Cafe 1916
Plaza de España, 4
07002 Palma
Mallorca
Spain
++34 971 71 88 19
by Caff Kidston
Mallorcans are generally a happy bunch. Stranded Brits however are morose and sulky. It is suspected that this Hispanic cheerfulness can be attributed to the weather or the plentiful supplies of sun-burnt foreigners, but no, there is a more surprising reason: the Mallorcan breakfast.
This is no bacon or porridge fest. It consists of four basic items, one of them quite surprising. First, coffee; a macho 'solo' for the gents, so strong you can (and indeed for entertainment value probably should) stand a spoon in it. Added fun comes in its being served in a glass and thus impossible to pick up due to the volcanic (topical bit there) temperature. The weaker ladies get a 'con leche' as befits their more delicate nature.
Then, sumo de naranja - orange juice. For some reason this sweet sun-warmed nectar comes with optional sugar to add, presumably for those planning to fly home without a plane, powered solely by the glucose rush.
The carbs are provided by the ensaimada, a snail shaped (though not flavoured) pastry covered in icing sugar which ensures that you will carry the evidence of your breakfast with you on your shirt for the rest of the day.
But the crowning glory of this bracer for the day, the thing which made King Jaime I a true conqueror (nope, me neither), the factor which makes the Spanish mad enough to get into confined spaces with angry bovines is... the shot of Torres brandy which comes as a compulsory ' side dish'. No wonder every day is a sunny one. Viva Espana indeed.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Bistrot Bruno Loubet, Clerkenwell
Bistrot Bruno Loubet
The Zetter
86-88 Clerkenwell Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
www.bistrotbrunoloubet.com
by Shreddie Kruger
With a name like Bruno Loubet you only have two choices in life: porn star or chef. Sadly for the sex industry Bruno Loubet opted for the latter, which is also great news for anyone who likes rich French bistrot grub.
His boudoir of a restaurant is nestled in the buxom bosom of Clerkenwell on the ground floor of the Zetter hotel. The bistrot has gained a fine reputation since its recent launch for its full on, card-carrying French food, including a hare dish that has the density and delicacy of a porn star’s vagina - so we expected a sensual breakfast of silky eggs and slippery butter.
Several waiters and waitresses danced around like fluffers awaiting orders before bringing us cappuccinos that would have been at their peak five minutes before they arrived on our table. Whilst this works perfectly for roasted meats, it doesn’t for coffee.
As for breakfast itself, we all know that classic Eggs Benedict is composed of a toasted English muffin, a layer of grilled ham, soft poached eggs and lashings of hollandaise sauce. But while the version that was presented to me featured a perfectly poached egg and good if slightly under-acidic hollandaise, I must object to the inclusion of bacon rather than grilled ham. I love bacon. But not with my Eggs Bennie thank you very much. The history of Eggs Benedict is worthy of a tome of biblical proportions. Some charlatans suggest that bacon should be used but many more prefer grilled ham. One item of historical relevance is a letter by Mabel C. Butler of Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts to The New York Times Magazine November 1967:
“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, when they lived in New York around the turn of the century, dined every Saturday at Delmonico's. One day Mrs. Benedict said to the maitre d'hotel, "Haven't you anything new or different to suggest?" On his reply that he would like to hear something from her, she suggested poached eggs on toasted English muffins with a thin slice of ham, hollandaise sauce and a truffle on top.”
The reason that ham works so well and bacon so poorly is twofold. The extra fat in the bacon pushes the dish's richness over edge – instead of taking one year off your life it detracts a full three and adds a heart bypass in for good measure as well. Secondly, the texture of this dish should be soft. You should be able to eat it without using your teeth, therefore allowing the brain to do other important tasks such as reading the paper and waking up.
But don’t let the cold coffee and bacony Eggs Benedict put you off. Bistrot Bruno Loubet also offers a fine array of fruits, juices, breads, yoghurts and people watching as well as other interesting offerings such as poached eggs on pea pancake with crisp pancetta, which was excellent, or fennel seed cured salmon, vegetable muffin and cottage cheese.
It’s a breakfast for both curious adventurers who want to experiment a little and of course amateur porn stars. We just wish they’d been less ham fisted on the bacon front
The Zetter
86-88 Clerkenwell Road
Clerkenwell
EC1M 5RJ
www.bistrotbrunoloubet.com
by Shreddie Kruger
With a name like Bruno Loubet you only have two choices in life: porn star or chef. Sadly for the sex industry Bruno Loubet opted for the latter, which is also great news for anyone who likes rich French bistrot grub.
His boudoir of a restaurant is nestled in the buxom bosom of Clerkenwell on the ground floor of the Zetter hotel. The bistrot has gained a fine reputation since its recent launch for its full on, card-carrying French food, including a hare dish that has the density and delicacy of a porn star’s vagina - so we expected a sensual breakfast of silky eggs and slippery butter.
Several waiters and waitresses danced around like fluffers awaiting orders before bringing us cappuccinos that would have been at their peak five minutes before they arrived on our table. Whilst this works perfectly for roasted meats, it doesn’t for coffee.
