums and cheeks. The blood sausage was admittedly delicious, but knowing that Roast is widely considered to serve the best breakfast in London, this was a consolation as lukewarm as the food.
We left; I think Malcolm felt a bit embarrassed at having taken me there. He had said that he needed a special occasion to go to Roast, and that my visit was it. I hope he doesn't invite me there next time, as that would be an elaborate insult of the kind that email can never convey.
The Floral Hall
Stoney Street
Borough
SE1 1TL
0845 034 7300
www.roast-restaurant.com
by T.N. Toost
Malcolm recognized me from my pictures online, shouting “Mr. Toost!” when I passed the London Bridge newsstand. We embraced and walked through Borough Market to Roast. Its cathedral-like dining room was populated with businesspeople and dealmakers and one other guy who looked out of place, like us.
“I’m glad someone else is wearing a t-shirt,” I whispered, and Malcolm grinned.
It was somewhat awkward to peruse the menu and try to keep a conversation going at the same time, but we managed, making small talk about the options. Ten-year-old tea what? That sounds Chinese and I thought this is a purely English establishment. It either makes no sense orrrr there’s 10-year-old tea on the menu and it’s not a purely English establishment... There was no point, really, as there was no question as to what we would be ordering.
“Full English, please.” £15.00. He wasn’t a cheap date.
“And one for myself as well, thanks.” Neither was I.
It’s a distinct feature of this generation that people can correspond for years without ever meeting face-to-face and, when it finally happens, real conversation can be awkward. There were at least two points at which I wished we’d had computers; emailing would have felt more normal. Proper conversation over proper coffee is a precious commodity, though, and soon everything started to feel more normal.
Besides, we didn’t have much time for awkwardness; the food came out before we’d had time to take three sips of coffee.
“Fantastic,” I said as I saw the waitress approaching.
“Shit,” Malcolm said after she’d left.
What he had immediately realized was that serving speed is not a virtue here as it is in the States, where we want things fast and damn the consequences. Speed means that the food was reheated rather than cooked to order. If you shell out £15 for a full English, you should be served just-picked tomatoes and mushrooms, homemade sausage, beans hand-selected and matched for aesthetic consistency, bacon cut from a live pig and eggs still smelling like a hen’s hooha.
Which is not what we got. The eggs were warm, bordering on hot. The bacon yielded flaccidly to my teeth. In a £15 breakfast, the mushroom should make you hallucinate; we got a non-descript portobello. The sausage had a crisp outer shell but the inside cloyed to our gums and cheeks. The blood sausage was admittedly delicious, but knowing that Roast is widely considered to serve the best breakfast in London, this was a consolation as lukewarm as the food.
We left; I think Malcolm felt a bit embarrassed at having taken me there. He had said that he needed a special occasion to go to Roast, and that my visit was it. I hope he doesn't invite me there next time, as that would be an elaborate insult of the kind that email can never convey.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
The Counter Cafe, Hackney Wick
The Counter Cafe
4a Roach Rd
Hackney Wick
E3 2PA
07952 696 388
www.thecountercafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
I had never really spent any time in Hackney Wick, at least not deliberately. Based on its reputation I was imagining an outland of free expression, a place where creativity could run untethered and naked. Monkeys playing accordions on the streets, men in berets judging my scale with gnawed thumbs. But deep down I knew I’d find a handful of timber depots plus the occasional person in a sleeveless flannel top.
When we finally glimpsed our target, alarm bells rang – those internal alerts we each install when we realise hipsters don’t run or frequent good food businesses.
For here they were both sides of the counter: girls with short bleached hair and billowing ethnic-print trousers; men with long hair, longer beards, NHS glasses, orange gingham shirts. A waiter’s cartoon-bear T-shirt, tucked into his tiny polyester shorts. Another’s braces hand-made from an unravelled length of blue packaging rope. Shouty folk music on the speakers and psychedelic art on the walls. Guardian newspapers everywhere. Hardly were those sights met when I closed my eyes and was troubled by a vast image: a stoned chef and a passive aggressive owner, pissing away a trust fund. In the background flashed mood-words such as ‘screenplay’, ‘site-specific theatre’ and ‘guerrilla gardening’. I braced myself for a bad breakfast.
Then my Big Breakfast (£8) arrived and it was really, really good. As good as the breakfast in Bistrotheque or Caravan, perhaps better for the genuine shock. The yolk of my fried egg? As golden as the voice of St Gregory of Nazianzus, mingling harmoniously with the baritone carbs - the jolly potato cake and ebullient buttered Vogel toast. Bacon and sausages were fit for a duke, and the beans, oh my, they were a rarity - homemade yet worth the effort: butter beans in a salacious sauce of tomato, rosemary, garlic and lemon. A large, succulent mushroom, a ramekin of tangy inhouse relish and good coffee completed the picture.
