Tommy's Restaurant
1824 Coventry Rd
Cleveland Heights
Ohio OH44118
USA
+1 216 321 7757
www.tommyscoventry.com
by T.N. Toost
Four years ago, when the LRB first went “in field” to cover the American presidential primaries, the response among breakfasters was near universal: “I would prefer to vote for Ron Paul, but he has no chance of winning, so I’m voting for (insert second choice here).” It was actually a bit sad how much people preferred Paul and how little faith they had in his electability; it seemed that people had given up on the political system, and rather than fight for their opinions they threw up their hands.
Four years later, things have changed. It isn’t so much a difference in peoples’ perceptions of Paul’s electability as a rational and conscious evaluation of the candidates against whom he is running. Yes, of course his ideas are batshit insane. Of course he would put us on course for a complete economic and political meltdown. Of course we’d likely end up in actual civil strife and, perhaps, even civil war.
But have you seen the other guys?
That, I think, is why the people who your correspondent spoke to this year are not qualifying their choices. No – the Paul supporters this year are voting for their man, come hell or high water, and believe in him fully, because they have already considered Gingrich, Santorum and Romney. They are voting for Paul and, considering his opponents, I think they are making the right choice.
So it was that I came to breakfast on Super Tuesday with my friend Gina and one of her friends, Joe, who was wearing a Ron Paul shirt. With nary a word of prompting he launched into an exposition on the exceptional rectitude of the Paul positions – on energy, gold, gay rights, constitutional interpretation, social structures, military intervention, welfare, education, international trade. Paul believes in the world as it should be, and there is no room for dissention. As a reporter and a professional in the mold of Malcolm Eggs, I was a mere observer. Gina, on the other hand, clearly disagreed, but stayed silent.
First they came for the communists.
Then breakfast arrived, with a healthy side of chips. I had the Zeke, the first thing on the menu – pita piled with eggs, veg and cheese, placed in the middle of a large plate. It was delicious when it cooled down. The chips, though, are perhaps my favorite ketchup delivery mechanism in America today. Hot, thin-cut, perfectly fried, I ate almost the entire plate – perhaps a kilo – and most of Gina’s plate, too. By the end of the meal, Joe and I had gone from talking about voting for Ron Paul to shaking hands on a gentlemen’s competition: we would take one year and try to sleep with direct descendents of every single founding father, documenting our quest for a PechaKucha presentation and, perhaps, a book deal.
In the end, Romney barely edged Santorum in Ohio, which disappointed me. I’d voted for Santorum. Yes, he is one of the most vile and despicable human beings alive today outside of, perhaps, Myanmar and good swaths of Africa still at war. My reasoning: none of the Republicans should ever live in the White House, of course, but Romney is the most electable and Santorum the least. If Romney is kept from the nomination, and any of his rivals goes before the nation, it will be much easier for Obama to get another four years. It’s the opposite thinking from the 2008 Ron Paul supporters. Luckily, the win barely lifted Romney’s sails, and the race will drag on, and on, and on, and Americans and the world will continue to be horrified by the state of the American political system.
And we’ll see you in a few months.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Riding House Café, Fitzrovia
The Riding House Café
43-51 Great Titchfield Street
Fitzrovia
W1W 7PQ
www.ridinghousecafe.co.uk
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
At the risk of indelicacy, it’s the loos that get you.
To clarify, there is little to cavil about at The Riding House Café; it’s all pretty darned perfect. But apart from the bounteous menu, the perfectly-pitched service and the décor that scratches all those Living Etc taxidermy itches you never knew you had, one particular detail of the gents’ cloakroom had me rummaging gingerly in my knife-drawer of superlatives. Get this… they have actually gone to the trouble of buying (or –dream it! – commissioning) an elegantly shot-blasted metal cover for their Dyson Airblade, so it chameleons itself snugly within the overall industrial luxe look. Even if the jet-engine decibel levels shock you, the visuals won’t.
Returning à la carte, it’s hit after palpable hit. The basics – pâtisserie, bacon sandwiches, coffees and more teas than you could shake a liquorice stick at, smoothies, porridge and mueslis “both bar and bat” – are impeccably sourced and punchy in their variety. As for the platform-agnostic eggs, Benedict routinely and silkily impresses, as does Hussard (a confection I had not encountered before, but which I’d urge upon anyone keen to start their day sated and with the phrase sauce bordelaise dancing sluttily across their lips). And venerable Omelette Arnold Bennett is as mouth-wateringly other as you would hope… like Gary Rhodes or ketamine, it shouldn’t work but it does.
But the abiding sense-memory for me is the PB&J. A potentially unholy miasma of peanut butter, banana, strawberry and apple juice, it comes in a milk bottle with a straw and at first smells unnervingly like fresh boak. Until you ask your delightful waiter –played here by the French stunt double of novelty Rastafarian showjumping fail Oliver Skeete – to lose the apple, and you’re left with a pint of ambrosia. Not that.
All you need to know about the ethos of the place was summed up when I first lunched there – charming waitperson #348 sauntered over and asked if we would like the ‘concept’ explained. We nervously said yes. He replied, “There isn’t one really – order some lunch, it’s all great.”
Phew.
43-51 Great Titchfield Street
Fitzrovia
W1W 7PQ
www.ridinghousecafe.co.uk
by Emmanuel Petit-Déjeuner
At the risk of indelicacy, it’s the loos that get you.
To clarify, there is little to cavil about at The Riding House Café; it’s all pretty darned perfect. But apart from the bounteous menu, the perfectly-pitched service and the décor that scratches all those Living Etc taxidermy itches you never knew you had, one particular detail of the gents’ cloakroom had me rummaging gingerly in my knife-drawer of superlatives. Get this… they have actually gone to the trouble of buying (or –dream it! – commissioning) an elegantly shot-blasted metal cover for their Dyson Airblade, so it chameleons itself snugly within the overall industrial luxe look. Even if the jet-engine decibel levels shock you, the visuals won’t.
Returning à la carte, it’s hit after palpable hit. The basics – pâtisserie, bacon sandwiches, coffees and more teas than you could shake a liquorice stick at, smoothies, porridge and mueslis “both bar and bat” – are impeccably sourced and punchy in their variety. As for the platform-agnostic eggs, Benedict routinely and silkily impresses, as does Hussard (a confection I had not encountered before, but which I’d urge upon anyone keen to start their day sated and with the phrase sauce bordelaise dancing sluttily across their lips). And venerable Omelette Arnold Bennett is as mouth-wateringly other as you would hope… like Gary Rhodes or ketamine, it shouldn’t work but it does.
