Made in Camden
The Roundhouse
Chalk Farm Road
Chalk Farm NW1 8EH
020 7424 8495
www.madeincamden.com
by Poppy Tartt
It’s four years since I wrote a breakfast review. But it’s not four years since I ate breakfast, thankfully, and I have continued to form opinions of my breakfasts, albeit privately. Welcome to the site of my first public breakfast opinion in four years. The venue is Made in Camden, the Roundhouse’s mysteriously underperforming eaterie. The location is promising. The food is good. In fact, this is my fifth visit. But perhaps there’s something wrong with me, because nobody else seems convinced. The restaurant is often barely a quarter full, great big airport lounge of a space that it is. This may be because working out how to gain access is unusually challenging, especially the morning after the etc. (Look for the strangely inconspicuous three-metre-wide door to the right of the frontage.) It’s almost as if the architect were briefed to design a room large enough to accommodate everybody who’s ever been to the Roundhouse (and a door that could admit ten of these people abreast). I’m only exaggerating slightly.
But let me tell you about the food. I always order the fritters – previously sweetcorn, now a chickpea/courgette composition – served with bacon, avocado, sour cream, chilli jam and salad leaves. Once a diehard opponent of salad-at-breakfast, I have made a frenemy of my foe. I cannot speak more highly of this dish, hence why I have never ventured to order anything else. In my old age I hanker after the avocado and the chickpea like a vegan Antipodean. My companions’ plates bear testimony to the sparkling menu: pomegranate seeds in the shakshuka, beetroot leaves in the salad. It’s colourful, more so than the venue, despite the hip retro event posters papering the scene. Something is missing, restaurant-makers. It’s atmosphere.
There is another, more troubling element: the tea. The brand is Tea Pigs, faux-artisanal tea de rigueur, which comes in gossamer pouches known by the company as, yes, tea temples. Okay, it’s a flavoursome tea. But tea should be hot and in Made in Camden it is merely tepid, urged quickly towards cold by the heat-conducting cast-iron teapots in which it is served. The lack of hot tea hurts me, especially in this bus depot of a room. But I do enjoy those fritters.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Carluccio's, Marylebone
Carluccio's
St. Christopher's Place
Marylebone
W1U 1AY
www.carluccios.com
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
KLANG!!!
"Sorry?"
"Oh, I was just saying the breakfast in here is quite..."
KLANG!!!
"...actually. OK, they've dressed up eggs and bacon and toast in 84 different non-inflected Indo- European dialects...but the eggs are buttery and the mushrooms Briatore-rich, the pastries crumple obligingly and the pancetta is as salty as an anchovy's..."
KLANG!!!
"...and just as crispy. And you've got to admit, the Colazione Magnifica sounds a million times more awesome than its maiden name the Full Italian. Add to that regal prosciutto, bitchin' Bicerin and the Rubenesque splendour of the deli counter, and really the only thing crashing the party is the terrible..."
KLANG!!!
"The what now?"
"THE ACOUSTICS, MAN, THE ACOUSTICS! I mean, who's their barista - Michael J..."
KLANG!!!
St. Christopher's Place
Marylebone
W1U 1AY
www.carluccios.com
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
KLANG!!!
"Sorry?"
"Oh, I was just saying the breakfast in here is quite..."
KLANG!!!
"...actually. OK, they've dressed up eggs and bacon and toast in 84 different non-inflected Indo- European dialects...but the eggs are buttery and the mushrooms Briatore-rich, the pastries crumple obligingly and the pancetta is as salty as an anchovy's..."
KLANG!!!
"...and just as crispy. And you've got to admit, the Colazione Magnifica sounds a million times more awesome than its maiden name the Full Italian. Add to that regal prosciutto, bitchin' Bicerin and the Rubenesque splendour of the deli counter, and really the only thing crashing the party is the terrible..."
KLANG!!!
"The what now?"
"THE ACOUSTICS, MAN, THE ACOUSTICS! I mean, who's their barista - Michael J..."
KLANG!!!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Brazas Restaurant, Brixton
Brazas Restaurant
45 Tulse Hill
Brixton
SW2 2TJ
020 8678 0697
www.brazas.co.uk
by Egg Miliband
Down the back of Brazas, thick louvres block out the sunlight. I am here with my usual breakfast companion Ivan, and my brother Frank and his two-year-old daughter Ngaire. In the dimness, the four of us sit at our table like moths in a wardrobe.
The menu is hearty but rather solemn. There’s the Full, the Mini, the Omelette with French Fries and the Breakfast Bagel. But the ‘vegetarian sausage’ option on the Veggie Breakfast has been blacked out! There’s something jokey and jolly about the vegetarian sausage option – it is the definition of ‘silly sausage’ – and I’m always cheered to see it on offer. So I order my old friend, scrambled eggs on toast. Frank is second-breakfasting, so he orders the ‘dessert breakfast’: pancakes. Ivan orders a bagel. Ngaire has an orange juice, to which she adds the crushed petals of a flower she picked earlier.
At this point, review etiquette demands that I mention the cakes. When you enter Brazas, the first thing you see is a display cabinet festooning with fancy cakes and meringues in full bloom. One reviewer reports that a gateaux made her ‘cry with delight’. My cake-mentioning duty is now fulfilled. What of the breakfast?
A friendly waiter in a neon shirt delivers our meals, two of which look bouquet-fresh – the pancakes piled high with banana and blueberries, the bagel a riot of poached egg, bacon, and mushrooms – but my scrambled eggs seem reluctant to be eaten. The toast is basic multigrain, unbuttered, with one slice forming a central stage for the eggs and two triangles acting as the wings. Sourdough would’ve been more stylish, a hand-cut pat of butter more flirtatious. But as it turns out, the only thing that has let me down is my scrambled-egg snobbery. These are fine, upstanding eggs. This is a meal my grandparents would’ve tucked into while reading the paper together. ‘Nothing wrong with those hens,’ they would’ve said approvingly. Then they would've opened the window to let some sun in, but never mind.
