by La Soya Jackson
A lone organism navigates a hostile world, every circumstance threatens its survival... trust none but yourself, act fast, think faster... 'Eat me' reads the label on the bran and blueberry muffin... what harm can one small bite do?
Don't make the mistake of thinking that a vegetarian and a vegan are in any way alike. They are as different as black pudding and marmalade. A vegan demands to read the box the vegetarian sausage came in, needs you to remember not to spread flora on their toast, requires their mushrooms to be fried in a different pan from the other mushrooms (which you're lovingly sautéing in butter and fresh parsley). A vegan cannot be fobbed off with an extra egg. But the most important and crucial thing is that a vegan will not under any circumstances be satisfied with fruit (or muesli).
A vegan has been through an extreme and sometimes violent reprogramming process, has been unplugged from the matrix of breakfast enjoyment. The temptation and magic they used to feel is a distant memory (with unpleasant connotations). A piece of over-processed tofu impregnated with natural beetroot colouring and cut into the shape of a 'bacon rasher' is not what they seek. They aren't trying to simulate a meat/dairy experience: they are creating their own new universe. Above all of the vegan's survival skills the most crucial is the ability to read beyond the menu.
That and communication.
At first communication will be a highly traumatic experience for the vegan and all those who have the misfortune to breakfast with them. Embarrassing stand offs over soya milk, politically offensive claims to debilitating allergies, over-complicated descriptions about the rainforests, animal liberation and offsetting your carbon emissions, tears, apologies, regrets. Singularly any of these will curdle good porridge and an inexperienced breakfasting vegan may face all in the one sitting.
Fortunately this phase doesn't last for long. A vegan soon learns to stand on their own wobbly gelatine-free jelly legs and embark on the experimental delights which lie between choices three and four on the specials board. The dining car is serving breakfast, the train is ready for boarding, please go to platform 9¾.
Vegan breakfast ordering is an art. It requires subtle but firm precision, gentle manipulation, and incredible foresight. A Vegan requires an expert insight into the mind of the chef, the ability to freeze time, telepathic powers, conflict resolution training, practice, perseverance and commitment.
So begin by drawing a circle around your table. Use ground pepper if it's available - ketchup will do otherwise. Summon the five sacred animal friends, the spirit guides which will accompany you through the choices you will face, carefully arrange your cutlery in the shape of a five pointed star and form the likeness of your spirit companions in salt at each magical tip.
When the waiter approaches don't ever declare yourself as a vegan. They won't understand, they will try to give you fish or refuse to give you toast. Begin as if everything is going to be very straightforward... order the vegetarian breakfast then take a deep breath. State clearly that you don't want an egg. If this goes well you can move on to tell them casually that you don't eat dairy products, inquisitively ask if they cook the mushrooms in butter, oil or dry fry, and if the answer is butter ask cautiously if they could possibly cook them in oil for you. All good? Now go for the big ask... They most certainly won't know if the vegetarian sausages contain eggs or dairy, but approach the question as if they will. When they look at you as if you'd just asked them to lay the egg, remain centred, repeat some deep breaths and return the exact same gaze. Normally this works but if nothing happens, ask if they could go and check with the chef.
When they return you're on the home straight. Firmly tell them you don't want any butter on your toast (avoid any conversation about margarine, they rarely have a tub of omega 3 linseed spread out back). Now just before they walk away, if you're feeling really lucky, go for it! Smiling appreciatively ask if they could possibly provide you with a little olive oil on the side.
A job well done, treat yourself to a decaf soya latte. Go on, be a devil and have a brown sugar in that. Now sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labour. The new world order is about to arrive.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
McDonald's, Painesville, Ohio, USA
McDonald’s
95 Richmond St
Painesville
OH 44077
USA
www.mcdonalds.com
by T.N. Toost
I wept. It started when McCain gave his concession speech, far more gracious and mature than Hillary had been. Then, Barack strode to the podium, with the strong set behind him, Leni’s spotlights rising above the perfect flags, his words of victory passionate and portioned and pure, raucous, crazed crowds chanting the same words over and over again. My girlfriend, who is not a citizen and could not vote, held my hand while her sister, who is a citizen and did not vote, sat across the table and watched. The bar broke out in cheers at certain points; it was pseudo-revolutionary, after eight years of oppression by the Republicans, to suddenly find ourselves so totally in control of the government. There were tears, passionate embraces between absolute strangers and gangs of youth running down the street cheering.
I wondered if the rest of the world felt the same way.
The next morning I drove to Painesville, an economically depressed area in northeast Ohio, and parked between two massive trucks – a Chevy and a Ford, both loaded with some manner of construction gear and both beds higher than the roof of my car. Small groups of old people clustered around, but then it seemed they always did that out here. I walked in and was clearly the youngest person in the room and the only one in slacks and a button-up shirt. There was camouflage, there were grease-stained jeans and paint-stained boots, there was a tiny girl just learning to walk and smile at strangers. I walked to the counter and waited in line – waited for the voices to rise, for indignation, for violent political denouncements and vows of revenge, for my chance to order.