But the abiding sense-memory for me is the PB&J. A potentially unholy miasma of peanut butter, banana, strawberry and apple juice, it comes in a milk bottle with a straw and at first smells unnervingly like fresh boak. Until you ask your delightful waiter –played here by the French stunt double of novelty Rastafarian showjumping fail Oliver Skeete – to lose the apple, and you’re left with a pint of ambrosia. Not that.
All you need to know about the ethos of the place was summed up when I first lunched there – charming waitperson #348 sauntered over and asked if we would like the ‘concept’ explained. We nervously said yes. He replied, “There isn’t one really – order some lunch, it’s all great.”
Phew.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
The Modern Pantry, Clerkenwell
The Modern Pantry
48 St John's Square
Clerkenwell
EC1V 4JJ
020 7553 9210
www.themodernpantry.co.uk
by Grease Witherspoon
Post yoga and micro dermatological facial, I usually insist on my regular breakfast of gluten-free muesli and organic soymilk. However, I make an exception to meet my sister, Jadee, for breakfast at the Modern Pantry, conveniently located around the corner from my aromatherapist. Blood is, after all, thicker than soya.
I’m early and the maitre d’ is on the phone but waves me inside with such a friendly, welcoming smile that I almost mistake it for recognition. When he hangs up, he apologises profusely in an incomprehensible accent before showing me upstairs, chatting incessantly. As I lean in to try to understand and react appropriately, the inevitable happens and I trip over my heels and up the stairs. Mr. d’ makes a sound that I assume is concern for my well-being and although I can’t be sure, think he says something along the lines of ‘stupid stairs.’ Safely at our table, I order a calming peppermint tea. Too much caffeine in the morning makes me jittery and there’s been quite enough excitement already. It arrives at the same time as my sister, in a miniature pot that would barely quench the thirst of a teacup shih tzu. And it isn’t loose leaf. If it comes in a pot and costs £2, it really should be.
Perusing the menu, I notice it features some unconventional ingredients- cassava, goat’s curd, plantain and yuzu nestle between the inevitable pastry selection and chorizo-laced eggs. I settle for the outré sounding polenta, spring onion, feta and curry leaf waffles with bacon and maple syrup. The other Witherspoon sister goes for the rather more predictable option of halloumi, spinach and eggs. I’m expecting them to be plump and ostentatious but when thin, crisp and delicate waffles arrive, I am not disappointed. There is no hint of the graininess usually associated with polenta and none of the stodginess of its stateside cousin. The feta and the spring onion comes through with a faint under note of the sweet curry leaf that brings out the syrup, while the saltiness of the bacon is imitated by the feta. It’s certainly clever and it knows it. The plate of halloumi, eggs and spinach is a much more straightforward option but it shines nonetheless just as brightly. Jadee proclaims the eggs to be the best she has ever had in London, with the cheese mixed in with them without squeaky rubberiness, set aside rough sourdough toast of the artisan variety and fat grilled tomatoes.
As we sit bathed in sunlight from the enormous windows I begin, just for a second, to unwind. Until I’m blinded by the rays and start to feel a little faint. I realise my sister is squinting to see her plate and so make the briefest of eye contact with our waiter. He promptly swoops over and pulls down the blinds, to a chorus of appreciation from other diners. It’s the kind of service one could get used to.
48 St John's Square
Clerkenwell
EC1V 4JJ
020 7553 9210
www.themodernpantry.co.uk
by Grease Witherspoon
Post yoga and micro dermatological facial, I usually insist on my regular breakfast of gluten-free muesli and organic soymilk. However, I make an exception to meet my sister, Jadee, for breakfast at the Modern Pantry, conveniently located around the corner from my aromatherapist. Blood is, after all, thicker than soya.
I’m early and the maitre d’ is on the phone but waves me inside with such a friendly, welcoming smile that I almost mistake it for recognition. When he hangs up, he apologises profusely in an incomprehensible accent before showing me upstairs, chatting incessantly. As I lean in to try to understand and react appropriately, the inevitable happens and I trip over my heels and up the stairs. Mr. d’ makes a sound that I assume is concern for my well-being and although I can’t be sure, think he says something along the lines of ‘stupid stairs.’ Safely at our table, I order a calming peppermint tea. Too much caffeine in the morning makes me jittery and there’s been quite enough excitement already. It arrives at the same time as my sister, in a miniature pot that would barely quench the thirst of a teacup shih tzu. And it isn’t loose leaf. If it comes in a pot and costs £2, it really should be.
Perusing the menu, I notice it features some unconventional ingredients- cassava, goat’s curd, plantain and yuzu nestle between the inevitable pastry selection and chorizo-laced eggs. I settle for the outré sounding polenta, spring onion, feta and curry leaf waffles with bacon and maple syrup. The other Witherspoon sister goes for the rather more predictable option of halloumi, spinach and eggs. I’m expecting them to be plump and ostentatious but when thin, crisp and delicate waffles arrive, I am not disappointed. There is no hint of the graininess usually associated with polenta and none of the stodginess of its stateside cousin. The feta and the spring onion comes through with a faint under note of the sweet curry leaf that brings out the syrup, while the saltiness of the bacon is imitated by the feta. It’s certainly clever and it knows it. The plate of halloumi, eggs and spinach is a much more straightforward option but it shines nonetheless just as brightly. Jadee proclaims the eggs to be the best she has ever had in London, with the cheese mixed in with them without squeaky rubberiness, set aside rough sourdough toast of the artisan variety and fat grilled tomatoes.
As we sit bathed in sunlight from the enormous windows I begin, just for a second, to unwind. Until I’m blinded by the rays and start to feel a little faint. I realise my sister is squinting to see her plate and so make the briefest of eye contact with our waiter. He promptly swoops over and pulls down the blinds, to a chorus of appreciation from other diners. It’s the kind of service one could get used to.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
Special Dispatch: The Lockside Café, Bristol
The Lockside Café
No.1 Brunel Lock Road
Cumberland Basin
Hotwells
Bristol BS1 6XS
www.lockside.net
0117 9255 800
by Egon Toast
Following on from the recent bombshell that Only Fools and Horses is to be refashioned into some braying horror by our chums on the other side of the pond, I'm afraid I have another bubble-burster for you, oh sensitive Londoners: Sid’s Café from said programme, only the flippin’ icon of cockney breakfastery what’s been beamed into gazillions of houses across the globe for the past 30 years… is actually in Bristol . It can be found a mere cheese roll away from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. And it looks nothing like Sid’s, having had a right old makeover, make no mistake.