As if by magic a canal bridge made itself visible, enabling us to leave without retracing our steps. The Olympic Stadium loomed over us as if it wanted to say – there, now you know the truth about 2012. It’s whatever’s important to you. Follow your dream, my dear Malcolm. Yeah whatevs, I replied.
4a Roach Rd
Hackney Wick
E3 2PA
07952 696 388
www.thecountercafe.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
I had never really spent any time in Hackney Wick, at least not deliberately. Based on its reputation I was imagining an outland of free expression, a place where creativity could run untethered and naked. Monkeys playing accordions on the streets, men in berets judging my scale with gnawed thumbs. But deep down I knew I’d find a handful of timber depots plus the occasional person in a sleeveless flannel top.
When we finally glimpsed our target, alarm bells rang – those internal alerts we each install when we realise hipsters don’t run or frequent good food businesses.
For here they were both sides of the counter: girls with short bleached hair and billowing ethnic-print trousers; men with long hair, longer beards, NHS glasses, orange gingham shirts. A waiter’s cartoon-bear T-shirt, tucked into his tiny polyester shorts. Another’s braces hand-made from an unravelled length of blue packaging rope. Shouty folk music on the speakers and psychedelic art on the walls. Guardian newspapers everywhere. Hardly were those sights met when I closed my eyes and was troubled by a vast image: a stoned chef and a passive aggressive owner, pissing away a trust fund. In the background flashed mood-words such as ‘screenplay’, ‘site-specific theatre’ and ‘guerrilla gardening’. I braced myself for a bad breakfast.
Then my Big Breakfast (£8) arrived and it was really, really good. As good as the breakfast in Bistrotheque or Caravan, perhaps better for the genuine shock. The yolk of my fried egg? As golden as the voice of St Gregory of Nazianzus, mingling harmoniously with the baritone carbs - the jolly potato cake and ebullient buttered Vogel toast. Bacon and sausages were fit for a duke, and the beans, oh my, they were a rarity - homemade yet worth the effort: butter beans in a salacious sauce of tomato, rosemary, garlic and lemon. A large, succulent mushroom, a ramekin of tangy inhouse relish and good coffee completed the picture.
As if by magic a canal bridge made itself visible, enabling us to leave without retracing our steps. The Olympic Stadium loomed over us as if it wanted to say – there, now you know the truth about 2012. It’s whatever’s important to you. Follow your dream, my dear Malcolm. Yeah whatevs, I replied.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Joe Allen, Covent Garden
Joe Allen
13 Exeter Street
Covent Garden
WC2E 7DT
www.joeallen.co.uk
020 7836 0651
by Rhys Chris Peese
INT. JOE ALLEN - MORNING
Dark wood-panelled walls are covered with posters of long-forgotten musicals. On one side of the room is a well-stocked bar. It looks like it’s around 3am: it always looks like that in here, away from the natural light.
JAMES, a screenwriter, is typing on a Macbook. A waiter comes to refill his coffee. He grunts acknowledgement. He is the only customer: others have come and gone. Pull out to take in the door to the street. As it opens we realise that it’s actually 10am: daylight silhouettes RHYS, who walks in and joins JAMES. He speaks in a British accent.
RHYS
Sorry I’m late. Traffic in Kennington.
JAMES
No problem.
We take in the posters – all of which are for London productions. This confirms that we’re not in New York at all. The WAITER comes over: immaculately dressed, he looks like a younger Russell Crowe.
WAITER
Are you ready to order?
RHYS
I’ll have the full English please, with
scrambled eggs. And coffee.
JAMES
I’ll have the same.
The WAITER goes. RHYS stares at the table. JAMES leafs through Variety. Silence.
RHYS
I am massively hungover.
JAMES nods. Fade out.
Fade up. The WAITER returns with two plates and puts them in front of JAMES and RHYS. They each have two pale sausages, some bacon, scrambled eggs, black pudding, properly grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and half an English muffin. JAMES and RHYS set to eating.
JAMES
This is the best black pudding I’ve ever
tasted.
RHYS
The mushrooms are a bit watery.
JAMES
I don’t like mushrooms anyway. Do you
want mine?
RHYS
Yeah. OK.
The WAITER returns and refills their coffee. He leaves.
RHYS
Next time I might try the broiled
grapefruit.
Fade. End.
13 Exeter Street
Covent Garden
WC2E 7DT
www.joeallen.co.uk
020 7836 0651
by Rhys Chris Peese
INT. JOE ALLEN - MORNING
Dark wood-panelled walls are covered with posters of long-forgotten musicals. On one side of the room is a well-stocked bar. It looks like it’s around 3am: it always looks like that in here, away from the natural light.