The menu was the same. Number Two had one sausage McMuffin, one hash brown and a small coffee. I’d been craving a McMuffin since the previous Friday, when I had actually driven to Chicago and stood near Grant Park; it was perfect. The English muffin was chewy, the sausage spiced and the egg actually tasted real and substantial. The hash brown was still way too salty; the coffee, with two creams and two sugars, was still coffee with two creams and two sugars. Low, indecipherable music hummed in the background and voices were subdued.
When I got into the office, the manager was haranguing a secretary about how Obama would raise the estate tax at the first opportunity, and a paralegal was talking to the only Muslim employee about how a Muslim was elected because of the “backward hillbilly” vote. (She didn’t know he was Muslim.) Then I looked at my McDonald’s receipt; a notice at the top said that they’re hiring for all shifts. It seems that the poor, and the ignorant, will always be with us – and that they will also always have jobs, and opinions, and the same right to vote as every other citizen. In short, despite all of the challenges of our time, our democracy will continue.
95 Richmond St
Painesville
OH 44077
USA
www.mcdonalds.com
by T.N. Toost
I wept. It started when McCain gave his concession speech, far more gracious and mature than Hillary had been. Then, Barack strode to the podium, with the strong set behind him, Leni’s spotlights rising above the perfect flags, his words of victory passionate and portioned and pure, raucous, crazed crowds chanting the same words over and over again. My girlfriend, who is not a citizen and could not vote, held my hand while her sister, who is a citizen and did not vote, sat across the table and watched. The bar broke out in cheers at certain points; it was pseudo-revolutionary, after eight years of oppression by the Republicans, to suddenly find ourselves so totally in control of the government. There were tears, passionate embraces between absolute strangers and gangs of youth running down the street cheering.
I wondered if the rest of the world felt the same way.
The next morning I drove to Painesville, an economically depressed area in northeast Ohio, and parked between two massive trucks – a Chevy and a Ford, both loaded with some manner of construction gear and both beds higher than the roof of my car. Small groups of old people clustered around, but then it seemed they always did that out here. I walked in and was clearly the youngest person in the room and the only one in slacks and a button-up shirt. There was camouflage, there were grease-stained jeans and paint-stained boots, there was a tiny girl just learning to walk and smile at strangers. I walked to the counter and waited in line – waited for the voices to rise, for indignation, for violent political denouncements and vows of revenge, for my chance to order.
The menu was the same. Number Two had one sausage McMuffin, one hash brown and a small coffee. I’d been craving a McMuffin since the previous Friday, when I had actually driven to Chicago and stood near Grant Park; it was perfect. The English muffin was chewy, the sausage spiced and the egg actually tasted real and substantial. The hash brown was still way too salty; the coffee, with two creams and two sugars, was still coffee with two creams and two sugars. Low, indecipherable music hummed in the background and voices were subdued.
When I got into the office, the manager was haranguing a secretary about how Obama would raise the estate tax at the first opportunity, and a paralegal was talking to the only Muslim employee about how a Muslim was elected because of the “backward hillbilly” vote. (She didn’t know he was Muslim.) Then I looked at my McDonald’s receipt; a notice at the top said that they’re hiring for all shifts. It seems that the poor, and the ignorant, will always be with us – and that they will also always have jobs, and opinions, and the same right to vote as every other citizen. In short, despite all of the challenges of our time, our democracy will continue.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Half Moon Café, Hammersmith
Half Moon Café
125 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith
W6 8JA
by Brian Sauce
Exiting via Accident and Emergency I shuffle onto the Fulham Palace Road. Commuter vehicles clog an unpromising strip of shut pubs and kebab shops, slightly reeking in the crisp morning air. Sunlight hurts my head, I’m hungry as hell.
A hundred feet from the hospital, a sandwich board outside the Half Moon Café proffers breakfast, hot meals and 60p tea. I glance at the grey faced old men and Sun-reading builders inside before crossing to get cash and buy a paper. Nearly buying a tabloid to fit in, I decide instead on a broadsheet. Tests and X-rays take time.
Front of house at Half Moon is a dismal looking fat-faced Spurs fan who turns out to be quite nice when she flirts with the builders. Bacon, sausage, fried eggs, hash browns, beans, black pudding, toast, and coffee costs £6.
Service is as quick as thought. God, it’s nice not being at work, even if I’m exhausted and Dad is trying to kill himself. Oh look, coffee. The Guardian is boring; I wish I had a Sun now. Heavens, here comes my two-plate breakfast.
Fussily, I tuck toasts under eggs and beans before slicing perfect runny yolks. Brown sauce, ketchup and mayo on tables is good, but even better is the food. Bacon well done, baked beans briefly cooked and fantastic black puddings are particular highlights. Real butter on the toast makes me forget my troubles. Hash browns are from a packet but I secretly love them.
A brilliant meal – just think, if he really dies I can stop coming to work altogether and eat breakfasts like this every day. I linger over coffee but The Guardian really is boring.