And it’s a funny old spot, too: a blimmin’ liminal location, located in the undercarriage of a flyover, seems to free it from your everyday timekeeping norms; akin to those floating hospitality zones in airports and service stations it’s the kind of place to eat steak and chips at three in the morning. As it was, we arrived at an eminently sensible 9am, plonk(er)ing ourselves down amongst brightly-coloured globular furniture – Barbarella meets Tellytubbies, yeah? – and were soon fussed over by our waitress, whose largesse with the foundation brush only gave further credence to that 24/7 retro-future vibe.
The menus, laminated, were duly examinated. I wanted to see how they had modernised the fake Peckham greasy spoon experience for today’s post-ironic arteries, while the distaff, forsaking the Full English that made her the woman she is today, went for some form of drop scone and bacon concoction. Our orders were taken swiftly. Bouncily. Cheerily, even. Rodney would have had a cardiac.
After a brief intermission, my plate of fried bounty arrived, and was all that one could want from a vaguely upscale protein-heavy feast: the bacon streaked, the yolk oozed, and all was steaming and soothing. They also gladdened my greedy soul by providing ample supplies of toast, the hallmark of a dining room that wishes to impart joy to its customers (there are few things more disheartening than an un-mopped slick of breakfast sauce). The pan-cake and bacon abomination was respectable, too, even if it did come with fruit - the sort of Continental affectation that has no place on one’s morning plate, even if you're eating in a spaceship from the 1970s.
So there’s no balding wheezer behind the stove. And it looks like the canteen from the Starship Enterprise. And no apology was forthcoming re: the shattering of capital-city, Lyndhurst-fixated hearts. But it didn't matter, really – the bonhomie exuded by all those involved with Sids 2.0 meant that our ventricles had been glued back together with a hearty dose of what the Bristol Marketing Board has implored me to call ‘West Country cheer’. Gurt lush? Gertcha.
No.1 Brunel Lock Road
Cumberland Basin
Hotwells
Bristol BS1 6XS
www.lockside.net
0117 9255 800
by Egon Toast
Following on from the recent bombshell that Only Fools and Horses is to be refashioned into some braying horror by our chums on the other side of the pond, I'm afraid I have another bubble-burster for you, oh sensitive Londoners: Sid’s Café from said programme, only the flippin’ icon of cockney breakfastery what’s been beamed into gazillions of houses across the globe for the past 30 years… is actually in Bristol . It can be found a mere cheese roll away from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. And it looks nothing like Sid’s, having had a right old makeover, make no mistake.
And it’s a funny old spot, too: a blimmin’ liminal location, located in the undercarriage of a flyover, seems to free it from your everyday timekeeping norms; akin to those floating hospitality zones in airports and service stations it’s the kind of place to eat steak and chips at three in the morning. As it was, we arrived at an eminently sensible 9am, plonk(er)ing ourselves down amongst brightly-coloured globular furniture – Barbarella meets Tellytubbies, yeah? – and were soon fussed over by our waitress, whose largesse with the foundation brush only gave further credence to that 24/7 retro-future vibe.
The menus, laminated, were duly examinated. I wanted to see how they had modernised the fake Peckham greasy spoon experience for today’s post-ironic arteries, while the distaff, forsaking the Full English that made her the woman she is today, went for some form of drop scone and bacon concoction. Our orders were taken swiftly. Bouncily. Cheerily, even. Rodney would have had a cardiac.
After a brief intermission, my plate of fried bounty arrived, and was all that one could want from a vaguely upscale protein-heavy feast: the bacon streaked, the yolk oozed, and all was steaming and soothing. They also gladdened my greedy soul by providing ample supplies of toast, the hallmark of a dining room that wishes to impart joy to its customers (there are few things more disheartening than an un-mopped slick of breakfast sauce). The pan-cake and bacon abomination was respectable, too, even if it did come with fruit - the sort of Continental affectation that has no place on one’s morning plate, even if you're eating in a spaceship from the 1970s.
So there’s no balding wheezer behind the stove. And it looks like the canteen from the Starship Enterprise. And no apology was forthcoming re: the shattering of capital-city, Lyndhurst-fixated hearts. But it didn't matter, really – the bonhomie exuded by all those involved with Sids 2.0 meant that our ventricles had been glued back together with a hearty dose of what the Bristol Marketing Board has implored me to call ‘West Country cheer’. Gurt lush? Gertcha.
Friday, March 02, 2012
Allpress Espresso, Shoreditch
Allpress Espresso
58 Redchurch Street
Shoreditch
E2 7DP
020 7749 1780
www.allpressespresso.com
by Johnny Cep
I first spied Allpress Espresso from Arnold Circus, an area I liked to circle on my bike when I had one, in 2011. It’s halfway down Redchurch Street and, bar the advertising on the after-hours shutter, appears to be a discreet, knowing and un-Antipodean fixture, oddly enough given that it is in fact of Kiwi origin.
Originally an espresso company set up by Michael Allpress (real name!) in New Zealand, Allpress moved to Shoreditch in 2010 and has since proved monumentally popular, providing most of the restaurants within spitting distance with its beans pre-roasted in the massive machine in the back room which, through the glass, reminds you of those working museums you visited in coaches at school.
As to whether it’s a café or a shop, it’s still undecided. People like its wholesale vibes, slightly under-varnished wooden floor and coffee, ergo, they arrive in droves. Foodwise, they do a good line in ambitious, well-filled sandwiches which require two hands, but the breakfast is much less of a gamble: tidy pastries, granola, yoghurt and compote, or toast which comes with eggs and smoked salmon, salted butter and marmalade or avocado, sliced cheese, tomatoes and a boiled egg, all of which are excellent to boot, even by the standards of London’s modish crush on soda bread.
I went with Dan who had the soda bread, toasted, while I had two soft-boiled eggs. This was a dicey move. I once had soft-boiled eggs at The Wolseley which were underboiled by circa 70 seconds. My two cracked (read: checked) soft-boiled eggs with pre-buttered soldiers here, however, were terrific and pillow-soft. Too much toast for the egg, sure, but I stole Dan’s marmalade, served jazzily in a shot glass, and showed the eggs what’s what.
Just as our plates were being cleared, in walked Ralph Fiennes complete with Young Vic beard, iPhone and massive rucksack. He sat down, nebbishly ordered then par-consumed the avocado, cheese and egg plate. I was going to ask him what he had in his massive rucksack until Dan delivered the crushing reality that I didn’t know him. Bothered, I decided to play with the tap-water-dispenser instead, a novel toy with a push-down button and a tray to catch spillages, and managed to spill my glass on the bar.