Despite the ‘strange toughness’ of his pancakes, Frank leaves a shining plate and declares it good. Ivan hasn’t said anything about his poached-egg-and-bacon bagel, but he eats it rapidly, with keen focus, and in the future, he will talk with nostalgia of the bacon.
Just down the road from Brazas is a takeaway called The Olympic Kebab. I hope this attracted thousands of tourists during the Olympics, some of whom, nonplussed, wandered down to Brazas.
45 Tulse Hill
Brixton
SW2 2TJ
020 8678 0697
www.brazas.co.uk
by Egg Miliband
Down the back of Brazas, thick louvres block out the sunlight. I am here with my usual breakfast companion Ivan, and my brother Frank and his two-year-old daughter Ngaire. In the dimness, the four of us sit at our table like moths in a wardrobe.
The menu is hearty but rather solemn. There’s the Full, the Mini, the Omelette with French Fries and the Breakfast Bagel. But the ‘vegetarian sausage’ option on the Veggie Breakfast has been blacked out! There’s something jokey and jolly about the vegetarian sausage option – it is the definition of ‘silly sausage’ – and I’m always cheered to see it on offer. So I order my old friend, scrambled eggs on toast. Frank is second-breakfasting, so he orders the ‘dessert breakfast’: pancakes. Ivan orders a bagel. Ngaire has an orange juice, to which she adds the crushed petals of a flower she picked earlier.
At this point, review etiquette demands that I mention the cakes. When you enter Brazas, the first thing you see is a display cabinet festooning with fancy cakes and meringues in full bloom. One reviewer reports that a gateaux made her ‘cry with delight’. My cake-mentioning duty is now fulfilled. What of the breakfast?
A friendly waiter in a neon shirt delivers our meals, two of which look bouquet-fresh – the pancakes piled high with banana and blueberries, the bagel a riot of poached egg, bacon, and mushrooms – but my scrambled eggs seem reluctant to be eaten. The toast is basic multigrain, unbuttered, with one slice forming a central stage for the eggs and two triangles acting as the wings. Sourdough would’ve been more stylish, a hand-cut pat of butter more flirtatious. But as it turns out, the only thing that has let me down is my scrambled-egg snobbery. These are fine, upstanding eggs. This is a meal my grandparents would’ve tucked into while reading the paper together. ‘Nothing wrong with those hens,’ they would’ve said approvingly. Then they would've opened the window to let some sun in, but never mind.
Despite the ‘strange toughness’ of his pancakes, Frank leaves a shining plate and declares it good. Ivan hasn’t said anything about his poached-egg-and-bacon bagel, but he eats it rapidly, with keen focus, and in the future, he will talk with nostalgia of the bacon.
Just down the road from Brazas is a takeaway called The Olympic Kebab. I hope this attracted thousands of tourists during the Olympics, some of whom, nonplussed, wandered down to Brazas.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
The Russet, Hackney Downs
The Russet
Hackney Downs Studios
Amhurst Road
Hackney Downs
E8 2BT
0203 095 9731
therusset.wordpress.com
by Stephen Fry-Up
I met a traveller from an organic land
Who said: Two vast and yolky eggs of duck
Stand on a crumpet. Near them, on the plate,
Half dunked, a buttered liquid lies, whose flow,
And acidic nip – a smear of Sauce Hollande –
Tell that its maker well those passions read
Which yet survive, ladled on these flawless things,
The hand that sourced them and the heart that fed.
And from the crumpet these words I hear:
“My name is new season Asparagus, king of kings.
Look on my stalks, ye Hungry, and devour!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the crumbs
Of that colossal Brek, boundless and fair
The lone and level Downs stretch far away.
Hackney Downs Studios
Amhurst Road
Hackney Downs
E8 2BT
0203 095 9731
therusset.wordpress.com
by Stephen Fry-Up
I met a traveller from an organic land
Who said: Two vast and yolky eggs of duck
Stand on a crumpet. Near them, on the plate,
Half dunked, a buttered liquid lies, whose flow,
And acidic nip – a smear of Sauce Hollande –
Tell that its maker well those passions read
Which yet survive, ladled on these flawless things,
The hand that sourced them and the heart that fed.
And from the crumpet these words I hear:
“My name is new season Asparagus, king of kings.
Look on my stalks, ye Hungry, and devour!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the crumbs
Of that colossal Brek, boundless and fair
The lone and level Downs stretch far away.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Special Dispatch: The Breakfasts of Paris (Part 1: Don't...)
Featuring:
La Salle a Manger
136 Rue Mouffetard
75005 Paris
(+33)1 55 43 91 99
Eggs & Co
11 Rue Bernard Palissy
75006 Paris
(+33)1 45 44 02 52
www.eggsandco.fr
Breakfast in America
17 Rue des Écoles
75005 Paris
(+33)1 43 54 50 28
www.breakfast-in-america.com
by Seggolène Royal
Three-hour lunches. Romantic dinners. These are the meals for which the French are justly celebrated. Breakfast, however, is another story. The English, our kind neighbors to the north, cast aspersions on the quality of our breakfasts, simply because we don’t do a cooked breakfast. As a native New Yorker, I understand what it is to be proud of your local breakfast traditions. But breakfast in France, done right, can often prove to be the best meal of the day.
I first breakfasted in France— really breakfasted— when I was twenty years old and had been sent to Besançon, not far from the Swiss border, to observe a French family in their native habitat. I was assigned to a lovely couple, the Dorniers, whose children had grown up and moved out of the house. Their elder daughter, Aline, had left behind a roomful of white Gallimard Folio paperbacks, inspiring a collector’s fever in me that has yet to abate. I woke up that first morning to discover, laid out on the table, several baguettes, a brick of salted butter, and every jar of jam that had ever entered the house, from extra large pots of Bonne Maman to the smallest sample-sized jar, in flavors ranging from the pedestrian (strawberry) to the exotic (what is a coing?). There was also honey, which I had never before contemplated pairing with bread and butter, and Nutella, which I had. They served me coffee in a bowl and I fell in love. After that semester abroad, I moved back to France as soon as I could.