JAMES, a screenwriter, is typing on a Macbook. A waiter comes to refill his coffee. He grunts acknowledgement. He is the only customer: others have come and gone. Pull out to take in the door to the street. As it opens we realise that it’s actually 10am: daylight silhouettes RHYS, who walks in and joins JAMES. He speaks in a British accent.
RHYS
Sorry I’m late. Traffic in Kennington.
JAMES
No problem.
We take in the posters – all of which are for London productions. This confirms that we’re not in New York at all. The WAITER comes over: immaculately dressed, he looks like a younger Russell Crowe.
WAITER
Are you ready to order?
RHYS
I’ll have the full English please, with
scrambled eggs. And coffee.
JAMES
I’ll have the same.
The WAITER goes. RHYS stares at the table. JAMES leafs through Variety. Silence.
RHYS
I am massively hungover.
JAMES nods. Fade out.
Fade up. The WAITER returns with two plates and puts them in front of JAMES and RHYS. They each have two pale sausages, some bacon, scrambled eggs, black pudding, properly grilled tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and half an English muffin. JAMES and RHYS set to eating.
JAMES
This is the best black pudding I’ve ever
tasted.
RHYS
The mushrooms are a bit watery.
JAMES
I don’t like mushrooms anyway. Do you
want mine?
RHYS
Yeah. OK.
The WAITER returns and refills their coffee. He leaves.
RHYS
Next time I might try the broiled
grapefruit.
Fade. End.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
La Casita, Streatham
La Casita
122 Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16 1BW
020 8664 6033
Breakfast served from 9am - 3pm (at time of writing)
by Cherie Funghi
Waking up late with gin breath requires immediate action: breakfast. And I’m certainly not talking about any of your muesli or fruit stuffs. Wretched and dehydrated, we dragged our broken bodies to La Casita.
A sign boasting fresh ground coffee excited my caffeine-thirsty eyes, but my mug arrived with the sad, undissolved remnants of instant granules. I swallowed my disappointment, too tired to argue, before our confused looking waiter informed us that there were no continental breakfasts, no city breakfasts and no tomatoes. At all.
A city breakfast, in case it isn’t obvious, is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a bagel. That is what people in cities have for breakfast. But not this morning. No. We had the choice of a Vegetarian, a full English, or a La Casita breakfast - the same plus chips. I went for the full English, which turned out to be quite a serious plate-a-food. Two massive bangers, a generous helping of mushrooms, griddled smoked bacon, a hash brown, piles of buttered toast, beans and half a grilled tomato. Hello.
The sugar sachets came with 2 tsp-worth of sugar in them. I failed to notice and added two to my coffee. It made for a disgusting error of judgment, but I persevered. The scrambled eggs were dry and rubbery so I ate them first to get them out the way, washed down with the coffee-syrup. What a mistake! I’d left no room for the best bits. I managed to force down the pleasingly thick-cut smoked bacon and inoffensively average hash brown, but the delicious buttery, herby mushrooms and meaty pork sausages were a stomach-stretch too far and were left practically untouched. It was a regrettable personal failure and this unhappy turn of events is proof that the best shouldn’t always be saved until last.
122 Streatham High Road
Streatham
SW16 1BW
020 8664 6033
Breakfast served from 9am - 3pm (at time of writing)
by Cherie Funghi
Waking up late with gin breath requires immediate action: breakfast. And I’m certainly not talking about any of your muesli or fruit stuffs. Wretched and dehydrated, we dragged our broken bodies to La Casita.
A sign boasting fresh ground coffee excited my caffeine-thirsty eyes, but my mug arrived with the sad, undissolved remnants of instant granules. I swallowed my disappointment, too tired to argue, before our confused looking waiter informed us that there were no continental breakfasts, no city breakfasts and no tomatoes. At all.
A city breakfast, in case it isn’t obvious, is scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on a bagel. That is what people in cities have for breakfast. But not this morning. No. We had the choice of a Vegetarian, a full English, or a La Casita breakfast - the same plus chips. I went for the full English, which turned out to be quite a serious plate-a-food. Two massive bangers, a generous helping of mushrooms, griddled smoked bacon, a hash brown, piles of buttered toast, beans and half a grilled tomato. Hello.
The sugar sachets came with 2 tsp-worth of sugar in them. I failed to notice and added two to my coffee. It made for a disgusting error of judgment, but I persevered. The scrambled eggs were dry and rubbery so I ate them first to get them out the way, washed down with the coffee-syrup. What a mistake! I’d left no room for the best bits. I managed to force down the pleasingly thick-cut smoked bacon and inoffensively average hash brown, but the delicious buttery, herby mushrooms and meaty pork sausages were a stomach-stretch too far and were left practically untouched. It was a regrettable personal failure and this unhappy turn of events is proof that the best shouldn’t always be saved until last.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Benjys Restaurant, Earl's Court
Benjys Restaurant
157 Earls Court Road
Earl's Court
London
SW5 9RQ
020 7373 0245
by Terry Teagleton
A fried English breakfast has to my mind one of two essential purposes - to line the stomach in preparation for a day's drinking; or to bring the comforts of stodgy, chewy grease to a body which has spent a yesterday drinking. We are here today for the first of these reasons and this caff - the first we came across on leaving Earl's Court tube - performs its task more than adequately.