As for breakfast itself, we all know that classic Eggs Benedict is composed of a toasted English muffin, a layer of grilled ham, soft poached eggs and lashings of hollandaise sauce. But while the version that was presented to me featured a perfectly poached egg and good if slightly under-acidic hollandaise, I must object to the inclusion of bacon rather than grilled ham. I love bacon. But not with my Eggs Bennie thank you very much. The history of Eggs Benedict is worthy of a tome of biblical proportions. Some charlatans suggest that bacon should be used but many more prefer grilled ham. One item of historical relevance is a letter by Mabel C. Butler of Vineyard Haven, Massachusetts to The New York Times Magazine November 1967:
“Mr. and Mrs. Benedict, when they lived in New York around the turn of the century, dined every Saturday at Delmonico's. One day Mrs. Benedict said to the maitre d'hotel, "Haven't you anything new or different to suggest?" On his reply that he would like to hear something from her, she suggested poached eggs on toasted English muffins with a thin slice of ham, hollandaise sauce and a truffle on top.”
The reason that ham works so well and bacon so poorly is twofold. The extra fat in the bacon pushes the dish's richness over edge – instead of taking one year off your life it detracts a full three and adds a heart bypass in for good measure as well. Secondly, the texture of this dish should be soft. You should be able to eat it without using your teeth, therefore allowing the brain to do other important tasks such as reading the paper and waking up.
But don’t let the cold coffee and bacony Eggs Benedict put you off. Bistrot Bruno Loubet also offers a fine array of fruits, juices, breads, yoghurts and people watching as well as other interesting offerings such as poached eggs on pea pancake with crisp pancetta, which was excellent, or fennel seed cured salmon, vegetable muffin and cottage cheese.
It’s a breakfast for both curious adventurers who want to experiment a little and of course amateur porn stars. We just wish they’d been less ham fisted on the bacon front
Monday, April 19, 2010
Greaseless Spoon Cafe, Holborn
Greaseless Spoon Cafe by Tefal
7-8 Little Turnstile
Holborn
WC1 7DX
Mon 19th – Fri 23rd April, 9am – 4pm daily
To book tickets on Facebook click here
by Stephen Fry-Up
What better way to spend a Sunday evening than at 32 Great Queen Street in the company of, among others, esteemed Lon Review of Breakfasts stalwarts Malcolm Eggs and Hashley Brown? The whole shindig was a celebration of the recent marriage of another LRB lynchpin, Blake Pudding, to his delightful wife, Mrs Blake Pudding. Monday morning in the office was something of a rude awakening – tweeted offers of morning sherry did little to improve things. The only solution – breakfast.
Thank goodness then for Tefal, who'd invited yours truly to come and experience their new pop-up cafe near Holborn. Now, as much as the phrase 'pop-up' fills me with dread (they really do seem to be popping everything up these days – even toast...) free breakfast is free breakfast. So off I popped.
The whole thing is designed to promote Tefal's range of Nutricious and Delicious healthy cooking gadgets – they're offering customers all the glory of a full fry-up, with none of the guilt-inducing fatty stuff. That's the theory anyway.
Certainly the place looks how you might imagine – a cross between a proper greasy spoon (gingham tablecloths? Check) but with that slightly nauseating cleanliness also radiated by places like Giraffe. The menu is limited (no black pudding or hash browns or bubble) so I thought best to sample as much as possible by ordering the all-day breakfast.
The first thing that stuck me was the odd appearance of the poached egg – it looked like a sort of ceramic cylinder, and didn't taste particularly eggy. The sausages were fine – a cut above the usual, but nothing special, and they did have a rather odd texture. Beans and toast were beans and toast, tomato was tomato, and nowt to write home about there. Two stand-outs though: excellent mushrooms, and more butter than you could ever dream of scoffing. It was as if they were trying to make up for something...
And that something was a lack of grease. The whole point in a fry-up is that it's fatty and delicious. If you want healthy, eat a salad. Upon leaving the Greaseless Cafe I felt strange – somehow both full, and oddly empty. Rather like life then, I suppose: without grease and guilt, it just ain't worth living.
7-8 Little Turnstile
Holborn
WC1 7DX
Mon 19th – Fri 23rd April, 9am – 4pm daily
To book tickets on Facebook click here
by Stephen Fry-Up
What better way to spend a Sunday evening than at 32 Great Queen Street in the company of, among others, esteemed Lon Review of Breakfasts stalwarts Malcolm Eggs and Hashley Brown? The whole shindig was a celebration of the recent marriage of another LRB lynchpin, Blake Pudding, to his delightful wife, Mrs Blake Pudding. Monday morning in the office was something of a rude awakening – tweeted offers of morning sherry did little to improve things. The only solution – breakfast.
Thank goodness then for Tefal, who'd invited yours truly to come and experience their new pop-up cafe near Holborn. Now, as much as the phrase 'pop-up' fills me with dread (they really do seem to be popping everything up these days – even toast...) free breakfast is free breakfast. So off I popped.
The whole thing is designed to promote Tefal's range of Nutricious and Delicious healthy cooking gadgets – they're offering customers all the glory of a full fry-up, with none of the guilt-inducing fatty stuff. That's the theory anyway.
Certainly the place looks how you might imagine – a cross between a proper greasy spoon (gingham tablecloths? Check) but with that slightly nauseating cleanliness also radiated by places like Giraffe. The menu is limited (no black pudding or hash browns or bubble) so I thought best to sample as much as possible by ordering the all-day breakfast.