Lo these many years later, I have realized that the best breakfast in France is still to be had at the Dorniers’ house, and the second-best at my own. But for those mornings when there’s no more milk and I’m out of Nutella— here are the guidelines I use for breakfast dining in Paris.
Part One: Don’t
1. Don’t trust places that look cute: they will either disappoint or overcharge, or, more often, both. La Salle à Manger is an outwardly adorable cozy little café on the rue Mouffetard, approximately five minutes’ walk from my apartment. I pass it all the time but until recently had never gone in, not even in its previous incarnation as a Pain Quotidien, not even in the days before my gluten allergy was activated. The reason for this is: communal pots of jam. I cannot, cannot abide using a jar of jam someone else has used. Not even when that someone else is someone I live with. I am the only person I trust to be meticulous enough not to leave leftover crumbs and glops of butter inside the jar.
But that’s not my primary problem with this place: my real issue is with the service, the quality, and the quantity of the offerings. It turns out the post-corporate occupation of this space is as impersonal as those communal vats of jam. The waitress seemed annoyed to find us seated in her section and proved unwilling to address such questions as “can I get this without toast and with orange juice instead?” Menu exegesis was evidently not in her job description.
Our food arrived in fits; first the included cup of café crème, then what seemed like ages later came a soft-boiled egg, which was cold and congealed by the time the toast was provided; then a sad plastic dish of fruit salad no doubt straight from a can, involving two bits of green melon, half a strawberry, a piece of apple, and two half-shriveled grapes on their way to raisinhood. The orange juice arrived last, slightly too late for the party. There was something grey in my fromage blanc. For this I ate gluten?
This unfortunate experience is alas representative of the recent decline in quality amongst the shopkeepers of the rue Mouffetard. The influx of tourists has increased past saturation point and the original shopkeepers have been priced out of their rents, to be replaced by opportunists with no compunction about raising their prices and lowering the quality of their products. The things I could tell you about my experiences of late buying quiche, avocados, poulets fermiers, and baguettes would make a Francophile weep. Basically, it’s time to move.
2. Don’t mortgage your house for a plate of eggs. Eggs & Co (formerly known as Coco & Co), housed in a shallow duplex space in a side street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, is loaded with personality: exposed beams (16th or 17th century I’d guess), with warped ancient floorboards that tilt the upstairs tables on such an incline that you’ll feel like you’ve gone down the rabbit hole and come out into some rustically lopsided Parisian garret (see rule #1). Egg-inspired posters line the walls (“Des cocottes coquettes qui caquettent” [“Cackling coquettish eggs en cocotte”] surrounded by drawings of diabolical-looking eggs). There was a line outside of people waiting for an uneven table or rickety barstool, but they didn’t hurry us out. (After all, we had a reservation.)
The cheapest brunch menu was 22 euros, which is a fair price for brunch in Paris, and even a bargain when you realize how much food is included: a hot drink, your choice of eggs (prepared four different ways: with chèvre and spinach; with mushrooms, bacon, and coriander; with bacon, parmesan, and chives, or with parma ham, gruyère and chives), one large, thick pancake, and a fruit salad. I opted for the 25 euro menu, which gave me the option of having eggs Florentine (I’m a sucker for a poached egg). Everything was delicious.
But I didn’t want “everything,” I wanted eggs Florentine, à la carte, minus all the other stuff. Alas, only brunch is served on the weekends, thus guaranteeing at least 22 euros per cover. So while this brunch might possibly be worth splashing out on, I don’t like not having the choice of whether to splash out or not. Do go here during the week, I say.
3. Don’t assume because the joint is American, or promising an American breakfast, that said breakfast will be any good. The best thing I can say about Breakfast in America is that they have bottomless cups of American coffee (popularly known as jus de chausettes, but je m’en fous). On my last visit the bacon was fatty and flaccid; the toast disappointingly small (elf-sized, really) not to mention cold and slightly overdone. I’ve never been impressed by the pancakes. The acoustics are terrible, and the nostalgia value of the diner decor isn’t strong enough to make me voluntarily spend time here, though the people who work there are very nice, and all speak English.
4. Whatever you do, don’t order a bagel anywhere in Paris.
In Part Two, we’ll look at some proper breakfasts.
La Salle a Manger
136 Rue Mouffetard
75005 Paris
(+33)1 55 43 91 99
Eggs & Co
11 Rue Bernard Palissy
75006 Paris
(+33)1 45 44 02 52
www.eggsandco.fr
Breakfast in America
17 Rue des Écoles
75005 Paris
(+33)1 43 54 50 28
www.breakfast-in-america.com
by Seggolène Royal
Three-hour lunches. Romantic dinners. These are the meals for which the French are justly celebrated. Breakfast, however, is another story. The English, our kind neighbors to the north, cast aspersions on the quality of our breakfasts, simply because we don’t do a cooked breakfast. As a native New Yorker, I understand what it is to be proud of your local breakfast traditions. But breakfast in France, done right, can often prove to be the best meal of the day.
I first breakfasted in France— really breakfasted— when I was twenty years old and had been sent to Besançon, not far from the Swiss border, to observe a French family in their native habitat. I was assigned to a lovely couple, the Dorniers, whose children had grown up and moved out of the house. Their elder daughter, Aline, had left behind a roomful of white Gallimard Folio paperbacks, inspiring a collector’s fever in me that has yet to abate. I woke up that first morning to discover, laid out on the table, several baguettes, a brick of salted butter, and every jar of jam that had ever entered the house, from extra large pots of Bonne Maman to the smallest sample-sized jar, in flavors ranging from the pedestrian (strawberry) to the exotic (what is a coing?). There was also honey, which I had never before contemplated pairing with bread and butter, and Nutella, which I had. They served me coffee in a bowl and I fell in love. After that semester abroad, I moved back to France as soon as I could.