125 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith
W6 8JA
by Brian Sauce
Exiting via Accident and Emergency I shuffle onto the Fulham Palace Road. Commuter vehicles clog an unpromising strip of shut pubs and kebab shops, slightly reeking in the crisp morning air. Sunlight hurts my head, I’m hungry as hell.
A hundred feet from the hospital, a sandwich board outside the Half Moon Café proffers breakfast, hot meals and 60p tea. I glance at the grey faced old men and Sun-reading builders inside before crossing to get cash and buy a paper. Nearly buying a tabloid to fit in, I decide instead on a broadsheet. Tests and X-rays take time.
Front of house at Half Moon is a dismal looking fat-faced Spurs fan who turns out to be quite nice when she flirts with the builders. Bacon, sausage, fried eggs, hash browns, beans, black pudding, toast, and coffee costs £6.
Service is as quick as thought. God, it’s nice not being at work, even if I’m exhausted and Dad is trying to kill himself. Oh look, coffee. The Guardian is boring; I wish I had a Sun now. Heavens, here comes my two-plate breakfast.
Fussily, I tuck toasts under eggs and beans before slicing perfect runny yolks. Brown sauce, ketchup and mayo on tables is good, but even better is the food. Bacon well done, baked beans briefly cooked and fantastic black puddings are particular highlights. Real butter on the toast makes me forget my troubles. Hash browns are from a packet but I secretly love them.
A brilliant meal – just think, if he really dies I can stop coming to work altogether and eat breakfasts like this every day. I linger over coffee but The Guardian really is boring.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Kako, Camden Town
Kako
7 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7383 7707
by Nelson Griddle
London can be a bleak, unforgiving place. Especially at the onset of the worst financial crisis in living memory. And when the temperature’s below freezing. And when you haven’t had any breakfast yet.
It was under these testing conditions that I thought I’d give Kako a whirl. I was ushered in by a very charming waitress. There was no hint of the awfulness to come as I ordered eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, toast and coffee.
Yet disaster whispers its imminent arrival in the little things, such Kako’s rack of out-of-date papers. Who wants to read a four-day-old copy of the Star, after all? But then again, who wants to sit and wait 25 minutes for their breakfast?
Not that I knew it would be 25 minutes. You know how it is in this situation. You wait patiently. You wait a bit more. After ten minutes or so, you think “Well, they’re a bit busy. Let’s give them another five minutes. Then, being British, you give them another five minutes, because the waitress was very sweet, after all.
Yet finally I went to complain. What was going on? I asked the charming waitress. How long was this going to take? Where, after twenty-odd minutes, was my breakfast? Another five minutes, said the waitress, a little less charmingly, after a discussion in the kitchen.
Well, five minutes sounds fair enough, doesn’t it? But how long does it take to cook breakfast in the first place? Frying an egg, grilling bacon and making toast is accomplished in my kitchen in three minutes flat. So although I’d been sitting there for the best part of half an hour, they hadn’t even started on my order yet.
Enough! I walked out, unbreakfasted, to find sustenance in another café over the road.
One final puzzle: Where does Kako get its name? It’s opposite Koko, but is Koko really such a brilliant name that it deserves this homage? Possibly they’re inspired by the service at Koko: the last time I went there I had to queue up for 15 minutes to buy a bottle of St Miguel.
Never mind. If the “o” falls off, the name will fit perfectly.
7 Camden High St
Camden Town
NW1
020 7383 7707
by Nelson Griddle
London can be a bleak, unforgiving place. Especially at the onset of the worst financial crisis in living memory. And when the temperature’s below freezing. And when you haven’t had any breakfast yet.
It was under these testing conditions that I thought I’d give Kako a whirl. I was ushered in by a very charming waitress. There was no hint of the awfulness to come as I ordered eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, toast and coffee.
Yet disaster whispers its imminent arrival in the little things, such Kako’s rack of out-of-date papers. Who wants to read a four-day-old copy of the Star, after all? But then again, who wants to sit and wait 25 minutes for their breakfast?
Not that I knew it would be 25 minutes. You know how it is in this situation. You wait patiently. You wait a bit more. After ten minutes or so, you think “Well, they’re a bit busy. Let’s give them another five minutes. Then, being British, you give them another five minutes, because the waitress was very sweet, after all.
Yet finally I went to complain. What was going on? I asked the charming waitress. How long was this going to take? Where, after twenty-odd minutes, was my breakfast? Another five minutes, said the waitress, a little less charmingly, after a discussion in the kitchen.
Well, five minutes sounds fair enough, doesn’t it? But how long does it take to cook breakfast in the first place? Frying an egg, grilling bacon and making toast is accomplished in my kitchen in three minutes flat. So although I’d been sitting there for the best part of half an hour, they hadn’t even started on my order yet.
Enough! I walked out, unbreakfasted, to find sustenance in another café over the road.
One final puzzle: Where does Kako get its name? It’s opposite Koko, but is Koko really such a brilliant name that it deserves this homage? Possibly they’re inspired by the service at Koko: the last time I went there I had to queue up for 15 minutes to buy a bottle of St Miguel.