The first thing that stuck me was the odd appearance of the poached egg – it looked like a sort of ceramic cylinder, and didn't taste particularly eggy. The sausages were fine – a cut above the usual, but nothing special, and they did have a rather odd texture. Beans and toast were beans and toast, tomato was tomato, and nowt to write home about there. Two stand-outs though: excellent mushrooms, and more butter than you could ever dream of scoffing. It was as if they were trying to make up for something...
And that something was a lack of grease. The whole point in a fry-up is that it's fatty and delicious. If you want healthy, eat a salad. Upon leaving the Greaseless Cafe I felt strange – somehow both full, and oddly empty. Rather like life then, I suppose: without grease and guilt, it just ain't worth living.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Breakfast from America: The Cleveland Clinic, Ohio
The Cleveland Clinic
9500 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland
Ohio
OH 44195
+1 (800) 223-2273
www.clevelandclinic.org
by T.N. Toost
The Cleveland Clinic is ranked as one of the top in the America by the US News and World Report, and is often seen as one of the best in the world. President Obama visited it repeatedly to discuss the healthcare bill; myriad celebrities, Saudi royalty and even Prince Charles have passed through for their medical care. Some of the doctors and staff are internationally famous for their publications, and with this fame brings wealth: walking through the spacious marble hallways, past well-appointed guards, expensive corporate art and well-placed leather sofas, one might be excused for thinking that one was in a 5-star hotel or a private airport.
Scarlet Pumpernickel joined me at the Clinic one cold, cold morning. Girls make the best breakfast partners: if they’re quiet, it’s with the contemplative, distant-eyed silence that one doesn’t take personally, and when they’re talkative they will ramble on at length about nothing of consequence, which is a better accompaniment to a morning meal than orange juice and most types of tea. I got the eggs with cheese, hash browns and turkey sausage (a total of 769 calories), a blueberry muffin (144 - 266 calories) and hazelnut coffee (calories unknown); Scarlet got a dainty container of grits (143 calories). The grits were $1. My meal was much more expensive, but I would have switched with her any day of the week. The eggs were merely warm, and the cheese – packaged, shredded, American – didn’t melt into them, instead settling on almost like a spice. The hash browns were cold and flavorless, requiring salt, pepper and ketchup. The turkey sausage, also cold, tasted as if it had been mixed with plastic and then freezer-burned. The muffin was implausibly both oily and dry, with stale thrown in for good measure. The hazelnut coffee, the highlight of my meal, was merely passable, and that was mostly because it was warm. Scarlet’s grits were ok, but as she explained, “It’s really, really hard to fuck up grits.”
What left me with the worst taste in my mouth was the fact that my meal – a normal American breakfast, if a bit on the small side – ran to just under 1,000 calories. One would think hospitals would be temples of health, and that they would encourage their patients, visitors and employees to eat healthy food – that they would put as much thought into what went into people as they put into the expensive corporate art hanging on the walls. Instead, they serve garbage, and freely admit that it’s garbage – they post the nutritional information next to each item.
We left, walking through a long hallway filled with flat-screen televisions broadcasting the Clinic’s awards, and stopped by the Intercontinental Hotel (one of the poshest in Cleveland and built specifically for the families of wealthy patients). I hope I never have to stay in a hospital. If I do, though, it’ll likely be because of the kind of crap they serve in Cleveland Clinic cafeteria.
9500 Euclid Avenue
Cleveland
Ohio
OH 44195
+1 (800) 223-2273
www.clevelandclinic.org
by T.N. Toost
The Cleveland Clinic is ranked as one of the top in the America by the US News and World Report, and is often seen as one of the best in the world. President Obama visited it repeatedly to discuss the healthcare bill; myriad celebrities, Saudi royalty and even Prince Charles have passed through for their medical care. Some of the doctors and staff are internationally famous for their publications, and with this fame brings wealth: walking through the spacious marble hallways, past well-appointed guards, expensive corporate art and well-placed leather sofas, one might be excused for thinking that one was in a 5-star hotel or a private airport.
Scarlet Pumpernickel joined me at the Clinic one cold, cold morning. Girls make the best breakfast partners: if they’re quiet, it’s with the contemplative, distant-eyed silence that one doesn’t take personally, and when they’re talkative they will ramble on at length about nothing of consequence, which is a better accompaniment to a morning meal than orange juice and most types of tea. I got the eggs with cheese, hash browns and turkey sausage (a total of 769 calories), a blueberry muffin (144 - 266 calories) and hazelnut coffee (calories unknown); Scarlet got a dainty container of grits (143 calories). The grits were $1. My meal was much more expensive, but I would have switched with her any day of the week. The eggs were merely warm, and the cheese – packaged, shredded, American – didn’t melt into them, instead settling on almost like a spice. The hash browns were cold and flavorless, requiring salt, pepper and ketchup. The turkey sausage, also cold, tasted as if it had been mixed with plastic and then freezer-burned. The muffin was implausibly both oily and dry, with stale thrown in for good measure. The hazelnut coffee, the highlight of my meal, was merely passable, and that was mostly because it was warm. Scarlet’s grits were ok, but as she explained, “It’s really, really hard to fuck up grits.”