Lo these many years later, I have realized that the best breakfast in France is still to be had at the Dorniers’ house, and the second-best at my own. But for those mornings when there’s no more milk and I’m out of Nutella— here are the guidelines I use for breakfast dining in Paris.
Part One: Don’t
1. Don’t trust places that look cute: they will either disappoint or overcharge, or, more often, both. La Salle à Manger is an outwardly adorable cozy little café on the rue Mouffetard, approximately five minutes’ walk from my apartment. I pass it all the time but until recently had never gone in, not even in its previous incarnation as a Pain Quotidien, not even in the days before my gluten allergy was activated. The reason for this is: communal pots of jam. I cannot, cannot abide using a jar of jam someone else has used. Not even when that someone else is someone I live with. I am the only person I trust to be meticulous enough not to leave leftover crumbs and glops of butter inside the jar.
But that’s not my primary problem with this place: my real issue is with the service, the quality, and the quantity of the offerings. It turns out the post-corporate occupation of this space is as impersonal as those communal vats of jam. The waitress seemed annoyed to find us seated in her section and proved unwilling to address such questions as “can I get this without toast and with orange juice instead?” Menu exegesis was evidently not in her job description.
Our food arrived in fits; first the included cup of café crème, then what seemed like ages later came a soft-boiled egg, which was cold and congealed by the time the toast was provided; then a sad plastic dish of fruit salad no doubt straight from a can, involving two bits of green melon, half a strawberry, a piece of apple, and two half-shriveled grapes on their way to raisinhood. The orange juice arrived last, slightly too late for the party. There was something grey in my fromage blanc. For this I ate gluten?
This unfortunate experience is alas representative of the recent decline in quality amongst the shopkeepers of the rue Mouffetard. The influx of tourists has increased past saturation point and the original shopkeepers have been priced out of their rents, to be replaced by opportunists with no compunction about raising their prices and lowering the quality of their products. The things I could tell you about my experiences of late buying quiche, avocados, poulets fermiers, and baguettes would make a Francophile weep. Basically, it’s time to move.
2. Don’t mortgage your house for a plate of eggs. Eggs & Co (formerly known as Coco & Co), housed in a shallow duplex space in a side street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, is loaded with personality: exposed beams (16th or 17th century I’d guess), with warped ancient floorboards that tilt the upstairs tables on such an incline that you’ll feel like you’ve gone down the rabbit hole and come out into some rustically lopsided Parisian garret (see rule #1). Egg-inspired posters line the walls (“Des cocottes coquettes qui caquettent” [“Cackling coquettish eggs en cocotte”] surrounded by drawings of diabolical-looking eggs). There was a line outside of people waiting for an uneven table or rickety barstool, but they didn’t hurry us out. (After all, we had a reservation.)
The cheapest brunch menu was 22 euros, which is a fair price for brunch in Paris, and even a bargain when you realize how much food is included: a hot drink, your choice of eggs (prepared four different ways: with chèvre and spinach; with mushrooms, bacon, and coriander; with bacon, parmesan, and chives, or with parma ham, gruyère and chives), one large, thick pancake, and a fruit salad. I opted for the 25 euro menu, which gave me the option of having eggs Florentine (I’m a sucker for a poached egg). Everything was delicious.
But I didn’t want “everything,” I wanted eggs Florentine, à la carte, minus all the other stuff. Alas, only brunch is served on the weekends, thus guaranteeing at least 22 euros per cover. So while this brunch might possibly be worth splashing out on, I don’t like not having the choice of whether to splash out or not. Do go here during the week, I say.
3. Don’t assume because the joint is American, or promising an American breakfast, that said breakfast will be any good. The best thing I can say about Breakfast in America is that they have bottomless cups of American coffee (popularly known as jus de chausettes, but je m’en fous). On my last visit the bacon was fatty and flaccid; the toast disappointingly small (elf-sized, really) not to mention cold and slightly overdone. I’ve never been impressed by the pancakes. The acoustics are terrible, and the nostalgia value of the diner decor isn’t strong enough to make me voluntarily spend time here, though the people who work there are very nice, and all speak English.
4. Whatever you do, don’t order a bagel anywhere in Paris.
In Part Two, we’ll look at some proper breakfasts.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Long White Cloud, Shoreditch
Long White Cloud
151 Hackney Rd
Shoreditch
E2 8JL
020 7033 4642
longwhitecloud-hoxton.tumblr.com
by Homefries Bogart
"Long White Cloud"... we strolled en masse towards Hackney Road, led by Matthias, a friend with a murky culinary history. I hadn't done my research on this but all I could put together was that as 'long black' is a coffee, perhaps 'long white' was a coffee, and cloud is a cloud. He mentioned it was a place run by Australians, but not to worry about that, "they do Monmouth Coffee… it's fine". His tone was in jest, but you never really know.
Five of us entered the long, narrow, white room, which looked as much like a cloud as all other long white rooms do, which is exactly the same but with angles and a floor. We sat at the back of the café, at a sort of ‘in-the-family’ table next to an upright piano. It was a good choice, as inevitably with these things, people caught wind of our jaunt and more came.
Matthias, with irrational ingenuity, had clocked the last bit of banana bread, and had it sent toasted with butter to the table, as a sort of breakfast amuse bouche. It would trump what was to follow.
Accompanying my double espresso with hot water, I had ordered the French toast with bacon, bananas and agave syrup, which, in my head, I had seconds ago read as, 'French toast with crispy bacon and maple syrup'. Its amazing how much the brain assumes when reading. But the French toast was not good. Breakfast goers must surely agree that anything other than crispy bacon, golden, shiny, oily, fluffy, eggy bread and sweet maple syrup is a complete no-no. And it was the EXACT opposite. I’m not even going in to what Agave syrup is because I don’t care.