Never mind. If the “o” falls off, the name will fit perfectly.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
The Coffee House, Philadelphia, USA
The Coffee House
113 W Girard Ave
Northern Liberties
Philadelphia, PA 19122
USA
+1 (215) 426-5889
by Des Ayuno
I woke abruptly, as one sometimes does after a heavy night, the debilitating hangover to come only a tinny echo in my head. The Sunday morning skies over Philly were of the uncanny sort that follows a heavy rain. An ultra-bright sun reverberated out of the watery, steel-grey air like a camera flash against a silk sheet; nimbus clouds skittered past…
D, the equally hungover but early-rising flatmate of my sleeping host (and hence my reluctant chauffeur for the day), pulled up outside Coffee House. A was puttering behind the counter, just as he’d said he’d be when we had bid wistful farewells a few hours earlier. D gruffly ordered a breakfast bagel; I nodded a second, not really caring. We retired to a front table with one of those huge, peculiarly American plastic flasks of coffee and a “small” (actually rather large) Earl Grey. Swiftly, two sandwiches appeared. Fat seed-encrusted bagels were heaped with bright yellow scrambled eggs; also piled on the plates was a plethora of ketchup sachets, salt and pepper mini envelopes, napkins, coffee stirrers and other accessories. It was all pretty much unnecessary. A quick squeeze of Heinz rendered this confidently buttered, crispy-crusted, fluffy-centred delight the juiciest and most satisfying breakfast sandwich of my life. The generous amount of fennel seeds on the bagel gave me pause at first, but by the third bite I’d decided they were the finest spice ever to be paired with eggs. It was only when I reached the final mouthful that I discovered the cheese. An entire slice of American seemed to have leaked into a remote pocket in the egg, waiting to be consumed in a single molten bite.
I had no time to relax in this cozy haven, though, for I had a flight to catch. D lurked grumpily outside, chain-smoking and flicking butts at passing cars. I joined him ten minutes later, sent on my way with a brush to the cheek of A’s soft stubble, a mouthful of curly black hair and a murmured promise to visit, or be visited, soon. No one ever says what they’re really thinking in those moments. “Thanks for the bagel” was as good as anything.
113 W Girard Ave
Northern Liberties
Philadelphia, PA 19122
USA
+1 (215) 426-5889
by Des Ayuno
I woke abruptly, as one sometimes does after a heavy night, the debilitating hangover to come only a tinny echo in my head. The Sunday morning skies over Philly were of the uncanny sort that follows a heavy rain. An ultra-bright sun reverberated out of the watery, steel-grey air like a camera flash against a silk sheet; nimbus clouds skittered past…
D, the equally hungover but early-rising flatmate of my sleeping host (and hence my reluctant chauffeur for the day), pulled up outside Coffee House. A was puttering behind the counter, just as he’d said he’d be when we had bid wistful farewells a few hours earlier. D gruffly ordered a breakfast bagel; I nodded a second, not really caring. We retired to a front table with one of those huge, peculiarly American plastic flasks of coffee and a “small” (actually rather large) Earl Grey. Swiftly, two sandwiches appeared. Fat seed-encrusted bagels were heaped with bright yellow scrambled eggs; also piled on the plates was a plethora of ketchup sachets, salt and pepper mini envelopes, napkins, coffee stirrers and other accessories. It was all pretty much unnecessary. A quick squeeze of Heinz rendered this confidently buttered, crispy-crusted, fluffy-centred delight the juiciest and most satisfying breakfast sandwich of my life. The generous amount of fennel seeds on the bagel gave me pause at first, but by the third bite I’d decided they were the finest spice ever to be paired with eggs. It was only when I reached the final mouthful that I discovered the cheese. An entire slice of American seemed to have leaked into a remote pocket in the egg, waiting to be consumed in a single molten bite.
I had no time to relax in this cozy haven, though, for I had a flight to catch. D lurked grumpily outside, chain-smoking and flicking butts at passing cars. I joined him ten minutes later, sent on my way with a brush to the cheek of A’s soft stubble, a mouthful of curly black hair and a murmured promise to visit, or be visited, soon. No one ever says what they’re really thinking in those moments. “Thanks for the bagel” was as good as anything.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Arthur's Cafe, Kingsland
Arthur’s Cafe
495 Kingsland Rd
Kingsland
E8 4AU
020 7254 3391
by Malcolm Eggs
It was 1935 when Arthur’s opened. Then, like now, the world was in the middle of a nasty economic crisis. It was also the year that Monopoly was first released. People ate sausage and eggs then, and they do in 2008, and they will – barring a sizeable jolt to society as we know it – continue to do so in 2081. And for all the canny allure of the sign out front advertising the cafe’s longevity and the father, son and grandson who have run the place, once you’re inside there is much you will recognise from any other high street cafe – the highly wipe-able tables, a glass counter full of sandwich fillings, the laminated menus.