Benjys gives the impression of a proper no-nonsense London establishment. The laminated menu supplies just three main breakfast options, a terse list of extras confined only to the absolute essentials (no fancy-schmancy hash browns here and even, to my great disappointment, no black pudding) plus tea, coffee and orange juice. In view of the profligate ingurgitations ahead of me, I opt for the builder's breakfast with extra fried mushrooms. Steve foolishly just has chips - a decision which is ill advised not for the lack of substance (Steve is a better drinker than me and anyway has already eaten) but because of the penny-filching minimum food cost of £3.90 per person in the menu's smallprint which will now catch him out.
Our food arrives in short order. The sausages are close to perfection - neither soggy nor dry, their unidentifiable contents pleasantly coating the mouth in greasy goodness and sliding effortlessly down the gullet. The same sadly cannot be said about the bacon, which has been incinerated almost into nonexistence and then, bizarrely, hidden *in between* the egg (on top) and the beans (underneath) as though the chef was rightly ashamed of his endeavour. The egg itself is uninspiring - not badly cooked, but one presumes produced by a chicken with little interest in life; and the beans are as beans are as beans always are - the great ubiquitous invariant of the breakfast plate.
Most of the other components are proficiently delivered but require little comment - there are chips, mushrooms and toast. The one remaining piece of the assembly is however noteworthy; it is the tomato. Benjys have eschewed the standard fried vegetable for an uncooked plum tomato forked out of a tin. I love the effrontery, the sheer chutzpah, of places which do this - we all know how cheap it is to buy a value tin of plum tomatoes from Tesco and how little effort is invoked in the opening of said tin and fishing out of said tomatoes, and yet it is a solution which Just Works, often better than a fried tomato which is frankly difficult for even the best of breakfasteers to make exciting. As I bite into my raw plum tomato a jet of bright red juice is sent spurting out right onto Steve’s shirt, adding to my general sense of satisfaction with the world.
The place is certainly popular, with intrepid tourists out of Earl's Court hotels rubbing shoulders with standard greasy spoon denizens - drifting urban wastrels and labouring men - to almost fill the place. But despite this the lone waitress manages to take orders and deliver plates of food and free refills of tea and coffee promptly and with a breezy professionalism. As we slowly finish our final coffees and get ready to pay and leave, I reflect that in spite of its several quirks Benjys has succeeded - it has produced a solid, ample, unashamedly physical fry up; a fry up to engage oneself with, to take one's time over - in other words, the very breakfast I needed.
157 Earls Court Road
Earl's Court
London
SW5 9RQ
020 7373 0245
by Terry Teagleton
A fried English breakfast has to my mind one of two essential purposes - to line the stomach in preparation for a day's drinking; or to bring the comforts of stodgy, chewy grease to a body which has spent a yesterday drinking. We are here today for the first of these reasons and this caff - the first we came across on leaving Earl's Court tube - performs its task more than adequately.
Benjys gives the impression of a proper no-nonsense London establishment. The laminated menu supplies just three main breakfast options, a terse list of extras confined only to the absolute essentials (no fancy-schmancy hash browns here and even, to my great disappointment, no black pudding) plus tea, coffee and orange juice. In view of the profligate ingurgitations ahead of me, I opt for the builder's breakfast with extra fried mushrooms. Steve foolishly just has chips - a decision which is ill advised not for the lack of substance (Steve is a better drinker than me and anyway has already eaten) but because of the penny-filching minimum food cost of £3.90 per person in the menu's smallprint which will now catch him out.
Our food arrives in short order. The sausages are close to perfection - neither soggy nor dry, their unidentifiable contents pleasantly coating the mouth in greasy goodness and sliding effortlessly down the gullet. The same sadly cannot be said about the bacon, which has been incinerated almost into nonexistence and then, bizarrely, hidden *in between* the egg (on top) and the beans (underneath) as though the chef was rightly ashamed of his endeavour. The egg itself is uninspiring - not badly cooked, but one presumes produced by a chicken with little interest in life; and the beans are as beans are as beans always are - the great ubiquitous invariant of the breakfast plate.