What left me with the worst taste in my mouth was the fact that my meal – a normal American breakfast, if a bit on the small side – ran to just under 1,000 calories. One would think hospitals would be temples of health, and that they would encourage their patients, visitors and employees to eat healthy food – that they would put as much thought into what went into people as they put into the expensive corporate art hanging on the walls. Instead, they serve garbage, and freely admit that it’s garbage – they post the nutritional information next to each item.
We left, walking through a long hallway filled with flat-screen televisions broadcasting the Clinic’s awards, and stopped by the Intercontinental Hotel (one of the poshest in Cleveland and built specifically for the families of wealthy patients). I hope I never have to stay in a hospital. If I do, though, it’ll likely be because of the kind of crap they serve in Cleveland Clinic cafeteria.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Hawksmoor, Spitalfields
***AUG 2012 UPDATE: BREAKFAST AT THE SPITALFIELDS BRANCH IS NOW ONLY THE HKMUFFIN. FULL BREAKFAST SERVED AT GUILDHALL BRANCH. BELOW REVIEW STILL SOMEWHAT RELEVANT TO THAT, BUT WILL TRY AND WRITE UP ONE DAY. SEE THEIR WEBSITE FOR DETAILS, TIMES AND SO ON.***
Hawksmoor
157 Commercial Street
Spitalfields
E1 6BJ
020 7247 7392
www.thehawksmoor.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
If Commercial Street was a 1990s wall poster it'd be the type that on first glance looked like particularly revolting wallpaper but would, when you defocused your eyes just so, reveal a 3D image of a howling wolf, an Aztec pyramid or a giant bowler hat containing a crying, hexagonal eye. Equally, this key transit route on the London Inner Ring Road looks on the face of it exactly like, well, a major transit road on the London Inner Ring Road. But squint and focus on the middle distance and other things fade into view: a luxury hair salon, a man in shorts and cowboy boots, a shop selling Banksy prints. Suddenly you are in a 'creative village'.
Keep concentrating. There's something else - a doorway flanked by a menu, barely signposted, almost camouflaged against the tangled shadows of this stupid analogy. It's Hawksmoor, the best steak and cocktail joint in London, now serving a brunch aimed squarely at the customer who demands evidence of his agreeable position in the food chain.
This service is resoundingly delivered by their magnum opus the Hawksmoor Breakfast, £30 for two to share. The sausages alone contain three verses - oink oink, baa baa and moo moo - of Old Macdonald Had a Farm. Then you discover bubble and squeak laced with tender short rib beef, toast soaked in dripping, beans infused with pulled pork, a large smoked bacon chop, a huge cut of black pudding, fried eggs, fleshy mushrooms, explosive roast tomatoes and a neat hunk of cow bone with the marrow exposed. I am, this breakfast tells me, king of the whole pigging world. It tastes good too. The sausage is, as John Torode might yell, "packed with flavour" and the bacon chop is like the core of a star made entirely from umami. A sole stumble is the slightly stiff, flavourless black pudding.
Their extensive brunch booze list meanwhile has not so much been compiled as curated: we share a gin Bloody Mary washed down with a detailed account of the drink's history, as recounted by a barman as oracular and hungover as his role strictly demands.
We pay our £50 and I reflect that I have found the very definition of an event breakfast: elsewhere on the menu are a slightly chastened Full English, a lavish reimagining of a sausage and egg McMuffin and a whole section dedicated to Longhorn steak and eggs. When I finally work out how to turn breakfast writing into hard cash you'll find me cackling over a 1.1kg Chateaubriand with two fried eggs and half a lobster, a mere snap at £159.
Hawksmoor
157 Commercial Street
Spitalfields
E1 6BJ
020 7247 7392
www.thehawksmoor.co.uk
by Malcolm Eggs
If Commercial Street was a 1990s wall poster it'd be the type that on first glance looked like particularly revolting wallpaper but would, when you defocused your eyes just so, reveal a 3D image of a howling wolf, an Aztec pyramid or a giant bowler hat containing a crying, hexagonal eye. Equally, this key transit route on the London Inner Ring Road looks on the face of it exactly like, well, a major transit road on the London Inner Ring Road. But squint and focus on the middle distance and other things fade into view: a luxury hair salon, a man in shorts and cowboy boots, a shop selling Banksy prints. Suddenly you are in a 'creative village'.
Keep concentrating. There's something else - a doorway flanked by a menu, barely signposted, almost camouflaged against the tangled shadows of this stupid analogy. It's Hawksmoor, the best steak and cocktail joint in London, now serving a brunch aimed squarely at the customer who demands evidence of his agreeable position in the food chain.
This service is resoundingly delivered by their magnum opus the Hawksmoor Breakfast, £30 for two to share. The sausages alone contain three verses - oink oink, baa baa and moo moo - of Old Macdonald Had a Farm. Then you discover bubble and squeak laced with tender short rib beef, toast soaked in dripping, beans infused with pulled pork, a large smoked bacon chop, a huge cut of black pudding, fried eggs, fleshy mushrooms, explosive roast tomatoes and a neat hunk of cow bone with the marrow exposed. I am, this breakfast tells me, king of the whole pigging world. It tastes good too. The sausage is, as John Torode might yell, "packed with flavour" and the bacon chop is like the core of a star made entirely from umami. A sole stumble is the slightly stiff, flavourless black pudding.