But there is something more than that here. It’s partly in the presence of the current Arthur himself, a benevolent grey-haired figure, whose service is reserved for those ordering hot meals, and who visibly lifts morale in both customers and staff every time he walks past or says a word. It’s partly in the breadth of the clientele: the jubilant families, the nice old ladies, the sad old rockers, the laughing decorators. But it’s mainly in the near-invisible slickness of this operation, something that can only come with the benefit of seventy-three years of institutional experience – experience which can almost entirely be summed up as: cook it well, make sure it’s hot, know your customers properly.
Having arrived after 11.30, Mabel and I had missed the breakfast menu, so went for the closest lunch option of sausage, egg and chips. Mine was one of two birthdays taking place: the table next door was home to an extended family, gathered around several slap-up lunches and one lucky baby, to celebrate what looked to be happy return number one. The food arrived quickly and for the quarter of an hour it took me to eat it, I was entirely swept up in its hotness and deliciousness. I felt a heightened sense of being alive. If there was a downside it was that my two fried eggs were so flawless they made me momentarily apoplectic, with the countless quacks who've got eggs wrong in the past. The toast was amazing too: white bloomer, and real butter.
During the hazy afterglow I observed the chattering clientele squeezed onto every available seat, and something occurred to me about all these people who sob about things like "the sad death of the local caff". If they removed the spectacles of their foregone conclusions for just a moment, they would see caffs everywhere that are well-run economic units, far better insulated from the coming strife than the little shoots of gentrification – the artisan bakeries and pastiche tea rooms – who ostensibly threaten their existence. Not that places like Arthur’s care, or need to care, what I think about them. I’m willing to bet that they’ll outlast us all.
495 Kingsland Rd
Kingsland
E8 4AU
020 7254 3391
by Malcolm Eggs
It was 1935 when Arthur’s opened. Then, like now, the world was in the middle of a nasty economic crisis. It was also the year that Monopoly was first released. People ate sausage and eggs then, and they do in 2008, and they will – barring a sizeable jolt to society as we know it – continue to do so in 2081. And for all the canny allure of the sign out front advertising the cafe’s longevity and the father, son and grandson who have run the place, once you’re inside there is much you will recognise from any other high street cafe – the highly wipe-able tables, a glass counter full of sandwich fillings, the laminated menus.
But there is something more than that here. It’s partly in the presence of the current Arthur himself, a benevolent grey-haired figure, whose service is reserved for those ordering hot meals, and who visibly lifts morale in both customers and staff every time he walks past or says a word. It’s partly in the breadth of the clientele: the jubilant families, the nice old ladies, the sad old rockers, the laughing decorators. But it’s mainly in the near-invisible slickness of this operation, something that can only come with the benefit of seventy-three years of institutional experience – experience which can almost entirely be summed up as: cook it well, make sure it’s hot, know your customers properly.
Having arrived after 11.30, Mabel and I had missed the breakfast menu, so went for the closest lunch option of sausage, egg and chips. Mine was one of two birthdays taking place: the table next door was home to an extended family, gathered around several slap-up lunches and one lucky baby, to celebrate what looked to be happy return number one. The food arrived quickly and for the quarter of an hour it took me to eat it, I was entirely swept up in its hotness and deliciousness. I felt a heightened sense of being alive. If there was a downside it was that my two fried eggs were so flawless they made me momentarily apoplectic, with the countless quacks who've got eggs wrong in the past. The toast was amazing too: white bloomer, and real butter.
During the hazy afterglow I observed the chattering clientele squeezed onto every available seat, and something occurred to me about all these people who sob about things like "the sad death of the local caff". If they removed the spectacles of their foregone conclusions for just a moment, they would see caffs everywhere that are well-run economic units, far better insulated from the coming strife than the little shoots of gentrification – the artisan bakeries and pastiche tea rooms – who ostensibly threaten their existence. Not that places like Arthur’s care, or need to care, what I think about them. I’m willing to bet that they’ll outlast us all.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Breakfasts and Beds: 11, Carey's Cottages, Brockenhurst, Hampshire
11, Carey's Cottages
Butt's Lawn
Brockenhurst
Hants
SO42 7TF
01590 622 276
www.careyscottages.co.uk
by Hashley Brown
Everywhere. Every book, picture, ornament or sculpture is a horse. And if through some thematic slip it's not equine, then it's a bird, or a hippo, or a panda, or a cat, or a dog. But mostly horses. Even the book casually slung by the bath is a novel starring a horse in a dramatic lead. Oh, and when you look out of the toilet window there's even a real horse looking back at you. This is more shrine than BnB, and when you look harder there're even a few religious icons; occasionally crucifixes peer down on the pile of saddles.
Stumble upon this unassuming cottage in the New Forest and it does feel like wandering into the disturbed dreams of a particularly horsey little girl, who also loves all the other animals on God's earth. But once you're past the initial shock, and wondering whether you'll find a horses head in your bed (maybe she shoots them in the face and makes sausages out of their bodies, my drunken comrade pondered) then 11 Carey's Cottages has all the charm of staying in a well-ordered antique shop.