Most of the other components are proficiently delivered but require little comment - there are chips, mushrooms and toast. The one remaining piece of the assembly is however noteworthy; it is the tomato. Benjys have eschewed the standard fried vegetable for an uncooked plum tomato forked out of a tin. I love the effrontery, the sheer chutzpah, of places which do this - we all know how cheap it is to buy a value tin of plum tomatoes from Tesco and how little effort is invoked in the opening of said tin and fishing out of said tomatoes, and yet it is a solution which Just Works, often better than a fried tomato which is frankly difficult for even the best of breakfasteers to make exciting. As I bite into my raw plum tomato a jet of bright red juice is sent spurting out right onto Steve’s shirt, adding to my general sense of satisfaction with the world.
The place is certainly popular, with intrepid tourists out of Earl's Court hotels rubbing shoulders with standard greasy spoon denizens - drifting urban wastrels and labouring men - to almost fill the place. But despite this the lone waitress manages to take orders and deliver plates of food and free refills of tea and coffee promptly and with a breezy professionalism. As we slowly finish our final coffees and get ready to pay and leave, I reflect that in spite of its several quirks Benjys has succeeded - it has produced a solid, ample, unashamedly physical fry up; a fry up to engage oneself with, to take one's time over - in other words, the very breakfast I needed.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The brekkies: 10 of the best breakfasts available to humanity
by Malcolm Eggs
Exactly five years have passed since a morning when – in no small part to stave off the need to get up, have a shower and do something useful – I logged onto a blogging website and wrote something rousing about how a semi-invented ‘we’ was incredibly passionate about breakfast. It was surprising that the ‘we’ became a self-fulfilling overblown claim: no less than 80 individuals have joined my mission to cut out the gristle of lazy and disdainful breakfast-serving with the simple fork of truth and the trusty knife of literary pretension.
Five years in seems like a fitting moment to do something new, and compile a list of some of the best breakfasts we’ve sampled along the way. For the sake of usefulness I’m only including places that (a) are still open and (b) I’m reasonably confident have maintained their standards. A big apology goes to Konstam, recently closed in what is a tragedy both personal and regional – they consistently served some of the finest breakfasts we’d encountered and we miss them very much.
Here is the list, in alphabetical order. As always, we apologise for the East London bias.
Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson St, Bethnal Green E2
"It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning."
(Full review here)
Caravan, 11-13 Exmouth Market, Clerkenwell EC1R
"The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot"
(Full review here)
Hawksmoor, 157 Commercial St, Spitalfields E1
"The very definition of an event breakfast."
(Full review here)
Mess, 38 Amhurst Rd, Hackney E8
"Breakfast for two for just shy of a tenner - full marks for both, and happy tummies all round."
(Full review here)
Muratori, 162 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell EC1R
[Closed in early 2012] "I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast."
(Full review here)
Regency Cafe, 17-19 Regency St, Pimlico SW1P
"Explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness."
(Full review here)
The Uplands Cafe, 21 Upland Rd, East Dulwich SE22
"The kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?"
(Full review here)
The Walpole, 35 St Mary's Rd, Ealing W5
"A hearty, old-fashioned Full English."
(Full review here)
The Wapping Project, Wapping Wall, Wapping E1
"It was a good breakfast."
(Full review here)
York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, Camden Town NW1
"A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg…"
(Full review here)
Exactly five years have passed since a morning when – in no small part to stave off the need to get up, have a shower and do something useful – I logged onto a blogging website and wrote something rousing about how a semi-invented ‘we’ was incredibly passionate about breakfast. It was surprising that the ‘we’ became a self-fulfilling overblown claim: no less than 80 individuals have joined my mission to cut out the gristle of lazy and disdainful breakfast-serving with the simple fork of truth and the trusty knife of literary pretension.
Five years in seems like a fitting moment to do something new, and compile a list of some of the best breakfasts we’ve sampled along the way. For the sake of usefulness I’m only including places that (a) are still open and (b) I’m reasonably confident have maintained their standards. A big apology goes to Konstam, recently closed in what is a tragedy both personal and regional – they consistently served some of the finest breakfasts we’d encountered and we miss them very much.
Here is the list, in alphabetical order. As always, we apologise for the East London bias.
Bistrotheque, 23-27 Wadeson St, Bethnal Green E2
"It is, without doubt, the mark of a quality establishment, when you are offered the wine list at 11 in the morning."
(Full review here)
Caravan, 11-13 Exmouth Market, Clerkenwell EC1R
"The chorizo and eggs (£11 for two) were delivered chicken madras-style in a handled silver pot"
(Full review here)
Hawksmoor, 157 Commercial St, Spitalfields E1
"The very definition of an event breakfast."
(Full review here)
Mess, 38 Amhurst Rd, Hackney E8
"Breakfast for two for just shy of a tenner - full marks for both, and happy tummies all round."
(Full review here)
Muratori, 162 Farringdon Rd, Clerkenwell EC1R
[Closed in early 2012] "I'd learnt no more about the postal strike, but for less than £4 had had a lovely breakfast."