Their extensive brunch booze list meanwhile has not so much been compiled as curated: we share a gin Bloody Mary washed down with a detailed account of the drink's history, as recounted by a barman as oracular and hungover as his role strictly demands.
We pay our £50 and I reflect that I have found the very definition of an event breakfast: elsewhere on the menu are a slightly chastened Full English, a lavish reimagining of a sausage and egg McMuffin and a whole section dedicated to Longhorn steak and eggs. When I finally work out how to turn breakfast writing into hard cash you'll find me cackling over a 1.1kg Chateaubriand with two fried eggs and half a lobster, a mere snap at £159.
Friday, April 02, 2010
The Priory, Roehampton
The Priory
Priory Lane
Roehampton
SW15 5JJ
020 8876 8261
www.priorygroup.com
by Bloody Mary
So obviously mental hospitals aren’t famed for their food, but this one costs a small fortune, so it should be. The anorexics are fed elsewhere – well, unless only part of your problem is anorexia, in which case you have to cope with the other crazies looking at you as you sniff your apple. Any other food issues and you’re in with the rest of us, the mildly insane. Fortunately, the secure unit also are fed separately, behind the high wall around Scary Compound where they are locked away – so I cant vouch for their eating conditions – but lets hope, if they are to have any chance at all, that their food was better.
Loony bin cooks don’t want to upset the patients, but they don’t really want to waste anything on people who believe all glasses to be half-empty at the best of times. The Priory have clearly decided that a way to make the inmates happy and the restaurant staff happy is to give the former a rough facsimile of what they want to eat, but made so horrible they don’t hang about and annoy the latter.
Mornings aren’t good times for loons, in general, so it’s not the happiest breakfast you’ve ever seen. Sad faces slouch in, stare at the eggs, find the last cling-filmed muesli and a pear and slouch out again. But the manics make up for the silence with their nice loud laughing, the drunkies & junkies are relatively perky in the morning, and the lady who liked to play with food with her toes adds “colour”. Some kind nurse might have brought in the Metro, so you could read about crucial hairstyle changes for Peaches Geldof.
Fried food in vast oily vats are slapped down at 7 and left to harden until 10am. Congealed egg and chipolatas, fried potatoes the consistency of shoes and gritty little nipples of mushroom lie miserably next to each other like failed suicide attempts. The Priory fryery was so bad that I couldn’t indulge my schooldays fetish for crap fryups. I would press a crunchy sliver of streaky bacon, if it had not disintegrated, between two slices of brown bread and drown it in a bloodbath of ketchup. Then I too, would nick a pear and slouch out. The healthy table all looked so dry.
Drink? Well, the coffee at the Priory has no caffeine in it. Crazies aren’t allowed caffeine – so coffee becomes useless, sour fluid that burns your mouth. Milk is in little UHT cartons that cause spectacular ejaculations over depressives sticking thumbs in them. On the plus side, there’s a LOT of fresh juice and pre-made hot chocolate, and these are very good.
A more radiant, sparkly breakfast - blueberries and strawberries in the muesli, french toast cut into sunbeams, pastries with jam and honey and cream, fresh roasted coffee, shimmering poached eggs - might have helped us bust through the day, boosting our fragile immune systems and bringing joviality to the depressed. But admittedly there, the biggest improvement would have been caffeine.
Priory Lane
Roehampton
SW15 5JJ
020 8876 8261
www.priorygroup.com
by Bloody Mary
So obviously mental hospitals aren’t famed for their food, but this one costs a small fortune, so it should be. The anorexics are fed elsewhere – well, unless only part of your problem is anorexia, in which case you have to cope with the other crazies looking at you as you sniff your apple. Any other food issues and you’re in with the rest of us, the mildly insane. Fortunately, the secure unit also are fed separately, behind the high wall around Scary Compound where they are locked away – so I cant vouch for their eating conditions – but lets hope, if they are to have any chance at all, that their food was better.
Loony bin cooks don’t want to upset the patients, but they don’t really want to waste anything on people who believe all glasses to be half-empty at the best of times. The Priory have clearly decided that a way to make the inmates happy and the restaurant staff happy is to give the former a rough facsimile of what they want to eat, but made so horrible they don’t hang about and annoy the latter.
Mornings aren’t good times for loons, in general, so it’s not the happiest breakfast you’ve ever seen. Sad faces slouch in, stare at the eggs, find the last cling-filmed muesli and a pear and slouch out again. But the manics make up for the silence with their nice loud laughing, the drunkies & junkies are relatively perky in the morning, and the lady who liked to play with food with her toes adds “colour”. Some kind nurse might have brought in the Metro, so you could read about crucial hairstyle changes for Peaches Geldof.
Fried food in vast oily vats are slapped down at 7 and left to harden until 10am. Congealed egg and chipolatas, fried potatoes the consistency of shoes and gritty little nipples of mushroom lie miserably next to each other like failed suicide attempts. The Priory fryery was so bad that I couldn’t indulge my schooldays fetish for crap fryups. I would press a crunchy sliver of streaky bacon, if it had not disintegrated, between two slices of brown bread and drown it in a bloodbath of ketchup. Then I too, would nick a pear and slouch out. The healthy table all looked so dry.