After a deep sleep, undisturbed by horse heads or otherwise, we awoke with a surprising sprightliness that comes only from being hunkered down under freshly heavy blankets in an airy country house. Breakfast was heralded by the chiming of a grandfather clock and the tuneful chirping of a clutch of budgerigars, and the reassuring distant smell of frying bacon. Immaculately presented, the dining room was as far as you can get from generic Ikea-n catering, and the opposite of the over-manicured period guesthouse - it was clearly simply the home of our mildly eccentric host. As well as the oil paintings in the conservatory, and the stuffed magpie peering from behind a door; there was a sense of whimsy about the crockery designs, the jumble of teaspoons were old and monogrammed and from the depths of the last century.
Food was good, and followed the three course breakfast plan. Cereal to start; eggs, bacon and sausage to follow; and rounds of toast, jam and butter to end; and all accompanied by an ever replenished pot of tea. It wasn't the most gourmand of breakfasts I've ever eaten, but it fitted the surroundings so well. Immaculately presented in a homely fashion it made the perfect start to a rainy Sunday. And no, the sausages weren't made from horses.
Butt's Lawn
Brockenhurst
Hants
SO42 7TF
01590 622 276
www.careyscottages.co.uk
by Hashley Brown
Everywhere. Every book, picture, ornament or sculpture is a horse. And if through some thematic slip it's not equine, then it's a bird, or a hippo, or a panda, or a cat, or a dog. But mostly horses. Even the book casually slung by the bath is a novel starring a horse in a dramatic lead. Oh, and when you look out of the toilet window there's even a real horse looking back at you. This is more shrine than BnB, and when you look harder there're even a few religious icons; occasionally crucifixes peer down on the pile of saddles.
Stumble upon this unassuming cottage in the New Forest and it does feel like wandering into the disturbed dreams of a particularly horsey little girl, who also loves all the other animals on God's earth. But once you're past the initial shock, and wondering whether you'll find a horses head in your bed (maybe she shoots them in the face and makes sausages out of their bodies, my drunken comrade pondered) then 11 Carey's Cottages has all the charm of staying in a well-ordered antique shop.
After a deep sleep, undisturbed by horse heads or otherwise, we awoke with a surprising sprightliness that comes only from being hunkered down under freshly heavy blankets in an airy country house. Breakfast was heralded by the chiming of a grandfather clock and the tuneful chirping of a clutch of budgerigars, and the reassuring distant smell of frying bacon. Immaculately presented, the dining room was as far as you can get from generic Ikea-n catering, and the opposite of the over-manicured period guesthouse - it was clearly simply the home of our mildly eccentric host. As well as the oil paintings in the conservatory, and the stuffed magpie peering from behind a door; there was a sense of whimsy about the crockery designs, the jumble of teaspoons were old and monogrammed and from the depths of the last century.
Food was good, and followed the three course breakfast plan. Cereal to start; eggs, bacon and sausage to follow; and rounds of toast, jam and butter to end; and all accompanied by an ever replenished pot of tea. It wasn't the most gourmand of breakfasts I've ever eaten, but it fitted the surroundings so well. Immaculately presented in a homely fashion it made the perfect start to a rainy Sunday. And no, the sausages weren't made from horses.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Diana's Diner, Covent Garden
Diana's Diner
39 Endell Street
Covent Garden
WC2H 9BA
020 7240 0242
by Cher E Jamm
Every now and then, there comes a caff that is so perfect, so dishevelled in all the right places, so masterful in the art of making breakfast, that it makes me just want to fall to my knees and weep hot tears of joy. Diana's Diner is such a place.
It's been sitting pretty on Endell Street, Covent Garden for eons. I, shamefully, had turned my nose up and walked past it for many a year. Today, with my companions - one of whom is eight months with child and craving bacon - I set foot through its fine doors and knew instantly that I had been a fool. Why had I never gone in? Because the bright lights of Covent Garden, with its macchiatos here and its croissants there had lured me away, chewed me up and spat me out onto the pavement - that’s why.
Diana's Diner is not fancy. It doesn't do organic anything. It doesn't serve soya milk, and I suspect that if you were to ask for brown or granary toast, you would be laughed at. It’s full of labourers, clubbers on their way home, white collars on their way in to work and has-been rockstars on their way to nowhere in particular. In the latter category were Danny Goffey and the other guy from Supergrass, sat in matching red Ray-bans, furiously shovelling bacon and egg butties into their increasingly jowly gobs.
To the food. A Full English came with perfect mushrooms with not a bit of slime, two halves of grilled tomato properly cooked with their blackened faces staring proudly from the plate, a sausage that was nice to look at but as with so many sausages these days, tasted of nothing. The bacon – oh, the bacon – was crisp, plentiful, delicious. Beans were hot and the scrambled eggs were fluffy, light and cooked with a panache that is rare in these weary times. Salsa Sally was feeling regal and opted for the Breakfast Royale, more scrambled eggs and a generous portion of smoked salmon on toast. Her only negative observation was that she would have preferred the toast on the side so as to prevent it from becoming soggy. Both meals came with a cup of tea and were modestly priced at £4.50.