(Full review here)
Regency Cafe, 17-19 Regency St, Pimlico SW1P
"Explosively flavourful tomatoes gently frosted with char, a perfectly-fried egg slithering on brown toast of the exact right thickness."
(Full review here)
The Uplands Cafe, 21 Upland Rd, East Dulwich SE22
"The kids in the cafe restored my faith in human kindness after the previous night’s unnecessary violence. And what more could you want from a breakfast outing than that?"
(Full review here)
The Walpole, 35 St Mary's Rd, Ealing W5
"A hearty, old-fashioned Full English."
(Full review here)
The Wapping Project, Wapping Wall, Wapping E1
"It was a good breakfast."
(Full review here)
York & Albany, 127-129 Parkway, Camden Town NW1
"A single artisanal Lincolnshire sausage, a slice of Old Spot bacon, a perfectly presented free-range poached egg…"
(Full review here)
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Table, Southwark
The Table
83 Southwark Street
London
Southwark
SE1 0HX
020 7401 2760
www.thetablecafe.com
by Sadie Frosties
The menu at The Table states confidently that they serve ‘the best hollandaise on Southwark Street’. And I believe it, if not partly because I know nowhere else on Southwark Street that serves anything with hollandaise on or near it. I ordered the buttermilk pancakes with streaky bacon, organic maple syrup and caramelised banana, and settled down for my weekly blank stare at the Guardian Cryptic Crossword.
Crossword abandoned in record time, and immersed in an informative article about Dizzee Rascal, I'd barely noticed the time passing when the waiter appeared with my breakfast challenge. You may have noticed, as I had, the plural in my breakfast descriptor. But there were no 'pancakes' here. This was one, single, giant, humungoid, super pancake, easily twice the size of my face (maybe) and an accomplished centimetre in thickness. Also absent was the expected ceramic pot of maple syrup – in its place a free-pour of the continental bar variety, a syrupy ocean lapping at the shore of my pancake island. And it was delectable - the pancake fluffy, the syrup plentiful, the bananas soft and sticky. Actually everything was sticky. And delicious. Granted, it is likely that a shoe, or a copy of Grazia, would also be delicious slathered in enough maple syrup.
The bacon however, highlighted an error in my menu reading skills, which has occurred more than once in my breakfasting career, namely the subconscious reading of the word ‘streaky’ to mean ‘crispy’. Streaky it was, crispy it was not. A frightful shame considering the bacon was otherwise smoky and salty in all the correct proportions.
My advice to you? Visit The Table - the menu is great. My advice to The Table? Cook your bacon a little longer – I never finish the cryptic.
83 Southwark Street
London
Southwark
SE1 0HX
020 7401 2760
www.thetablecafe.com
by Sadie Frosties
The menu at The Table states confidently that they serve ‘the best hollandaise on Southwark Street’. And I believe it, if not partly because I know nowhere else on Southwark Street that serves anything with hollandaise on or near it. I ordered the buttermilk pancakes with streaky bacon, organic maple syrup and caramelised banana, and settled down for my weekly blank stare at the Guardian Cryptic Crossword.
Crossword abandoned in record time, and immersed in an informative article about Dizzee Rascal, I'd barely noticed the time passing when the waiter appeared with my breakfast challenge. You may have noticed, as I had, the plural in my breakfast descriptor. But there were no 'pancakes' here. This was one, single, giant, humungoid, super pancake, easily twice the size of my face (maybe) and an accomplished centimetre in thickness. Also absent was the expected ceramic pot of maple syrup – in its place a free-pour of the continental bar variety, a syrupy ocean lapping at the shore of my pancake island. And it was delectable - the pancake fluffy, the syrup plentiful, the bananas soft and sticky. Actually everything was sticky. And delicious. Granted, it is likely that a shoe, or a copy of Grazia, would also be delicious slathered in enough maple syrup.
The bacon however, highlighted an error in my menu reading skills, which has occurred more than once in my breakfasting career, namely the subconscious reading of the word ‘streaky’ to mean ‘crispy’. Streaky it was, crispy it was not. A frightful shame considering the bacon was otherwise smoky and salty in all the correct proportions.
My advice to you? Visit The Table - the menu is great. My advice to The Table? Cook your bacon a little longer – I never finish the cryptic.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Special Dispatch: St Giles Café, Oxford
St Giles Café
52 St. Giles
City Centre
Oxford
OX1 3LU
01865 552 110
by Brian Sauce
I descend upon the city of dreaming spires, scene of a gilded, mis-spent youth, to witness the marriage of an old friend with my wife in tow. My alma mater, which pretends to teach students for a few weeks out of the year, is actually a glorified conference centre and bed and breakfast, and it is to this august establishment that we repair once totally drunk in order to pass out.
There is, however, no question of having breakfast there. In fact, as I stumble along the park railings pointing out local attractions to my long suffering bride in the dead of night, I beg her to eschew our all-included college slops and to visit the St Giles Café with me the following day.