Drink? Well, the coffee at the Priory has no caffeine in it. Crazies aren’t allowed caffeine – so coffee becomes useless, sour fluid that burns your mouth. Milk is in little UHT cartons that cause spectacular ejaculations over depressives sticking thumbs in them. On the plus side, there’s a LOT of fresh juice and pre-made hot chocolate, and these are very good.
A more radiant, sparkly breakfast - blueberries and strawberries in the muesli, french toast cut into sunbeams, pastries with jam and honey and cream, fresh roasted coffee, shimmering poached eggs - might have helped us bust through the day, boosting our fragile immune systems and bringing joviality to the depressed. But admittedly there, the biggest improvement would have been caffeine.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Cat & Cucumber, Bermondsey
The Cat & Cucumber
182 Tower Bridge Road
London
SE1 2AD
020 7407 2945
by Sadie Frosties
Working in the cobbled streets of Shad Thames it feels as if every day the concrete and glass blah of the More London development creeps ever closer, like a real-estate T1000. The glory of this area is that despite the obvious regeneration and Conran Cluster, the warehouses and elevated walkways remain, as do the original building names - cardamom, vanilla, sesame, tea, nutmeg - all a nod to the commodities they once housed.
I often fancy at the whimsical name of my favourite caff. How wonderful it would be that alongside the Vanilla Courts and the Wheat Wharfs this was once the centre of the cat and the cucumber trades, handily positioned beside the railway to enable the easy distribution of felines and cultivated gourds to the Kentish heartlands.
Perhaps this is just a ridiculous daydream of another bored office drone, or perhaps just a touch of this industrial atmosphere remains. Either way, the Cat & Cucumber is a Bermondsey institution. The format is one of strict order; one must approach the counter, order quickly from the vast menu and then find a seat, mindful all the while not to lose your numbered ticket. Your task is then to attempt to maintain a non-distracted conversation with your fellow diner while you keep an ear on the numbers bellowed from the counter, and an eye on the steady succession of plates being hurried past you.
I order bacon, eggs, bubble and mushrooms - in my mind the optimum breakfast combination - but on the particular day in question, in celebration of meeting with up with an old west-country comrade, I add a sausage. The fried eggs are of that glorious oil-basted, crisp-free quality, the bubble is laced with green cabbage, and the bacon cooked to catching point. I forget the mushrooms. The sausage – dear reader you will be more than familiar which such a sausage – is of the perfectly cylindrical variety so prevalent in the caff community. But just like those repugnant recovered chicken-face frankfurters you secretly buy from Lidl, everyone has a guilty pleasure. Sat in my office clothes and heels, ladling perfectly fried goods and questionable sausage towards my face, the Cat & Cucumber is my weekday Lidl frankfurter - and I shan’t hear a bad word said about it.
182 Tower Bridge Road
London
SE1 2AD
020 7407 2945
by Sadie Frosties
Working in the cobbled streets of Shad Thames it feels as if every day the concrete and glass blah of the More London development creeps ever closer, like a real-estate T1000. The glory of this area is that despite the obvious regeneration and Conran Cluster, the warehouses and elevated walkways remain, as do the original building names - cardamom, vanilla, sesame, tea, nutmeg - all a nod to the commodities they once housed.
I often fancy at the whimsical name of my favourite caff. How wonderful it would be that alongside the Vanilla Courts and the Wheat Wharfs this was once the centre of the cat and the cucumber trades, handily positioned beside the railway to enable the easy distribution of felines and cultivated gourds to the Kentish heartlands.
Perhaps this is just a ridiculous daydream of another bored office drone, or perhaps just a touch of this industrial atmosphere remains. Either way, the Cat & Cucumber is a Bermondsey institution. The format is one of strict order; one must approach the counter, order quickly from the vast menu and then find a seat, mindful all the while not to lose your numbered ticket. Your task is then to attempt to maintain a non-distracted conversation with your fellow diner while you keep an ear on the numbers bellowed from the counter, and an eye on the steady succession of plates being hurried past you.
I order bacon, eggs, bubble and mushrooms - in my mind the optimum breakfast combination - but on the particular day in question, in celebration of meeting with up with an old west-country comrade, I add a sausage. The fried eggs are of that glorious oil-basted, crisp-free quality, the bubble is laced with green cabbage, and the bacon cooked to catching point. I forget the mushrooms. The sausage – dear reader you will be more than familiar which such a sausage – is of the perfectly cylindrical variety so prevalent in the caff community. But just like those repugnant recovered chicken-face frankfurters you secretly buy from Lidl, everyone has a guilty pleasure. Sat in my office clothes and heels, ladling perfectly fried goods and questionable sausage towards my face, the Cat & Cucumber is my weekday Lidl frankfurter - and I shan’t hear a bad word said about it.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Little Portland Cafe, Fitzrovia
Little Portland Cafe
15 Little Portland St
Fitzrovia
W1W 8BW
020 7636 1439
by Malcolm Eggs
An email arrived from Catherine Carr, a reporter for the Radio 4 show You and Yours. A survey had found that the bacon sandwich at Claridge’s was, at £11.50, the most expensive in the country. Would I like to meet her there to discuss this in about half an hour?