Apart from myself and Oly, a great, foul mouthed Exeter based baker and food blogger (he ordered beans and cheese on toast ), everyone else ordered the veggie breakfast.
This was an extravagant mass of nicely roasted vegetables, bulbous slabs of grilled haloumi, piled on top of a huge bit of toasted ciabatta, with a fried egg somewhere in between and their version of baked beans on the side. Definitely LWC’s tour de force.
I had obviously missed the memo. Perhaps it has been lost on a white sheet of paper in this long cloud of a café. Overall though, there was madness in the cloud. No wait, method in the cloudness, err white, white...
151 Hackney Rd
Shoreditch
E2 8JL
020 7033 4642
longwhitecloud-hoxton.tumblr.com
by Homefries Bogart
"Long White Cloud"... we strolled en masse towards Hackney Road, led by Matthias, a friend with a murky culinary history. I hadn't done my research on this but all I could put together was that as 'long black' is a coffee, perhaps 'long white' was a coffee, and cloud is a cloud. He mentioned it was a place run by Australians, but not to worry about that, "they do Monmouth Coffee… it's fine". His tone was in jest, but you never really know.
Five of us entered the long, narrow, white room, which looked as much like a cloud as all other long white rooms do, which is exactly the same but with angles and a floor. We sat at the back of the café, at a sort of ‘in-the-family’ table next to an upright piano. It was a good choice, as inevitably with these things, people caught wind of our jaunt and more came.
Matthias, with irrational ingenuity, had clocked the last bit of banana bread, and had it sent toasted with butter to the table, as a sort of breakfast amuse bouche. It would trump what was to follow.
Accompanying my double espresso with hot water, I had ordered the French toast with bacon, bananas and agave syrup, which, in my head, I had seconds ago read as, 'French toast with crispy bacon and maple syrup'. Its amazing how much the brain assumes when reading. But the French toast was not good. Breakfast goers must surely agree that anything other than crispy bacon, golden, shiny, oily, fluffy, eggy bread and sweet maple syrup is a complete no-no. And it was the EXACT opposite. I’m not even going in to what Agave syrup is because I don’t care.
Apart from myself and Oly, a great, foul mouthed Exeter based baker and food blogger (he ordered beans and cheese on toast ), everyone else ordered the veggie breakfast.
This was an extravagant mass of nicely roasted vegetables, bulbous slabs of grilled haloumi, piled on top of a huge bit of toasted ciabatta, with a fried egg somewhere in between and their version of baked beans on the side. Definitely LWC’s tour de force.
I had obviously missed the memo. Perhaps it has been lost on a white sheet of paper in this long cloud of a café. Overall though, there was madness in the cloud. No wait, method in the cloudness, err white, white...
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
The Brick Box, Brixton
The Brick Box
41 Granville Arcade
Brixton
SW9 8PR
020 7274 2211
www.thebrickbox.co.uk
by Egg Miliband
Brixton Village on a Sunday morning smells of stale fish, corrugated iron and puddles. The Brick Box café is a golden door in the desolation. There’s no one around except for a toddler fleeing from his father and a man hammering nails into a broken drawer outside the café.
A hoodie-wearing waitress waves us in with laminated menus. It’s snug inside. There are floral tablecloths and ghoulish, childlike paintings on the walls and wine on the shelves. The Spanish-speaking staff seem amiably hungover.
Why are we here? For the crepes. Or perhaps the galettes, which employ the same freeform ‘envelope’ system as the crepe but with buckwheat rather than white flour. Feeling rustic, I order one named ‘The Goat’. Ivan, a traditionalist, known to eat crumpets soaked in golden syrup while marching around his house, orders a crepe named ‘The Godfather’.
When the waitress brings our breakfast drinks, she sings their names. ‘English Breakfast Tea with soymilk! Americano with normal milk on the side!’
A man of few words, Ivan suddenly has a faraway look in his eyes. ‘This coffee tastes like… the Camino,’ he murmurs. He walked the trail once, El Camino de Santiago. When Ivan does speak, it’s often about those days, when he was a pilgrim.
My galette is a rhombus-shaped cushion, spilling out over the plate’s edge. Slicing it open reveals a fulsomeness of melting goat’s cheese, spinach, olives, and sundried and cherry tomatoes. It’s difficult to eat the thing with poise, and I disgrace myself by shovelling in overly large mouthfuls and then accidentally exploding a cherry tomato on my fork, spattering my trousers.
Ivan’s crepe – with pepperoni sausage, mixed herbs, and ‘cheese blend’, an ingredient that appears in 80% of the menu items – is crowned with a triumphant fried egg. A rare look of delight flickers across Ivan’s face. He is known to eat like a duck – gulping, not chewing – and when I look up on my third mouthful, his plate is eerily clean and he is gazing over the brim of his coffee mug once more.
The main thing, we agree, is that the food is terrific. In fact, I’d never known that breakfast could be this good. All the mediocre breakfasts of my past suddenly weigh on me.
The galette is so beautiful that I eat the lettuce on the side.
When the waitress collects our plates, still singing, a knife slides off my plate and falls to the floor. ‘Sometimes,’ the waitress whispers, ‘it seems like the cutlery is alive.’ I’m disturbed by this notion, but we all laugh as if this wasn’t a very real possibility.
41 Granville Arcade
Brixton
SW9 8PR
020 7274 2211
www.thebrickbox.co.uk
by Egg Miliband
Brixton Village on a Sunday morning smells of stale fish, corrugated iron and puddles. The Brick Box café is a golden door in the desolation. There’s no one around except for a toddler fleeing from his father and a man hammering nails into a broken drawer outside the café.