The decor was simple: wooden tables and ramshackle chairs, walls filled with framed, signed photos of 1980s stage actors I’ve never heard of. The service was polite and swift. The owner, a cheery Portuguese man kept calling us 'bella', insisting our pregnant friend eat for free. "You are eating for two,” he said. “It is an honour to have you in here”.
Actually, the honour was all ours.
39 Endell Street
Covent Garden
WC2H 9BA
020 7240 0242
by Cher E Jamm
Every now and then, there comes a caff that is so perfect, so dishevelled in all the right places, so masterful in the art of making breakfast, that it makes me just want to fall to my knees and weep hot tears of joy. Diana's Diner is such a place.
It's been sitting pretty on Endell Street, Covent Garden for eons. I, shamefully, had turned my nose up and walked past it for many a year. Today, with my companions - one of whom is eight months with child and craving bacon - I set foot through its fine doors and knew instantly that I had been a fool. Why had I never gone in? Because the bright lights of Covent Garden, with its macchiatos here and its croissants there had lured me away, chewed me up and spat me out onto the pavement - that’s why.
Diana's Diner is not fancy. It doesn't do organic anything. It doesn't serve soya milk, and I suspect that if you were to ask for brown or granary toast, you would be laughed at. It’s full of labourers, clubbers on their way home, white collars on their way in to work and has-been rockstars on their way to nowhere in particular. In the latter category were Danny Goffey and the other guy from Supergrass, sat in matching red Ray-bans, furiously shovelling bacon and egg butties into their increasingly jowly gobs.
To the food. A Full English came with perfect mushrooms with not a bit of slime, two halves of grilled tomato properly cooked with their blackened faces staring proudly from the plate, a sausage that was nice to look at but as with so many sausages these days, tasted of nothing. The bacon – oh, the bacon – was crisp, plentiful, delicious. Beans were hot and the scrambled eggs were fluffy, light and cooked with a panache that is rare in these weary times. Salsa Sally was feeling regal and opted for the Breakfast Royale, more scrambled eggs and a generous portion of smoked salmon on toast. Her only negative observation was that she would have preferred the toast on the side so as to prevent it from becoming soggy. Both meals came with a cup of tea and were modestly priced at £4.50.
The decor was simple: wooden tables and ramshackle chairs, walls filled with framed, signed photos of 1980s stage actors I’ve never heard of. The service was polite and swift. The owner, a cheery Portuguese man kept calling us 'bella', insisting our pregnant friend eat for free. "You are eating for two,” he said. “It is an honour to have you in here”.
Actually, the honour was all ours.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Burger King, Waterloo
Burger King
Waterloo Station
Waterloo Rd
Waterloo
SE1 8SE
020 7261 9492
www.burgerking.co.uk
By Hashley Brown
I think a Spanish man just used his bad English as an excuse to chat me up on the train. Get over yourself, Hashley, I can hear you think, but hell it's been a long morning. So it starts like this: not enough sleep, wake up at 5 to get on a bus to get to Waterloo to go to a wedding. Bus breaks down, twice. Get a taxi. Plus, it's really cold. And all this time the little spark of hope, of longing even, is for the reward, the carrot to the early morning's stick, of a warm satisfying breakfast somewhere en route.
What delusions I harboured. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but somehow I imagined there being a little caff tucked away in Waterloo station, a vendor selling freshly crisped bacon sandwiches and a sturdy cup of tea, in a mug. Phhhhrp. Idiot, Hashley. This is England, where all travel starts with culinary mediocrity. With the chain outlet, but one that's only ever found in train stations. Mmm, Whistlestop, Pumpkin, Delice de France, generic 'pub' that looks as if it hosts half of the BNP list and err, Burger King. Seriously people, this was not a choice I wanted to make. But I hate those little kiosks with their insipid baguettes more than life itself. The bastards bombard every regional rail passenger with dressed up cheese rolls of such horrifying dullness that they surely warp travellers expectations of 'continental' cuisine to the point that they join UKIP. No wonder we haven't really become part of Europe.
So there I was ordering a bacon and egg butty value meal in Burger King. The bacon was thick cut something but tasted only of artificial 'smoky' flavour, the scrambled egg disc had a texture like upholstery foam, and the butty was of that spineless corn-dusted sort whose extreme softness endears it only to the elderly and teething children. It did come with a portion of mini hash-browns which were greasily satisfying and the ketchup at least was Heinz, but it was a thoroughly underwhelming experience.
At least the tea, served bag in, was nice.
Waterloo Station
Waterloo Rd
Waterloo
SE1 8SE
020 7261 9492
www.burgerking.co.uk
By Hashley Brown
I think a Spanish man just used his bad English as an excuse to chat me up on the train. Get over yourself, Hashley, I can hear you think, but hell it's been a long morning. So it starts like this: not enough sleep, wake up at 5 to get on a bus to get to Waterloo to go to a wedding. Bus breaks down, twice. Get a taxi. Plus, it's really cold. And all this time the little spark of hope, of longing even, is for the reward, the carrot to the early morning's stick, of a warm satisfying breakfast somewhere en route.