My immediate response was to go and brush my teeth. I needed two minutes to think about it all: my toothbrush contains a timer and whatever I decided, I would need clean teeth. I started at the lower left, fretting that I would go on air in front of several million of my fellow citizens and come across like an oaf or a charlatan by nervously blurting out pompous, anachronistic terms like ‘oaf’ or ‘charlatan’. But by the top right molars, I was determined to give it a go. I figured there is only so far a man can go wrong when talking about bacon; and anyway, it sounded like a fucking good sandwich.
By the time I’d offered a response, Catherine had been turned down by Claridge’s, then the Dorchester, so the assignment had changed a little. She was to collect an almost as expensive sandwich from The Langham and I was to meet her at the Little Portland Cafe, all within sprinting distance of the BBC’s central London operation. I would sit down, try sandwiches from both places, and compare and contrast them in front of a large microphone. We met outside and she plunged in, recording the sounds of the affable owner, the beleaguered chef, the sizzling bacon and the chatting men (for they were all men). The room was packed. My sandwiches arrived.
To make a Little Portland bacon sandwich, they start the bacon in the oven then finish it off by frying it, before delivering it to the counter to be placed between two slices of white bread. The finished product costs £1.90. It’s a process replicated in greasy spoons across the land and it always makes something pretty delicious – the inherent divinity of bacon makes sure of that. This particular sandwich was at the top end of the spectrum, not a surprise after a wait spent observing table after table of incredible-looking fried breakfasts. As for The Langham, I'm afraid to say their £8.50 bacon and brioche number was dry and had a texture like Frazzles in a bath sponge. The sweet taste of the brioche fought needlessly with the over-crispy bacon.
I blathered something along those lines in the direction of the microphone. We thanked the owner and went our separate ways. I walked to the British Library, opened my laptop, and after an hour began Googling hysterically for some kind of public reaction. When none came, I think I was relieved.
15 Little Portland St
Fitzrovia
W1W 8BW
020 7636 1439
by Malcolm Eggs
An email arrived from Catherine Carr, a reporter for the Radio 4 show You and Yours. A survey had found that the bacon sandwich at Claridge’s was, at £11.50, the most expensive in the country. Would I like to meet her there to discuss this in about half an hour?
My immediate response was to go and brush my teeth. I needed two minutes to think about it all: my toothbrush contains a timer and whatever I decided, I would need clean teeth. I started at the lower left, fretting that I would go on air in front of several million of my fellow citizens and come across like an oaf or a charlatan by nervously blurting out pompous, anachronistic terms like ‘oaf’ or ‘charlatan’. But by the top right molars, I was determined to give it a go. I figured there is only so far a man can go wrong when talking about bacon; and anyway, it sounded like a fucking good sandwich.
By the time I’d offered a response, Catherine had been turned down by Claridge’s, then the Dorchester, so the assignment had changed a little. She was to collect an almost as expensive sandwich from The Langham and I was to meet her at the Little Portland Cafe, all within sprinting distance of the BBC’s central London operation. I would sit down, try sandwiches from both places, and compare and contrast them in front of a large microphone. We met outside and she plunged in, recording the sounds of the affable owner, the beleaguered chef, the sizzling bacon and the chatting men (for they were all men). The room was packed. My sandwiches arrived.
To make a Little Portland bacon sandwich, they start the bacon in the oven then finish it off by frying it, before delivering it to the counter to be placed between two slices of white bread. The finished product costs £1.90. It’s a process replicated in greasy spoons across the land and it always makes something pretty delicious – the inherent divinity of bacon makes sure of that. This particular sandwich was at the top end of the spectrum, not a surprise after a wait spent observing table after table of incredible-looking fried breakfasts. As for The Langham, I'm afraid to say their £8.50 bacon and brioche number was dry and had a texture like Frazzles in a bath sponge. The sweet taste of the brioche fought needlessly with the over-crispy bacon.
I blathered something along those lines in the direction of the microphone. We thanked the owner and went our separate ways. I walked to the British Library, opened my laptop, and after an hour began Googling hysterically for some kind of public reaction. When none came, I think I was relieved.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Op-Egg: Tinie Tempah's penchant for nice tea
by Blake Pudding
Rappers have a taste for the finer things in life and not only do they love luxury goods but they love telling us about their love of luxury goods. Cristal champagne is the most famous example but Courvoisier, Bentley and Rolex have all been praised by hip hop types. Now no one likes conspicuous consumption more than me, but isn’t it a little disappointing that they went for such obvious brands?
If I was in a position to influence popular tastes then I’d go for something more distinctive; something that speaks of taste without being pretentious. This must have been the thinking behind top grime artist Tinie Tempah’s (real name Patrick Okogwu) decision to plug Yorkshire Tea on twitter yesterday. His exact words were “Omdz move over PG Tips.” I’m not sure exactly what he means but the sentiment is clear – Mr Tempah is a discerning tea drinker and he is not afraid to shout about it. Not as discerning, however, as one of his fans who comments that he prefers Yorkshire Gold calling it “the Cristal of teas”.
Tinie Tempah is currently riding high in the charts with Pass Out. Let’s hope that Taylors of Harrogate, producers of Yorkshire Tea, will not now try to distance themselves from their place in popular music as the makers of Cristal did so disdainfully with American rappers. Perhaps they would like to sponsor his next tour with a special one off free gig at Bettys Tea Rooms in Northallerton.