A hoodie-wearing waitress waves us in with laminated menus. It’s snug inside. There are floral tablecloths and ghoulish, childlike paintings on the walls and wine on the shelves. The Spanish-speaking staff seem amiably hungover.
Why are we here? For the crepes. Or perhaps the galettes, which employ the same freeform ‘envelope’ system as the crepe but with buckwheat rather than white flour. Feeling rustic, I order one named ‘The Goat’. Ivan, a traditionalist, known to eat crumpets soaked in golden syrup while marching around his house, orders a crepe named ‘The Godfather’.
When the waitress brings our breakfast drinks, she sings their names. ‘English Breakfast Tea with soymilk! Americano with normal milk on the side!’
A man of few words, Ivan suddenly has a faraway look in his eyes. ‘This coffee tastes like… the Camino,’ he murmurs. He walked the trail once, El Camino de Santiago. When Ivan does speak, it’s often about those days, when he was a pilgrim.
My galette is a rhombus-shaped cushion, spilling out over the plate’s edge. Slicing it open reveals a fulsomeness of melting goat’s cheese, spinach, olives, and sundried and cherry tomatoes. It’s difficult to eat the thing with poise, and I disgrace myself by shovelling in overly large mouthfuls and then accidentally exploding a cherry tomato on my fork, spattering my trousers.
Ivan’s crepe – with pepperoni sausage, mixed herbs, and ‘cheese blend’, an ingredient that appears in 80% of the menu items – is crowned with a triumphant fried egg. A rare look of delight flickers across Ivan’s face. He is known to eat like a duck – gulping, not chewing – and when I look up on my third mouthful, his plate is eerily clean and he is gazing over the brim of his coffee mug once more.
The main thing, we agree, is that the food is terrific. In fact, I’d never known that breakfast could be this good. All the mediocre breakfasts of my past suddenly weigh on me.
The galette is so beautiful that I eat the lettuce on the side.
When the waitress collects our plates, still singing, a knife slides off my plate and falls to the floor. ‘Sometimes,’ the waitress whispers, ‘it seems like the cutlery is alive.’ I’m disturbed by this notion, but we all laugh as if this wasn’t a very real possibility.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
US Election Dispatch: Tommy's, Cleveland, Ohio
Tommy's Restaurant
1824 Coventry Rd
Cleveland Heights
Ohio OH44118
USA
+1 216 321 7757
www.tommyscoventry.com
by T.N. Toost
Four years ago, when the LRB first went “in field” to cover the American presidential primaries, the response among breakfasters was near universal: “I would prefer to vote for Ron Paul, but he has no chance of winning, so I’m voting for (insert second choice here).” It was actually a bit sad how much people preferred Paul and how little faith they had in his electability; it seemed that people had given up on the political system, and rather than fight for their opinions they threw up their hands.
Four years later, things have changed. It isn’t so much a difference in peoples’ perceptions of Paul’s electability as a rational and conscious evaluation of the candidates against whom he is running. Yes, of course his ideas are batshit insane. Of course he would put us on course for a complete economic and political meltdown. Of course we’d likely end up in actual civil strife and, perhaps, even civil war.
But have you seen the other guys?
That, I think, is why the people who your correspondent spoke to this year are not qualifying their choices. No – the Paul supporters this year are voting for their man, come hell or high water, and believe in him fully, because they have already considered Gingrich, Santorum and Romney. They are voting for Paul and, considering his opponents, I think they are making the right choice.
So it was that I came to breakfast on Super Tuesday with my friend Gina and one of her friends, Joe, who was wearing a Ron Paul shirt. With nary a word of prompting he launched into an exposition on the exceptional rectitude of the Paul positions – on energy, gold, gay rights, constitutional interpretation, social structures, military intervention, welfare, education, international trade. Paul believes in the world as it should be, and there is no room for dissention. As a reporter and a professional in the mold of Malcolm Eggs, I was a mere observer. Gina, on the other hand, clearly disagreed, but stayed silent.
First they came for the communists.
Then breakfast arrived, with a healthy side of chips. I had the Zeke, the first thing on the menu – pita piled with eggs, veg and cheese, placed in the middle of a large plate. It was delicious when it cooled down. The chips, though, are perhaps my favorite ketchup delivery mechanism in America today. Hot, thin-cut, perfectly fried, I ate almost the entire plate – perhaps a kilo – and most of Gina’s plate, too. By the end of the meal, Joe and I had gone from talking about voting for Ron Paul to shaking hands on a gentlemen’s competition: we would take one year and try to sleep with direct descendents of every single founding father, documenting our quest for a PechaKucha presentation and, perhaps, a book deal.
In the end, Romney barely edged Santorum in Ohio, which disappointed me. I’d voted for Santorum. Yes, he is one of the most vile and despicable human beings alive today outside of, perhaps, Myanmar and good swaths of Africa still at war. My reasoning: none of the Republicans should ever live in the White House, of course, but Romney is the most electable and Santorum the least. If Romney is kept from the nomination, and any of his rivals goes before the nation, it will be much easier for Obama to get another four years. It’s the opposite thinking from the 2008 Ron Paul supporters. Luckily, the win barely lifted Romney’s sails, and the race will drag on, and on, and on, and Americans and the world will continue to be horrified by the state of the American political system.
And we’ll see you in a few months.
1824 Coventry Rd
Cleveland Heights
Ohio OH44118
USA
+1 216 321 7757
www.tommyscoventry.com
by T.N. Toost
Four years ago, when the LRB first went “in field” to cover the American presidential primaries, the response among breakfasters was near universal: “I would prefer to vote for Ron Paul, but he has no chance of winning, so I’m voting for (insert second choice here).” It was actually a bit sad how much people preferred Paul and how little faith they had in his electability; it seemed that people had given up on the political system, and rather than fight for their opinions they threw up their hands.