There are many, many good things about Allpress Espresso. Chief among them is the coffee. I had a white-long-black which sounds like a dress code but is in fact Kiwi vernacular for an Americano-style coffee which allows you to curate your own water and hot milk. The beans are clean-tasting and sweet compared to Monmouth Coffee which, I feel, burns theirs on occasion. I realise saying this aloud is tantamount to racism but there you go. Other plus points: the doors, which bend open and are deeply cool, and the lack of queue. Clientele move apace thanks to the staff - charming, big teeth – although they take their sweet time to clear the dirties.
Sadly, Allpress also attracts a lot of Media Meetings. The day we decided to go, fair-isle reached critical mass, but those undesirables soon finished their drinks and left, presumably to draw some lines or whatever, leaving us – Ralph, Dan and I - to finish our perfect eggs in peace.
58 Redchurch Street
Shoreditch
E2 7DP
020 7749 1780
www.allpressespresso.com
by Johnny Cep
I first spied Allpress Espresso from Arnold Circus, an area I liked to circle on my bike when I had one, in 2011. It’s halfway down Redchurch Street and, bar the advertising on the after-hours shutter, appears to be a discreet, knowing and un-Antipodean fixture, oddly enough given that it is in fact of Kiwi origin.
Originally an espresso company set up by Michael Allpress (real name!) in New Zealand, Allpress moved to Shoreditch in 2010 and has since proved monumentally popular, providing most of the restaurants within spitting distance with its beans pre-roasted in the massive machine in the back room which, through the glass, reminds you of those working museums you visited in coaches at school.
As to whether it’s a café or a shop, it’s still undecided. People like its wholesale vibes, slightly under-varnished wooden floor and coffee, ergo, they arrive in droves. Foodwise, they do a good line in ambitious, well-filled sandwiches which require two hands, but the breakfast is much less of a gamble: tidy pastries, granola, yoghurt and compote, or toast which comes with eggs and smoked salmon, salted butter and marmalade or avocado, sliced cheese, tomatoes and a boiled egg, all of which are excellent to boot, even by the standards of London’s modish crush on soda bread.
I went with Dan who had the soda bread, toasted, while I had two soft-boiled eggs. This was a dicey move. I once had soft-boiled eggs at The Wolseley which were underboiled by circa 70 seconds. My two cracked (read: checked) soft-boiled eggs with pre-buttered soldiers here, however, were terrific and pillow-soft. Too much toast for the egg, sure, but I stole Dan’s marmalade, served jazzily in a shot glass, and showed the eggs what’s what.
Just as our plates were being cleared, in walked Ralph Fiennes complete with Young Vic beard, iPhone and massive rucksack. He sat down, nebbishly ordered then par-consumed the avocado, cheese and egg plate. I was going to ask him what he had in his massive rucksack until Dan delivered the crushing reality that I didn’t know him. Bothered, I decided to play with the tap-water-dispenser instead, a novel toy with a push-down button and a tray to catch spillages, and managed to spill my glass on the bar.
There are many, many good things about Allpress Espresso. Chief among them is the coffee. I had a white-long-black which sounds like a dress code but is in fact Kiwi vernacular for an Americano-style coffee which allows you to curate your own water and hot milk. The beans are clean-tasting and sweet compared to Monmouth Coffee which, I feel, burns theirs on occasion. I realise saying this aloud is tantamount to racism but there you go. Other plus points: the doors, which bend open and are deeply cool, and the lack of queue. Clientele move apace thanks to the staff - charming, big teeth – although they take their sweet time to clear the dirties.
Sadly, Allpress also attracts a lot of Media Meetings. The day we decided to go, fair-isle reached critical mass, but those undesirables soon finished their drinks and left, presumably to draw some lines or whatever, leaving us – Ralph, Dan and I - to finish our perfect eggs in peace.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Special Dispatch: Paper Moon Diner, Baltimore
Paper Moon Diner
227 West 29th Street
Baltimore, MD 21211
United States
by Joyce Carol Oats
I marked the dawn of 2012 with a Monte Cristo French toast sandwich at Paper Moon Diner in Baltimore. The new year, I’d decided, would be one in which I demonstrated unprecedented self-restraint. And it was for this reason that when the waiter asked me which breakfast meat I wanted in my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich (sausage, ham, or crispy bacon), I said loud and clear, and with maybe a tiny bit of a tone that implied he was suggesting an excessive indulgence: ‘no breakfast meat, thank you’.
This meant that my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich would consist not of two fat slices of French toast filled with havarti cheese, a fried egg and breakfast meat, dredged in maple-flavoured syrup, but only two fat slices of French toast filled with havarti cheese and a fried egg, dredged in maple-flavoured syrup. The dieter’s Monte Cristo French toast sandwich, if you will.
Paper Moon Diner raises a chicken-egg question. Which came first? Was it a diner that someone decided to decorate with decapitated doll’s heads and old Matchbox cars and Pez dispensers and a mannequin painted green and stuck all over with molded-plastic toy soldiers? Or did someone have a collection of decapitated doll’s heads and old Matchbox cars and Pez dispensers and a mannequin painted green and stuck all over with molded-plastic toy soldiers and did that someone think, ‘I need to get a diner to properly showcase this shit’? It’s a perplexing question. But something about Paper Moon Diner -- something about the way happy American families sit at tables in there blithely chewing pancakes under naked toddler dolls suspended from the ceiling with cords like ligatures -- made me feel that asking is not the done thing.
And so I turned my attention, instead, to my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich, placed before me by the friendly waiter on a thick white diner plate. It was puffy and golden, presented without any garnish but a small steel pot filled with the crucial maple-flavoured syrup, microwave-warmed to aid liquidity. (An important touch: many diner chefs apply the maple-flavoured syrup to breakfast treats in the kitchen, causing an unacceptable sogginess). Cutting in to my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich -- for this is a sandwich with the use of knife and fork intrinsic to its design -- I was pleased to note that the texture of the bread was springy and light; surprised to see that the central cheese and egg was not greasy.
The first bite of the Monte Cristo French toast sandwich revealed that it was a pleasant melange of sweet and savoury, with the perfect amount of morning-after champagne-soaking carbohydrate. The second bite of the Monte Cristo French toast sandwich filled my heart with a flood of regret: why had I deluded myself that my lofty refusal of breakfast meat made me any better than any other feckless glutton eating a fried egg-and-cheese sandwich served on deep-fried battered white bread? But third bite of my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich restored my confidence. For although it made me certain that I would never again eat a Monte Cristo French toast sandwich in a diner decorated by someone with a hoarding fetish, there was no question that my life would have been poorer if I had not tried it once.
