Breakfast Epiphanies

Olive Caff, W1T

I can only begin to apologise for what is an unacceptably long absence from the world of Breakfast Blogging (if such a ghastly thing indeed exists). Eggsley has been a busy bee, with job hunting beginning to take a weary toll on my ability to consume greasy and disgusting (yet delicious) food alongside concerns about my arteries deterring my desire to ram sausages down my slimy oesophagus.

That said, you can’t put an end to a great thing like breakfast, and if there’s one place that does breakfast well, it’s Olive.

Located just a stone’s throw away from Warren Street tube, Eggsley here has been visiting Olive for five-odd years now. First discovered by Eggsley the Elder (Father of Eggsley), the staff have happily and cheerily watched Egglsey grow into the man he is today, as well as seeing consecutive girlfriends pass by as well (sharing breakfast at Olive with Eggsley is a rite of passage for all my lovers). Yes, Olive has played host to many a scene of my life lived to date, and I’ve even filmed there. This time around, I’m revisiting after an extended leave of absence from the Fitzrovia area. It’s been nigh-on a year since my last visit and I’m hoping nothing has changed.

…and nothing has. The waitress (she is lovely) beams as I enter and throws her arms around me.

“Hello, you!”

Hello indeed.

I’m seated, the table is cleared and they don’t even need to ask what my order is. Yes, this is one of those venues where I can simply order “the usual,” like a Boss. A coffee accompanies the delightful plate for the beautiful and excellent price of £4.95 in total. 

That’s how you price a breakfast.

Moments after my order and the morning’s caffeine injection is placed before me.

It’s great coffee. Good and strong with a rich aroma, and it goes bloody well with a tasty banger dipped in beans. I slurp and guzzle away like an amorous fish immediately as my newfound Partner-in-Grime incessantly talks at me (I’d pretend it was ‘with’ but I was already mentally penning this review and have absolutely no idea what he was saying).

Soon after the arrival of the tasty coffee comes the breakfast, and it is a glorious sight to behold:

Honestly, where do I begin?

The toast is magnificent: the bread is soft and well-buttered. I lather it in beans and adorn it with bacon as my unhealthy feasting begins and I remember why I got into this game in the first place: I bloody love fry-ups.

I lovingly splatter brown sauce into a corner of the plate and submerge the greasy banger into it before adding an extra bit of flavour to the already potent mix by dipping the aforementioned sausage into the egg yolk. Yum.

Olive certainly can’t be accused of providing a bad breakfast. Quite the opposite, it’s fantastic - as the cafe’s inhabitants lay testament to: the cafe is full of men in high-visibility clothing. Copies of The Sun lie half-read on every other table. Chatter revolves around building site folly and the pursuit of the other sex. By God, it’s fantastic. If I am permitted one complaint about Olive’s ambience, it’s their choice of radio station: no one wants to listen to Kiss FM over breakfast.

I tuck into my chips. As always, I wish they were hash browns, but these chips are tasty. Mildly salty and perfectly crispy, they provide a wonderful accompaniment to the softness of the egg and fill my belly to its brim.

I am satiated.

Do pay Olive a visit when you can, I promise you won’t regret it. The staff are magnificent, the breakfast perfectly priced and the atmosphere delightful.

It’s not on a half-bad street either: peacefully quiet and quietly peaceful.

Olive wins Eggsley’s seal of approval. I hope it wins yours.

Until next time, dear readers.