Four years later, things have changed. It isn’t so much a difference in peoples’ perceptions of Paul’s electability as a rational and conscious evaluation of the candidates against whom he is running. Yes, of course his ideas are batshit insane. Of course he would put us on course for a complete economic and political meltdown. Of course we’d likely end up in actual civil strife and, perhaps, even civil war.
But have you seen the other guys?
That, I think, is why the people who your correspondent spoke to this year are not qualifying their choices. No – the Paul supporters this year are voting for their man, come hell or high water, and believe in him fully, because they have already considered Gingrich, Santorum and Romney. They are voting for Paul and, considering his opponents, I think they are making the right choice.
So it was that I came to breakfast on Super Tuesday with my friend Gina and one of her friends, Joe, who was wearing a Ron Paul shirt. With nary a word of prompting he launched into an exposition on the exceptional rectitude of the Paul positions – on energy, gold, gay rights, constitutional interpretation, social structures, military intervention, welfare, education, international trade. Paul believes in the world as it should be, and there is no room for dissention. As a reporter and a professional in the mold of Malcolm Eggs, I was a mere observer. Gina, on the other hand, clearly disagreed, but stayed silent.
First they came for the communists.
Then breakfast arrived, with a healthy side of chips. I had the Zeke, the first thing on the menu – pita piled with eggs, veg and cheese, placed in the middle of a large plate. It was delicious when it cooled down. The chips, though, are perhaps my favorite ketchup delivery mechanism in America today. Hot, thin-cut, perfectly fried, I ate almost the entire plate – perhaps a kilo – and most of Gina’s plate, too. By the end of the meal, Joe and I had gone from talking about voting for Ron Paul to shaking hands on a gentlemen’s competition: we would take one year and try to sleep with direct descendents of every single founding father, documenting our quest for a PechaKucha presentation and, perhaps, a book deal.
In the end, Romney barely edged Santorum in Ohio, which disappointed me. I’d voted for Santorum. Yes, he is one of the most vile and despicable human beings alive today outside of, perhaps, Myanmar and good swaths of Africa still at war. My reasoning: none of the Republicans should ever live in the White House, of course, but Romney is the most electable and Santorum the least. If Romney is kept from the nomination, and any of his rivals goes before the nation, it will be much easier for Obama to get another four years. It’s the opposite thinking from the 2008 Ron Paul supporters. Luckily, the win barely lifted Romney’s sails, and the race will drag on, and on, and on, and Americans and the world will continue to be horrified by the state of the American political system.
And we’ll see you in a few months.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Riding House Café, Fitzrovia
The Riding House Café
43-51 Great Titchfield Street
Fitzrovia
W1W 7PQ
www.ridinghousecafe.co.uk
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
At the risk of indelicacy, it’s the loos that get you.
To clarify, there is little to cavil about at The Riding House Café; it’s all pretty darned perfect. But apart from the bounteous menu, the perfectly-pitched service and the décor that scratches all those Living Etc taxidermy itches you never knew you had, one particular detail of the gents’ cloakroom had me rummaging gingerly in my knife-drawer of superlatives. Get this… they have actually gone to the trouble of buying (or –dream it! – commissioning) an elegantly shot-blasted metal cover for their Dyson Airblade, so it chameleons itself snugly within the overall industrial luxe look. Even if the jet-engine decibel levels shock you, the visuals won’t.
Returning à la carte, it’s hit after palpable hit. The basics – pâtisserie, bacon sandwiches, coffees and more teas than you could shake a liquorice stick at, smoothies, porridge and mueslis “both bar and bat” – are impeccably sourced and punchy in their variety. As for the platform-agnostic eggs, Benedict routinely and silkily impresses, as does Hussard (a confection I had not encountered before, but which I’d urge upon anyone keen to start their day sated and with the phrase sauce bordelaise dancing sluttily across their lips). And venerable Omelette Arnold Bennett is as mouth-wateringly other as you would hope… like Gary Rhodes or ketamine, it shouldn’t work but it does.
But the abiding sense-memory for me is the PB&J. A potentially unholy miasma of peanut butter, banana, strawberry and apple juice, it comes in a milk bottle with a straw and at first smells unnervingly like fresh boak. Until you ask your delightful waiter –played here by the French stunt double of novelty Rastafarian showjumping fail Oliver Skeete – to lose the apple, and you’re left with a pint of ambrosia. Not that.
All you need to know about the ethos of the place was summed up when I first lunched there – charming waitperson #348 sauntered over and asked if we would like the ‘concept’ explained. We nervously said yes. He replied, “There isn’t one really – order some lunch, it’s all great.”
Phew.
43-51 Great Titchfield Street
Fitzrovia
W1W 7PQ
www.ridinghousecafe.co.uk
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
At the risk of indelicacy, it’s the loos that get you.
To clarify, there is little to cavil about at The Riding House Café; it’s all pretty darned perfect. But apart from the bounteous menu, the perfectly-pitched service and the décor that scratches all those Living Etc taxidermy itches you never knew you had, one particular detail of the gents’ cloakroom had me rummaging gingerly in my knife-drawer of superlatives. Get this… they have actually gone to the trouble of buying (or –dream it! – commissioning) an elegantly shot-blasted metal cover for their Dyson Airblade, so it chameleons itself snugly within the overall industrial luxe look. Even if the jet-engine decibel levels shock you, the visuals won’t.
Returning à la carte, it’s hit after palpable hit. The basics – pâtisserie, bacon sandwiches, coffees and more teas than you could shake a liquorice stick at, smoothies, porridge and mueslis “both bar and bat” – are impeccably sourced and punchy in their variety. As for the platform-agnostic eggs, Benedict routinely and silkily impresses, as does Hussard (a confection I had not encountered before, but which I’d urge upon anyone keen to start their day sated and with the phrase sauce bordelaise dancing sluttily across their lips). And venerable Omelette Arnold Bennett is as mouth-wateringly other as you would hope… like Gary Rhodes or ketamine, it shouldn’t work but it does.