227 West 29th Street
Baltimore, MD 21211
United States
by Joyce Carol Oats
I marked the dawn of 2012 with a Monte Cristo French toast sandwich at Paper Moon Diner in Baltimore. The new year, I’d decided, would be one in which I demonstrated unprecedented self-restraint. And it was for this reason that when the waiter asked me which breakfast meat I wanted in my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich (sausage, ham, or crispy bacon), I said loud and clear, and with maybe a tiny bit of a tone that implied he was suggesting an excessive indulgence: ‘no breakfast meat, thank you’.
This meant that my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich would consist not of two fat slices of French toast filled with havarti cheese, a fried egg and breakfast meat, dredged in maple-flavoured syrup, but only two fat slices of French toast filled with havarti cheese and a fried egg, dredged in maple-flavoured syrup. The dieter’s Monte Cristo French toast sandwich, if you will.
Paper Moon Diner raises a chicken-egg question. Which came first? Was it a diner that someone decided to decorate with decapitated doll’s heads and old Matchbox cars and Pez dispensers and a mannequin painted green and stuck all over with molded-plastic toy soldiers? Or did someone have a collection of decapitated doll’s heads and old Matchbox cars and Pez dispensers and a mannequin painted green and stuck all over with molded-plastic toy soldiers and did that someone think, ‘I need to get a diner to properly showcase this shit’? It’s a perplexing question. But something about Paper Moon Diner -- something about the way happy American families sit at tables in there blithely chewing pancakes under naked toddler dolls suspended from the ceiling with cords like ligatures -- made me feel that asking is not the done thing.
And so I turned my attention, instead, to my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich, placed before me by the friendly waiter on a thick white diner plate. It was puffy and golden, presented without any garnish but a small steel pot filled with the crucial maple-flavoured syrup, microwave-warmed to aid liquidity. (An important touch: many diner chefs apply the maple-flavoured syrup to breakfast treats in the kitchen, causing an unacceptable sogginess). Cutting in to my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich -- for this is a sandwich with the use of knife and fork intrinsic to its design -- I was pleased to note that the texture of the bread was springy and light; surprised to see that the central cheese and egg was not greasy.
The first bite of the Monte Cristo French toast sandwich revealed that it was a pleasant melange of sweet and savoury, with the perfect amount of morning-after champagne-soaking carbohydrate. The second bite of the Monte Cristo French toast sandwich filled my heart with a flood of regret: why had I deluded myself that my lofty refusal of breakfast meat made me any better than any other feckless glutton eating a fried egg-and-cheese sandwich served on deep-fried battered white bread? But third bite of my Monte Cristo French toast sandwich restored my confidence. For although it made me certain that I would never again eat a Monte Cristo French toast sandwich in a diner decorated by someone with a hoarding fetish, there was no question that my life would have been poorer if I had not tried it once.
Monday, February 13, 2012
An open letter
From: T.N. Toost, US Bureau Chief, London Review of Breakfasts
To: All candidates for President of the United States of America
Dear Candidate,
As you no doubt know, The London Review of Breakfasts is the preeminent breakfast review organization in London, and as such is in a unique position to offer you the kind of international attention that you have no chance of finding anywhere else. We have a cadre of fans all around the world, many of whom vote in the most important elections in your country.
Our American bureau is conveniently located in Cleveland, Ohio – a small, sleepy yet important village on the North Coast of America. Because of your election system that almost nobody else in the world understands (save us, mind), Ohio is going to be one of the must-win states.
We therefore invite you to a candidate breakfast to be held in Cleveland, Ohio on a date convenient for you. To help you understand the importance of this breakfast, the last time we invited the candidates to breakfast, in 2008, John McCain, Ron Paul, Hilary Clinton and John Edwards all turned us down, citing scheduling conflicts. Each and every one of them lost the election.
Once we have interviewed each of the candidates extensively we will be in a position to endorse the candidate who will eventually win the nomination and the Presidential election in November.
We are busy, however, so please contact us soon to ensure that your schedule can be arranged to accommodate ours.
We look forward to breakfast with the future POTUS.
Sincerely,
Malcolm Eggs and T. N. Toost
The Ohio primary is on 6 March 2012
To: All candidates for President of the United States of America
Dear Candidate,
As you no doubt know, The London Review of Breakfasts is the preeminent breakfast review organization in London, and as such is in a unique position to offer you the kind of international attention that you have no chance of finding anywhere else. We have a cadre of fans all around the world, many of whom vote in the most important elections in your country.
Our American bureau is conveniently located in Cleveland, Ohio – a small, sleepy yet important village on the North Coast of America. Because of your election system that almost nobody else in the world understands (save us, mind), Ohio is going to be one of the must-win states.
We therefore invite you to a candidate breakfast to be held in Cleveland, Ohio on a date convenient for you. To help you understand the importance of this breakfast, the last time we invited the candidates to breakfast, in 2008, John McCain, Ron Paul, Hilary Clinton and John Edwards all turned us down, citing scheduling conflicts. Each and every one of them lost the election.
Once we have interviewed each of the candidates extensively we will be in a position to endorse the candidate who will eventually win the nomination and the Presidential election in November.
We are busy, however, so please contact us soon to ensure that your schedule can be arranged to accommodate ours.
We look forward to breakfast with the future POTUS.
Sincerely,
Malcolm Eggs and T. N. Toost
The Ohio primary is on 6 March 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The Fleet River Bakery, Holborn
The Fleet River Bakery
71 Lincolns Inn Fields
Holborn
WC2A 3JF
020 7691 1457
www.fleetriverbakery.com
by Flora Ashley
There are a few things which drive me into a vicious, murderous rage: tourists who dawdle on Tube platforms; people who sniff persistently; tights which ladder at the heel after a day’s wear; Melanie Philips; and overheated university libraries. Another is cafes which don’t include prices on their blackboard-walled menus.
Why, I ask you, should a relatively low-priced restaurant not inform its customers how much their coffee, cake, soup, and sandwiches will cost? Why so coy? Surely they understand that the transfer of money from customer to shopkeeper is vital to the success of any business? Do they realise that the only person in Britain who considers references to money to be vulgar is Lady Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, and she’s a character in a TV series?
Ahem.