Rappers have a taste for the finer things in life and not only do they love luxury goods but they love telling us about their love of luxury goods. Cristal champagne is the most famous example but Courvoisier, Bentley and Rolex have all been praised by hip hop types. Now no one likes conspicuous consumption more than me, but isn’t it a little disappointing that they went for such obvious brands?
If I was in a position to influence popular tastes then I’d go for something more distinctive; something that speaks of taste without being pretentious. This must have been the thinking behind top grime artist Tinie Tempah’s (real name Patrick Okogwu) decision to plug Yorkshire Tea on twitter yesterday. His exact words were “Omdz move over PG Tips.” I’m not sure exactly what he means but the sentiment is clear – Mr Tempah is a discerning tea drinker and he is not afraid to shout about it. Not as discerning, however, as one of his fans who comments that he prefers Yorkshire Gold calling it “the Cristal of teas”.
Tinie Tempah is currently riding high in the charts with Pass Out. Let’s hope that Taylors of Harrogate, producers of Yorkshire Tea, will not now try to distance themselves from their place in popular music as the makers of Cristal did so disdainfully with American rappers. Perhaps they would like to sponsor his next tour with a special one off free gig at Bettys Tea Rooms in Northallerton.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Dean Street Townhouse, Soho
Dean Street Townhouse
69-71 Dean Street
Soho
W1D 3SE
020 7434 1775
www.deanstreettownhouse.com
by Cher E. Jamm
It calls us over from across the street. 'Come in, come in' it says, with the call of a siren. We can't resist. It's been too long since we've spent a day together so we've decided to enjoy a secret day off. No-one will ever know; the possibilities are endless.
The sun isn't shining outside, but it may as well be inside. Think cosy country house hotel. Think slick 1950s French bistro. Then mesh the two together sort of, but not really. It's the type of place you want to move into. We're seated at a red banquet. It's hard to believe a branch of the Slug and Lettuce once stood here. The menu appears.
It's early, perhaps only just past half eight, but the place is buzzing with jolly breakfasters, mostly, it seems, made up of Soho's media contingent. This doesn't put us off - we're cocooned from this, in our own little booth, our hands thawing out as we pour steaming cups of tea from a shared pot.
He doesn't falter, and orders Full English as soon as the chirpy waiter trots over again. I hover over grilled kippers for a moment and then order the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Kippers seem too uncouth, too harsh, for today.
Breakfast arrives with neither fuss nor bother. An artful Full English: two eggs beaming like two small suns; the bacon is crisp and refined; the mushrooms, silky and somewhat obscene; the sausage lies puffed and glistening next to a grilled tomato, which, as usual, is nothing more than a grilled tomato; the black pudding is elegance on a plate.
He pushes the black pudding to one side. He's gone off it these days. I urge him to have a small taste (for you, dear reader, all for you). He refuses. A flash of anger passes over us, but it would be a shame to break the spell, at least so early on.
We eat in careful silence, stealing glances at one another, attempting to gauge the other's mood. The salmon is pale and delicious, the scrambles creamy and delicate, but I seem to have lost my appetite, I don't appreciate them fully. I'm sorry. He has finished eating, declaring it possibly the best he's ever had. No eye contact. Only the fat disk of blood sausage remains. A quiet and cold reminder of how we walk on wire.
69-71 Dean Street
Soho
W1D 3SE
020 7434 1775
www.deanstreettownhouse.com
by Cher E. Jamm
It calls us over from across the street. 'Come in, come in' it says, with the call of a siren. We can't resist. It's been too long since we've spent a day together so we've decided to enjoy a secret day off. No-one will ever know; the possibilities are endless.
The sun isn't shining outside, but it may as well be inside. Think cosy country house hotel. Think slick 1950s French bistro. Then mesh the two together sort of, but not really. It's the type of place you want to move into. We're seated at a red banquet. It's hard to believe a branch of the Slug and Lettuce once stood here. The menu appears.
It's early, perhaps only just past half eight, but the place is buzzing with jolly breakfasters, mostly, it seems, made up of Soho's media contingent. This doesn't put us off - we're cocooned from this, in our own little booth, our hands thawing out as we pour steaming cups of tea from a shared pot.
He doesn't falter, and orders Full English as soon as the chirpy waiter trots over again. I hover over grilled kippers for a moment and then order the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. Kippers seem too uncouth, too harsh, for today.
Breakfast arrives with neither fuss nor bother. An artful Full English: two eggs beaming like two small suns; the bacon is crisp and refined; the mushrooms, silky and somewhat obscene; the sausage lies puffed and glistening next to a grilled tomato, which, as usual, is nothing more than a grilled tomato; the black pudding is elegance on a plate.
He pushes the black pudding to one side. He's gone off it these days. I urge him to have a small taste (for you, dear reader, all for you). He refuses. A flash of anger passes over us, but it would be a shame to break the spell, at least so early on.
We eat in careful silence, stealing glances at one another, attempting to gauge the other's mood. The salmon is pale and delicious, the scrambles creamy and delicate, but I seem to have lost my appetite, I don't appreciate them fully. I'm sorry. He has finished eating, declaring it possibly the best he's ever had. No eye contact. Only the fat disk of blood sausage remains. A quiet and cold reminder of how we walk on wire.
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