What delusions I harboured. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but somehow I imagined there being a little caff tucked away in Waterloo station, a vendor selling freshly crisped bacon sandwiches and a sturdy cup of tea, in a mug. Phhhhrp. Idiot, Hashley. This is England, where all travel starts with culinary mediocrity. With the chain outlet, but one that's only ever found in train stations. Mmm, Whistlestop, Pumpkin, Delice de France, generic 'pub' that looks as if it hosts half of the BNP list and err, Burger King. Seriously people, this was not a choice I wanted to make. But I hate those little kiosks with their insipid baguettes more than life itself. The bastards bombard every regional rail passenger with dressed up cheese rolls of such horrifying dullness that they surely warp travellers expectations of 'continental' cuisine to the point that they join UKIP. No wonder we haven't really become part of Europe.
So there I was ordering a bacon and egg butty value meal in Burger King. The bacon was thick cut something but tasted only of artificial 'smoky' flavour, the scrambled egg disc had a texture like upholstery foam, and the butty was of that spineless corn-dusted sort whose extreme softness endears it only to the elderly and teething children. It did come with a portion of mini hash-browns which were greasily satisfying and the ketchup at least was Heinz, but it was a thoroughly underwhelming experience.
At least the tea, served bag in, was nice.
Friday, November 21, 2008
La Liaison, South Kensington
La Liaison
Gloucester Road Underground Station
Gloucester Rd
South Kensington
SW7 4SF
020 7370 3189
by Bob El Ensquique
Me and the day got off on the wrong foot. I woke up late, had nothing clean to wear, and mice had burrowed into my last few slices of Hovis. To top it off, I missed my stop on the underground. It was as I reluctantly arrived at Gloucester Road that I noticed the cafe embedded into the side of the station. I had nothing to lose. After having my face nestled in a stranger's armpit, it seemed the perfect place for a pit stop from the rat race.
As I waited at the counter, I found myself being awkwardly drawn in to a conversation between the proprietor and a regular about Morrocans and Peruvians. They kept catching my eye as they spoke, as if expecting me to contribute. So I piped up: "Tangiers is somewhere I'm quite keen to visit". The pair rolled their eyes. Whoops.
Having ruined their chat, I decided to get on with ordering. With no veggie option chalked on the menu board, I asked whether I could have a Full English sans-meat. "Certainly, sir!" chirped the elderly boss, having obviously forgiven me. "I can do you two scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast. Would you like white or brown? And a drink?" What a lovely man, I thought.
I perched on a stool and took in the scene. It became apparent that La Liaison serves as a pitstop for London cabbies. "Have you heard about the new American national anthem?" "Zippity Doo Da! Haha!" What followed was a great deal of discussion about Fulham goalkeepers and the long ball technique.
Then my breakfast arrived. Served on what appeared to be antique china, the meal was perfectly presented. It also passed the taste test, fluffy scrambled eggs complimented by steaming baked beans. The piping hot half-tomatoes and buttered mushrooms sat well on the warm toast. Outside, Ken Livingstone scuttled by in an oversized scarf, and the cabbies became highly animated.
Going up to pay, I felt considerably better than I had earlier. La Liaison didn't fix my dirty shirt, but for £4.95 it eased my hunger, and made me consider changing where I get off the tube.
Gloucester Road Underground Station
Gloucester Rd
South Kensington
SW7 4SF
020 7370 3189
by Bob El Ensquique
Me and the day got off on the wrong foot. I woke up late, had nothing clean to wear, and mice had burrowed into my last few slices of Hovis. To top it off, I missed my stop on the underground. It was as I reluctantly arrived at Gloucester Road that I noticed the cafe embedded into the side of the station. I had nothing to lose. After having my face nestled in a stranger's armpit, it seemed the perfect place for a pit stop from the rat race.
As I waited at the counter, I found myself being awkwardly drawn in to a conversation between the proprietor and a regular about Morrocans and Peruvians. They kept catching my eye as they spoke, as if expecting me to contribute. So I piped up: "Tangiers is somewhere I'm quite keen to visit". The pair rolled their eyes. Whoops.
Having ruined their chat, I decided to get on with ordering. With no veggie option chalked on the menu board, I asked whether I could have a Full English sans-meat. "Certainly, sir!" chirped the elderly boss, having obviously forgiven me. "I can do you two scrambled eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast. Would you like white or brown? And a drink?" What a lovely man, I thought.
I perched on a stool and took in the scene. It became apparent that La Liaison serves as a pitstop for London cabbies. "Have you heard about the new American national anthem?" "Zippity Doo Da! Haha!" What followed was a great deal of discussion about Fulham goalkeepers and the long ball technique.
Then my breakfast arrived. Served on what appeared to be antique china, the meal was perfectly presented. It also passed the taste test, fluffy scrambled eggs complimented by steaming baked beans. The piping hot half-tomatoes and buttered mushrooms sat well on the warm toast. Outside, Ken Livingstone scuttled by in an oversized scarf, and the cabbies became highly animated.
Going up to pay, I felt considerably better than I had earlier. La Liaison didn't fix my dirty shirt, but for £4.95 it eased my hunger, and made me consider changing where I get off the tube.
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