It’s because of this strange fiscal bashfulness that I haven’t been to the Fleet River Bakery for more than two years. I used to pop by for coffee whenever I used the LSE’s excellent library. But on the sole occasion that I stopped for lunch, I was so hungry that I didn’t notice the lack of prices on the menu. When I arrived at the front of the queue, I was charged nearly ten quid for a slice of quiche, salad, and something to drink. I lost my temper and stalked out.
I was so afflicted with guilt – my behaviour was ridiculous, and it was hardly the fault of the cashier that the Bakery didn’t list prices – that I couldn’t return. I skirted the Bakery for months, stealing glances at its delicious-looking pastries and lovely coffee from behind the upturned points of my coat collar.
But relief arrived a few weeks ago, in the form of breakfast with ML, a friend who studies at the LSE. I was curious about her choice of the Bakery: had her degree in economics transformed her into a proto-banker so rapacious that menu prices no longer meant anything to her? Or did she agree with my views on menu pricing, and suggested the Bakery because it had changed its policy? So brave in the belief that the staff wouldn’t recognise me with shorter hair, I returned. And I am so pleased I did. I could not recommend the Fleet River Bakery’s breakfasts highly enough.
True, these are not substantial beans-and-bacon-and-eggs breakfasts, nor do they offer porridge, pancakes, nor any of the variations of eggs Benedict. But their focus on pastry means that they produce something so close to the Platonic ideal of the croissant that one can forgive their austere attitude towards choice at the breakfast table. Their croissants are so buttery that they need only to be eaten with jam, and I was halfway through mine before I remembered to smear jam on it. ML’s pain au chocolat was as much chocolat as it was pain. The flat whites came in deep cups, and at just the right temperature: neither tongue-blisteringly hot, nor insipidly cold.
The Bakery itself is pleasingly cosy, with its wooden tables and comfortable chairs squirrelled away into nooks and corners. And ML and I talked away an hour in the basement. She’s considering a career in community radio, and approved heartily of the well-displayed prices on the menu: croissants were £2 each, and flat whites £2.60.
71 Lincolns Inn Fields
Holborn
WC2A 3JF
020 7691 1457
www.fleetriverbakery.com
by Flora Ashley
There are a few things which drive me into a vicious, murderous rage: tourists who dawdle on Tube platforms; people who sniff persistently; tights which ladder at the heel after a day’s wear; Melanie Philips; and overheated university libraries. Another is cafes which don’t include prices on their blackboard-walled menus.
Why, I ask you, should a relatively low-priced restaurant not inform its customers how much their coffee, cake, soup, and sandwiches will cost? Why so coy? Surely they understand that the transfer of money from customer to shopkeeper is vital to the success of any business? Do they realise that the only person in Britain who considers references to money to be vulgar is Lady Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, and she’s a character in a TV series?
Ahem.
It’s because of this strange fiscal bashfulness that I haven’t been to the Fleet River Bakery for more than two years. I used to pop by for coffee whenever I used the LSE’s excellent library. But on the sole occasion that I stopped for lunch, I was so hungry that I didn’t notice the lack of prices on the menu. When I arrived at the front of the queue, I was charged nearly ten quid for a slice of quiche, salad, and something to drink. I lost my temper and stalked out.
I was so afflicted with guilt – my behaviour was ridiculous, and it was hardly the fault of the cashier that the Bakery didn’t list prices – that I couldn’t return. I skirted the Bakery for months, stealing glances at its delicious-looking pastries and lovely coffee from behind the upturned points of my coat collar.
But relief arrived a few weeks ago, in the form of breakfast with ML, a friend who studies at the LSE. I was curious about her choice of the Bakery: had her degree in economics transformed her into a proto-banker so rapacious that menu prices no longer meant anything to her? Or did she agree with my views on menu pricing, and suggested the Bakery because it had changed its policy? So brave in the belief that the staff wouldn’t recognise me with shorter hair, I returned. And I am so pleased I did. I could not recommend the Fleet River Bakery’s breakfasts highly enough.
True, these are not substantial beans-and-bacon-and-eggs breakfasts, nor do they offer porridge, pancakes, nor any of the variations of eggs Benedict. But their focus on pastry means that they produce something so close to the Platonic ideal of the croissant that one can forgive their austere attitude towards choice at the breakfast table. Their croissants are so buttery that they need only to be eaten with jam, and I was halfway through mine before I remembered to smear jam on it. ML’s pain au chocolat was as much chocolat as it was pain. The flat whites came in deep cups, and at just the right temperature: neither tongue-blisteringly hot, nor insipidly cold.
The Bakery itself is pleasingly cosy, with its wooden tables and comfortable chairs squirrelled away into nooks and corners. And ML and I talked away an hour in the basement. She’s considering a career in community radio, and approved heartily of the well-displayed prices on the menu: croissants were £2 each, and flat whites £2.60.
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Delaunay, Covent Garden
The Delaunay
55 Aldwych
Covent Garden
WC2B 4BB
020 7499 8558
www.thedelaunay.com
by Malcolm Eggs
Christmas Eve at Paddington Station. People are everywhere. Cases trundle, big hanging clocks flip between digits, hungover men and women trot along platforms, panicked by the strangely widespread notion that eight minutes is not long enough to walk the distance of four carriages.
Me? I am in WH Smith, in a huge queue, waiting to buy a magazine. I wanted to grab it quickly but it is now on the verge of being untenable because, on this entirely predictable bottleneck of a day, they have decided to employ just one till operator. Understaffing! It is the bane of English life. How many times has it led to me waiting in huge, bored crowd at a bar? I want to buy a drink and their reason for existing is to sell it to me but they can't, because of a misguided austerity measure. Or being told in a hipster restaurant, "I'm sorry, but there's a huge wait and everything will be substandard because we have so many customers today". My dear restaurant, I always reply (inside my mind), do you believe in what you do? If so, you should expect to be popular.
I think wistfully back to my birthday, of eating breakfast at The Wolseley's new sister restaurant The Delaunay. It is the epitome of not having an understaffing problem. When I arrived at 11.31am I was consulted by no less than three staff on the implications of missing the breakfast menu (several egg-based dishes, they established, were still available to me courtesy of the a la carte menu). After being led through to a spacious and classy room (dark wood-panelled walls, monochrome marble floor tiles) I sat, spellbound, and watched the restaurant's remarkable - almost naval - systems at work. What were the ranks and roles? There were at least seventeen staff compared, at this time of day, with thirteen diners. Some wore black suits, several wore waistcoats and others were all in white. A few had aprons. The majority wore light grey ties, while two or three sported darker ones that seemed to give them huge amounts of authority. I saw a dark-tie quibbling with a light-tie about using the wrong sort of tablecloth.