Entering the next morning, slightly the worse for wear but wreathed in smiles of nostalgia and anticipation, I am aghast to see that the place has had an ‘American Diner’ style makeover. However, this must have been a while ago because it is thankfully now as grubby as ever it was. Happy to report also, that the staff are the same, and consistently rude.
My wife is fixating on the beautiful setting of my idle youth, the medieval splendour, the lavish rooms, the Quidditch hoop… but I am gripped by breakfast. Political Correctness has gone mad to the extent that chips are not now served before noon. Or perhaps I never visited this early in days of yore. However a splendid platter of bacon, sausage, eggs, beans and toast arrives in minutes. Or rather, I am shouted at to come and get it.
Beans: firm. Eggs: perfectly runny. Toast: white sliced, pre-larded with salty butter. Sausage: superior supermarket variety. Bacon: the best bit, all crispy fat and wide, thick flavour. By God, Health and Safety have also been at the sachets, warning me not to eat too much salt, shut up. A liberal spray of ketchup is all I wanted anyway.
Are you going to finish that, dear? If there’s one thing better than a big breakfast it’s having one with my wife i.e. a bonus rasher at the end. Love her!
The St Giles Café has enjoyed many continuous years salving the hangovers of stupid children and corpulent construction workers and does one of the better five pound breakfasts you will eat – certainly the best in this provincial setting.
52 St. Giles
City Centre
Oxford
OX1 3LU
01865 552 110
by Brian Sauce
I descend upon the city of dreaming spires, scene of a gilded, mis-spent youth, to witness the marriage of an old friend with my wife in tow. My alma mater, which pretends to teach students for a few weeks out of the year, is actually a glorified conference centre and bed and breakfast, and it is to this august establishment that we repair once totally drunk in order to pass out.
There is, however, no question of having breakfast there. In fact, as I stumble along the park railings pointing out local attractions to my long suffering bride in the dead of night, I beg her to eschew our all-included college slops and to visit the St Giles Café with me the following day.
Entering the next morning, slightly the worse for wear but wreathed in smiles of nostalgia and anticipation, I am aghast to see that the place has had an ‘American Diner’ style makeover. However, this must have been a while ago because it is thankfully now as grubby as ever it was. Happy to report also, that the staff are the same, and consistently rude.
My wife is fixating on the beautiful setting of my idle youth, the medieval splendour, the lavish rooms, the Quidditch hoop… but I am gripped by breakfast. Political Correctness has gone mad to the extent that chips are not now served before noon. Or perhaps I never visited this early in days of yore. However a splendid platter of bacon, sausage, eggs, beans and toast arrives in minutes. Or rather, I am shouted at to come and get it.
Beans: firm. Eggs: perfectly runny. Toast: white sliced, pre-larded with salty butter. Sausage: superior supermarket variety. Bacon: the best bit, all crispy fat and wide, thick flavour. By God, Health and Safety have also been at the sachets, warning me not to eat too much salt, shut up. A liberal spray of ketchup is all I wanted anyway.
Are you going to finish that, dear? If there’s one thing better than a big breakfast it’s having one with my wife i.e. a bonus rasher at the end. Love her!
The St Giles Café has enjoyed many continuous years salving the hangovers of stupid children and corpulent construction workers and does one of the better five pound breakfasts you will eat – certainly the best in this provincial setting.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Special Dispatch: Not Manic Organic, Glastonbury Festival
Not Manic Organic
Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
This is an apology where a review should be. I'm filing it to my editor, Malcolm Eggs, and it will be up to him whether he runs it or not [I think the public needs to hear this - Ed]. All I can say is that with the the clarity that only comes with hindsight, I now realise that perhaps Manic Organic and I will never be united in breakfasting glory. For the third year running, I have tried, and failed, to review their vegan breakfast. This year, I made the mistake of promising myself a Manic breakfast on the last day, the Sunday. In the preceding days I would sample other delights, or cook my own breakfasts to save money. Manic Organic would be a treat, I had told myself. I passed the stall every day and beamed at it, giving it a little knowing nod. I even took a photo and sent it to the LRB's esteemed editor when he got in touch to see how I was getting on. It was all in hand, he had nothing to worry about: 2010 would be the year it happened. I had no reason to doubt that it would.
Now that I'm home, I've had the time to meditate on the facts. I even discussed it with my Breakfast Spiritual Advisor - she who puts a bowl of muesli and a jug of milk on her bedside table the night before in order to take her first course the minute she wakes. BSA suspects that perhaps Manic Organic and I have some kind of mutual karmic block. Bad blood. Unresolved issues from past lives. She says I need to make peace with the place before the universe will allow me to get there. She's suggested I go to their Cafe in Birmingham with an offering before Glastonbury 2011.