But the abiding sense-memory for me is the PB&J. A potentially unholy miasma of peanut butter, banana, strawberry and apple juice, it comes in a milk bottle with a straw and at first smells unnervingly like fresh boak. Until you ask your delightful waiter –played here by the French stunt double of novelty Rastafarian showjumping fail Oliver Skeete – to lose the apple, and you’re left with a pint of ambrosia. Not that.
All you need to know about the ethos of the place was summed up when I first lunched there – charming waitperson #348 sauntered over and asked if we would like the ‘concept’ explained. We nervously said yes. He replied, “There isn’t one really – order some lunch, it’s all great.”
Phew.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The Modern Pantry, Clerkenwell
The Modern Pantry
48 St John's Square
Clerkenwell
EC1V 4JJ
020 7553 9210
www.themodernpantry.co.uk
by Grease Witherspoon
Post yoga and micro dermatological facial, I usually insist on my regular breakfast of gluten-free muesli and organic soymilk. However, I make an exception to meet my sister, Jadee, for breakfast at the Modern Pantry, conveniently located around the corner from my aromatherapist. Blood is, after all, thicker than soya.
I’m early and the maitre d’ is on the phone but waves me inside with such a friendly, welcoming smile that I almost mistake it for recognition. When he hangs up, he apologises profusely in an incomprehensible accent before showing me upstairs, chatting incessantly. As I lean in to try to understand and react appropriately, the inevitable happens and I trip over my heels and up the stairs. Mr. d’ makes a sound that I assume is concern for my well-being and although I can’t be sure, think he says something along the lines of ‘stupid stairs.’ Safely at our table, I order a calming peppermint tea. Too much caffeine in the morning makes me jittery and there’s been quite enough excitement already. It arrives at the same time as my sister, in a miniature pot that would barely quench the thirst of a teacup shih tzu. And it isn’t loose leaf. If it comes in a pot and costs £2, it really should be.
Perusing the menu, I notice it features some unconventional ingredients- cassava, goat’s curd, plantain and yuzu nestle between the inevitable pastry selection and chorizo-laced eggs. I settle for the outré sounding polenta, spring onion, feta and curry leaf waffles with bacon and maple syrup. The other Witherspoon sister goes for the rather more predictable option of halloumi, spinach and eggs. I’m expecting them to be plump and ostentatious but when thin, crisp and delicate waffles arrive, I am not disappointed. There is no hint of the graininess usually associated with polenta and none of the stodginess of its stateside cousin. The feta and the spring onion comes through with a faint under note of the sweet curry leaf that brings out the syrup, while the saltiness of the bacon is imitated by the feta. It’s certainly clever and it knows it. The plate of halloumi, eggs and spinach is a much more straightforward option but it shines nonetheless just as brightly. Jadee proclaims the eggs to be the best she has ever had in London, with the cheese mixed in with them without squeaky rubberiness, set aside rough sourdough toast of the artisan variety and fat grilled tomatoes.
As we sit bathed in sunlight from the enormous windows I begin, just for a second, to unwind. Until I’m blinded by the rays and start to feel a little faint. I realise my sister is squinting to see her plate and so make the briefest of eye contact with our waiter. He promptly swoops over and pulls down the blinds, to a chorus of appreciation from other diners. It’s the kind of service one could get used to.
48 St John's Square
Clerkenwell
EC1V 4JJ
020 7553 9210
www.themodernpantry.co.uk
by Grease Witherspoon
Post yoga and micro dermatological facial, I usually insist on my regular breakfast of gluten-free muesli and organic soymilk. However, I make an exception to meet my sister, Jadee, for breakfast at the Modern Pantry, conveniently located around the corner from my aromatherapist. Blood is, after all, thicker than soya.
I’m early and the maitre d’ is on the phone but waves me inside with such a friendly, welcoming smile that I almost mistake it for recognition. When he hangs up, he apologises profusely in an incomprehensible accent before showing me upstairs, chatting incessantly. As I lean in to try to understand and react appropriately, the inevitable happens and I trip over my heels and up the stairs. Mr. d’ makes a sound that I assume is concern for my well-being and although I can’t be sure, think he says something along the lines of ‘stupid stairs.’ Safely at our table, I order a calming peppermint tea. Too much caffeine in the morning makes me jittery and there’s been quite enough excitement already. It arrives at the same time as my sister, in a miniature pot that would barely quench the thirst of a teacup shih tzu. And it isn’t loose leaf. If it comes in a pot and costs £2, it really should be.
Perusing the menu, I notice it features some unconventional ingredients- cassava, goat’s curd, plantain and yuzu nestle between the inevitable pastry selection and chorizo-laced eggs. I settle for the outré sounding polenta, spring onion, feta and curry leaf waffles with bacon and maple syrup. The other Witherspoon sister goes for the rather more predictable option of halloumi, spinach and eggs. I’m expecting them to be plump and ostentatious but when thin, crisp and delicate waffles arrive, I am not disappointed. There is no hint of the graininess usually associated with polenta and none of the stodginess of its stateside cousin. The feta and the spring onion comes through with a faint under note of the sweet curry leaf that brings out the syrup, while the saltiness of the bacon is imitated by the feta. It’s certainly clever and it knows it. The plate of halloumi, eggs and spinach is a much more straightforward option but it shines nonetheless just as brightly. Jadee proclaims the eggs to be the best she has ever had in London, with the cheese mixed in with them without squeaky rubberiness, set aside rough sourdough toast of the artisan variety and fat grilled tomatoes.
As we sit bathed in sunlight from the enormous windows I begin, just for a second, to unwind. Until I’m blinded by the rays and start to feel a little faint. I realise my sister is squinting to see her plate and so make the briefest of eye contact with our waiter. He promptly swoops over and pulls down the blinds, to a chorus of appreciation from other diners. It’s the kind of service one could get used to.
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