Five of them attended to me during my breakfast, which was eggs Arlington (£8.50) - i.e. what most places call eggs Royale, or Benedict with smoked salmon in place of ham. My over-riding impression was of its neatness. Several sheets of smoked salmon were shaped - by a team of salmon shapers, no doubt - into a thick orange wheel whose edge at no point breached the muffin perimeter. A tidy circle of yellow Hollandaise shone out from its centre. The effect was of a kind of triple brunch eclipse. The whole thing towered to around six inches high. It tasted very good. The egg was perfectly poached. The salmon tasted reasonably well - if a touch cost-effectively - sourced. If the muffin was homemade, I salute them for replicating the delicious qualities of a mass-produced muffin so accurately.
On my right, two ladies with necklaces on the outside of their rollneck jumpers discussed whether or not to have the schnitzel. Almost everywhere else, waiters huddled in pairs or threes. They would confer and glance around; then one would suddenly break free and deliver a message to someone eighteen feet away, who would respond by hotfooting it to a knife that needed wiping. Mini-processions marched to tables carrying trays of coffee, teapots, wine, cocktails...
"Next please." I am roused from my daydream by the woman at the till. She calls me forward and I pay for my magazine. During the time it takes Christmas, New Year and early January to occur, I will stand in several more queues caused by willful understaffing. Often I will think back to The Delaunay and wonder if it could be the model for a different, happier version of England. I conclude that this would definitely be true for the 'customers', and probably for the 'dark-ties' as well.
55 Aldwych
Covent Garden
WC2B 4BB
020 7499 8558
www.thedelaunay.com
by Malcolm Eggs
Christmas Eve at Paddington Station. People are everywhere. Cases trundle, big hanging clocks flip between digits, hungover men and women trot along platforms, panicked by the strangely widespread notion that eight minutes is not long enough to walk the distance of four carriages.
Me? I am in WH Smith, in a huge queue, waiting to buy a magazine. I wanted to grab it quickly but it is now on the verge of being untenable because, on this entirely predictable bottleneck of a day, they have decided to employ just one till operator. Understaffing! It is the bane of English life. How many times has it led to me waiting in huge, bored crowd at a bar? I want to buy a drink and their reason for existing is to sell it to me but they can't, because of a misguided austerity measure. Or being told in a hipster restaurant, "I'm sorry, but there's a huge wait and everything will be substandard because we have so many customers today". My dear restaurant, I always reply (inside my mind), do you believe in what you do? If so, you should expect to be popular.
I think wistfully back to my birthday, of eating breakfast at The Wolseley's new sister restaurant The Delaunay. It is the epitome of not having an understaffing problem. When I arrived at 11.31am I was consulted by no less than three staff on the implications of missing the breakfast menu (several egg-based dishes, they established, were still available to me courtesy of the a la carte menu). After being led through to a spacious and classy room (dark wood-panelled walls, monochrome marble floor tiles) I sat, spellbound, and watched the restaurant's remarkable - almost naval - systems at work. What were the ranks and roles? There were at least seventeen staff compared, at this time of day, with thirteen diners. Some wore black suits, several wore waistcoats and others were all in white. A few had aprons. The majority wore light grey ties, while two or three sported darker ones that seemed to give them huge amounts of authority. I saw a dark-tie quibbling with a light-tie about using the wrong sort of tablecloth.
Five of them attended to me during my breakfast, which was eggs Arlington (£8.50) - i.e. what most places call eggs Royale, or Benedict with smoked salmon in place of ham. My over-riding impression was of its neatness. Several sheets of smoked salmon were shaped - by a team of salmon shapers, no doubt - into a thick orange wheel whose edge at no point breached the muffin perimeter. A tidy circle of yellow Hollandaise shone out from its centre. The effect was of a kind of triple brunch eclipse. The whole thing towered to around six inches high. It tasted very good. The egg was perfectly poached. The salmon tasted reasonably well - if a touch cost-effectively - sourced. If the muffin was homemade, I salute them for replicating the delicious qualities of a mass-produced muffin so accurately.
On my right, two ladies with necklaces on the outside of their rollneck jumpers discussed whether or not to have the schnitzel. Almost everywhere else, waiters huddled in pairs or threes. They would confer and glance around; then one would suddenly break free and deliver a message to someone eighteen feet away, who would respond by hotfooting it to a knife that needed wiping. Mini-processions marched to tables carrying trays of coffee, teapots, wine, cocktails...
"Next please." I am roused from my daydream by the woman at the till. She calls me forward and I pay for my magazine. During the time it takes Christmas, New Year and early January to occur, I will stand in several more queues caused by willful understaffing. Often I will think back to The Delaunay and wonder if it could be the model for a different, happier version of England. I conclude that this would definitely be true for the 'customers', and probably for the 'dark-ties' as well.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The University Women’s Club, Mayfair
The University Women’s Club
2 Audley Square
Mayfair
W1K 1DB
020 7499 2268
www.universitywomensclub.com
by Seggolène Royal
In the United States, from whence I hail, the word “university” is synonymous not with learning or advancement, but with breakfast. Eighteen year-olds across America leave the bosoms of their families to go to “college,” living in dormitories and having to look after themselves for the first time with no parents to supervise. Those dorms feature dining halls where the students have paid to take part in meal plans which allow them unlimited amounts of food per meal. Half buffet-style, half food court, in my day you could get any variety of foods at a moment’s notice, from pizza to burgers to boeuf bourguignon, although today the better schools probably have sushi bars and gluten-free options.
Breakfast is the meal of champions, however, and that is where we all packed on the infamous Freshman Fifteen. An amuse bouche of yogurt, an appetizer of Lucky Charms, French toast with scrambled eggs and bacon for the main, a side order of waffles, and for dessert a granola bar on the way to class. I look back to those breakfast days of 1996-7 and feel at once revolted and nostalgic.
Given this implacable association between breakfast and university, it seems appropriate to discuss the breakfast on offer at the University Women’s Club in Mayfair. It was founded in 1886 by Gertrude E.M. Jackson, a graduate of Girton College, Cambridge, who got together some of her best friends from school and decided to start a women’s club to rival the men’s clubs from which they were barred. After moving around to several different addresses, in 1921 the ladies of the UWC adopted the present building, which has the distinction of having been used as a model for the house in Dorothy L. Sayers’s 1936 detective tale The Haunted Policemen.