And so, to the facts, dear reader:
- I awoke on Sunday at 11am.
- I had a shower, got changed and shook off my hangover with a cup of tea and a slice of orange and walnut cake from Queen Deliah's veggie cafe two doors over from Manic. The cake was delicious and orangey - somewhere between cake and an undercooked brownie. The tea was a little watery for my liking.
- Afterwards, I decided to go and see a friend I had kept missing all weekend, about a 25 minute walk away. I was full from the cake and tea and thought I would leave it an hour or so and come back for my Manic feast with a clear head.
- At about 4pm, I was called by Mr Jamm in a state of panic. He sent me on a mission collecting much needed footage for a video that was being shot and edited on-site. I had to find famous people and interview them for it.
- My assignment meant that I had to spend the next hours sweet-talking musicians' weedy managers into letting me chat to them after they came off stage. All the while, I was very aware that Manic Organic is getting further and further away from me.
- By the time I finished said assignment, I dropped the camera off at the production office and ran (RAN!) to catch Stevie Wonder at the Pyramid stage.
- The rest, in all honesty, is a hazy mixture of rum, friends, joy and laughter. No Manic breakfast.
- Monday morning was spent packing up. I had breakfast made for me. I made the foolish assumption that Manic Organic would be packing up, too. We passed it as we drove away, a small queue of die-hard fans stood waiting for their last breakfast of the festival. I shed a tear, and pawed at the window as we passed. Sad times.
And that is what happened. I now know that I should have been brave and taken breakfast at Manic Organic, instead of tea and cake at Queen Delilah's. I now know that I need to make a pilgrimage to Birmingham to make peace. Then and only then will I get that review to you all next year. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm sorry I failed you.
Glastonbury Festival
Worthy Farm
Somerset
by Cher E. Jamm
This is an apology where a review should be. I'm filing it to my editor, Malcolm Eggs, and it will be up to him whether he runs it or not [I think the public needs to hear this - Ed]. All I can say is that with the the clarity that only comes with hindsight, I now realise that perhaps Manic Organic and I will never be united in breakfasting glory. For the third year running, I have tried, and failed, to review their vegan breakfast. This year, I made the mistake of promising myself a Manic breakfast on the last day, the Sunday. In the preceding days I would sample other delights, or cook my own breakfasts to save money. Manic Organic would be a treat, I had told myself. I passed the stall every day and beamed at it, giving it a little knowing nod. I even took a photo and sent it to the LRB's esteemed editor when he got in touch to see how I was getting on. It was all in hand, he had nothing to worry about: 2010 would be the year it happened. I had no reason to doubt that it would.
Now that I'm home, I've had the time to meditate on the facts. I even discussed it with my Breakfast Spiritual Advisor - she who puts a bowl of muesli and a jug of milk on her bedside table the night before in order to take her first course the minute she wakes. BSA suspects that perhaps Manic Organic and I have some kind of mutual karmic block. Bad blood. Unresolved issues from past lives. She says I need to make peace with the place before the universe will allow me to get there. She's suggested I go to their Cafe in Birmingham with an offering before Glastonbury 2011.
And so, to the facts, dear reader:
- I awoke on Sunday at 11am.
- I had a shower, got changed and shook off my hangover with a cup of tea and a slice of orange and walnut cake from Queen Deliah's veggie cafe two doors over from Manic. The cake was delicious and orangey - somewhere between cake and an undercooked brownie. The tea was a little watery for my liking.
- Afterwards, I decided to go and see a friend I had kept missing all weekend, about a 25 minute walk away. I was full from the cake and tea and thought I would leave it an hour or so and come back for my Manic feast with a clear head.
- At about 4pm, I was called by Mr Jamm in a state of panic. He sent me on a mission collecting much needed footage for a video that was being shot and edited on-site. I had to find famous people and interview them for it.
- My assignment meant that I had to spend the next hours sweet-talking musicians' weedy managers into letting me chat to them after they came off stage. All the while, I was very aware that Manic Organic is getting further and further away from me.
- By the time I finished said assignment, I dropped the camera off at the production office and ran (RAN!) to catch Stevie Wonder at the Pyramid stage.
- The rest, in all honesty, is a hazy mixture of rum, friends, joy and laughter. No Manic breakfast.
- Monday morning was spent packing up. I had breakfast made for me. I made the foolish assumption that Manic Organic would be packing up, too. We passed it as we drove away, a small queue of die-hard fans stood waiting for their last breakfast of the festival. I shed a tear, and pawed at the window as we passed. Sad times.
And that is what happened. I now know that I should have been brave and taken breakfast at Manic Organic, instead of tea and cake at Queen Delilah's. I now know that I need to make a pilgrimage to Birmingham to make peace. Then and only then will I get that review to you all next year. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm sorry I failed you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)