I was able to visit the UWC earlier this month thanks to my alma mater, Barnard College, which has worked out a special arrangement: when visiting London, we can go and stay there for a discounted rate. The rooms are spartan but comfortable, the dining room cheerful and elegant. I did not run across any haunted policemen. Left to my own devices in a cushy upstairs hallway, I took a few minutes to commune with the Victorian founders, whose photographs hang on the richly striped walls. Those august women stare out in sepia, unsmiling, unaccustomed to arranging their features for a camera. What were their breakfasts like, I wondered?
Indeed, what are breakfasts like in English university dining halls? I have some vague supposition that they are overseen by stern-faced dons in gowns, Lucky Jim meets “Oliver!”. I was not to find out. When I went, the University Women’s Club was uniquely peopled by the American alumnae of Seven Sisters schools, who seemed to be there on some kind of reunion. They compared notes on former schoolchums:
“Do you remember Dorothy? Dorothy Feinberg, is her maiden name?”
“Dorothy Baumberg?”
“No, Feinberg. Nancy was in Cushing, we were in Cushing together.”
“Oh, well, I was in Strong, that’s why I didn’t know her.”
Cushing? Strong? A Google search reveals these to be the names of residence halls at Vassar College. These women would have graduated back when, like Barnard, Vassar was an all-girls school. I was the youngest person there, except for somebody’s granddaughter, who wore a black velvet bow right on top of her head, a calf-length black dress, and black lace-up boots. She looked exactly the way the Victorian founders’ granddaughters must have looked.
I read the paper and smiled at my fellow diners as they discussed their respective hometowns: Boston, New York, DC. The waitress indicated a buffet where I could serve myself. The breakfast was not as copious as it would have been at an actual university, but it was sufficient. For £6.50, there were croissants, various cereals, including muesli, Rachel’s yogurt (reason enough to make a person move to England), a bowl of fruit, toast, coffee, several kinds of juice, and tea. Unfortunately, given that I have developed a gluten allergy since my university days, I had to skip the toast and the heavenly-looking jams in favor of muesli in yogurt with honey. (Yes, there is gluten in muesli, but not as much as in toast, or so I tell myself.) The muesli was quite good, except that it was filled with enormous chunks of dried yellow fruit the size of small dominoes. If you like that mystery yellow fruit, this must be a huge bonus. I however prefer a more even ratio of dried fruits to grains. I isolated the offending fruit in a corner of the bowl: no harm done. The coffee was perfectly nutty and the milk warmed. When I left, I took a banana for the walk to class.
2 Audley Square
Mayfair
W1K 1DB
020 7499 2268
www.universitywomensclub.com
by Seggolène Royal
In the United States, from whence I hail, the word “university” is synonymous not with learning or advancement, but with breakfast. Eighteen year-olds across America leave the bosoms of their families to go to “college,” living in dormitories and having to look after themselves for the first time with no parents to supervise. Those dorms feature dining halls where the students have paid to take part in meal plans which allow them unlimited amounts of food per meal. Half buffet-style, half food court, in my day you could get any variety of foods at a moment’s notice, from pizza to burgers to boeuf bourguignon, although today the better schools probably have sushi bars and gluten-free options.
Breakfast is the meal of champions, however, and that is where we all packed on the infamous Freshman Fifteen. An amuse bouche of yogurt, an appetizer of Lucky Charms, French toast with scrambled eggs and bacon for the main, a side order of waffles, and for dessert a granola bar on the way to class. I look back to those breakfast days of 1996-7 and feel at once revolted and nostalgic.
Given this implacable association between breakfast and university, it seems appropriate to discuss the breakfast on offer at the University Women’s Club in Mayfair. It was founded in 1886 by Gertrude E.M. Jackson, a graduate of Girton College, Cambridge, who got together some of her best friends from school and decided to start a women’s club to rival the men’s clubs from which they were barred. After moving around to several different addresses, in 1921 the ladies of the UWC adopted the present building, which has the distinction of having been used as a model for the house in Dorothy L. Sayers’s 1936 detective tale The Haunted Policemen.
I was able to visit the UWC earlier this month thanks to my alma mater, Barnard College, which has worked out a special arrangement: when visiting London, we can go and stay there for a discounted rate. The rooms are spartan but comfortable, the dining room cheerful and elegant. I did not run across any haunted policemen. Left to my own devices in a cushy upstairs hallway, I took a few minutes to commune with the Victorian founders, whose photographs hang on the richly striped walls. Those august women stare out in sepia, unsmiling, unaccustomed to arranging their features for a camera. What were their breakfasts like, I wondered?
Indeed, what are breakfasts like in English university dining halls? I have some vague supposition that they are overseen by stern-faced dons in gowns, Lucky Jim meets “Oliver!”. I was not to find out. When I went, the University Women’s Club was uniquely peopled by the American alumnae of Seven Sisters schools, who seemed to be there on some kind of reunion. They compared notes on former schoolchums:
“Do you remember Dorothy? Dorothy Feinberg, is her maiden name?”
“Dorothy Baumberg?”
“No, Feinberg. Nancy was in Cushing, we were in Cushing together.”
“Oh, well, I was in Strong, that’s why I didn’t know her.”
Cushing? Strong? A Google search reveals these to be the names of residence halls at Vassar College. These women would have graduated back when, like Barnard, Vassar was an all-girls school. I was the youngest person there, except for somebody’s granddaughter, who wore a black velvet bow right on top of her head, a calf-length black dress, and black lace-up boots. She looked exactly the way the Victorian founders’ granddaughters must have looked.
I read the paper and smiled at my fellow diners as they discussed their respective hometowns: Boston, New York, DC. The waitress indicated a buffet where I could serve myself. The breakfast was not as copious as it would have been at an actual university, but it was sufficient. For £6.50, there were croissants, various cereals, including muesli, Rachel’s yogurt (reason enough to make a person move to England), a bowl of fruit, toast, coffee, several kinds of juice, and tea. Unfortunately, given that I have developed a gluten allergy since my university days, I had to skip the toast and the heavenly-looking jams in favor of muesli in yogurt with honey. (Yes, there is gluten in muesli, but not as much as in toast, or so I tell myself.) The muesli was quite good, except that it was filled with enormous chunks of dried yellow fruit the size of small dominoes. If you like that mystery yellow fruit, this must be a huge bonus. I however prefer a more even ratio of dried fruits to grains. I isolated the offending fruit in a corner of the bowl: no harm done. The coffee was perfectly nutty and the milk warmed. When I left, I took a banana for the walk to class.
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