Breakfast Epiphanies

E. Pellicci, E2

Sat, 12 Jan 2013 21:38:00 +0000

Shock! Horror! I’m back again, and so soon! Let us just say I’m attempting to atone for my recent woeful absence. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you can rub the disbelief from your eyes and enjoy yet another breakfast review from Don Señor Eggsley of Madrid, and this time it’s a special one.

“A special one?” I hear you ask! Read on and find out why, as Eggsley goes East and enjoys a breakfast at the totally obviously named E. Pellicci on Bethnal Green Road.

Yes, a special one, for I am reunited with Lurvensteen, my nearest and dearest partner in grime, and this venue is one of his own choosing (this is Lurvensteen’s “‘hood”, you see).

As is customary, Lurvensteen and Eggsley are nursing sore, hungover heads following a night gone awry on the alcohol front. What was meant to be a simple, sombre reunion (after the Simpsons-in-the-Strand disaster) turned into a trip into a ghastly White Supremacist pub (Lurvensteen will deny this), smirks as we observed the lead singer of beyond-shit band Spector forced to show ID when entering the Old Blue Last and then far too many bottles o’ beer in a bar I cannot for the life of me remember the name of in the heart of Shoreditch with another pal, henceforth named Dasher (though he makes no further appearances in this excursion).

Upon waking the morning after the night before, Lurvensteen and Eggsley proceeded to dick about in their pyjamas and clutch at their foreheads before wandering down Bethnal Green Road giggling like children and salivating like dogs. Lurvensteen guided me into Pellicci’s and what I felt was nothing short of unabashed joy. Tasteful, art deco wood panelling adorns the walls and the establishment is positively teeming with life. In front of me, a man and wife enjoy Pellicci’s roast, which looks delightfully like a school dinner. We stand, awestruck and soaking in the atmosphere, before taking our seats. Menus are delivered promptly by a castmember of Eastenders but really they are unnecessary. Eggsley and Lurvensteen already know what they want (although I am a pig and add hash browns and black pudding to the standard Full English menu offering). I order my usual black coffee and Lurvensteen settles for a cup of tea.

Just the ticket.

Our drinks arrive promptly. Let the hangover recovery begin.

The coffee is surprisingly good. I comment that it may well be because the establishment claims to be Italian. I also note that the coffee machine bares a Ferrari logo - this too is a possible reason, I ponder aloud.

Pellicci’s is a very noisy cafe. It is an absolute hive of activity (it’s fairly cramped inside and full to the brim with people) and the clatter of mugs, the coffee machine, knives and forks is drowned out only by the hum of chatter emanating in sharp, East-end twangs from every table. I, personally, love it. Pellicci’s is indubitably awarded a stellar 10 out of Eggsley 10 for atmosphere. It is glorious. Things only get better when the delightfully friendly waitress (who seems to know everyone) bangs a spoon against a jar until silence reigns supreme.

“Everybody I want you to know that today is George and Julie’s birthday. Both of ‘em. So I want you all to join in singing Happy Birthday to ‘em with me and we got ‘em a little cake to wish ‘em well.”

I’m about to have an orgasm. This is just too good to be true. I’m in a true caf! Lurvensteen and I join in singing Happy Birthday with gleeful abandon (moments earlier yours truly was personally serenading Lurvensteen with a cover of Just the Two of Us, mind). George (seen at the back of the picture, below) is presented with his cake and can’t stop grinning from ear to ear (also revealing a dire need of some good dentistry).

And then, breakfast arrives.

In spite of Pellicci’s delightful atmosphere and wonderful, utterly charming service, the food, it must be said, is not very good. The sausage, in particular, was a huge source of personal distress as it arrived undercooked (and resulted in your darling Eggsley biting into a raw piece of 60% mystery meat sausage). The mushrooms, too, were so greasy as to be inedible. There were, however, glimmers of hope that yielded space for redemption: the black pudding was as tasty as Mario’s, the hash browns were delightfully crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside and the tomatoes had just the right level of acidity to cut through the grease. Good things and bad, you see, good things and bad. Unfortunately, the clincher was the bacon, which was far too greasy and fatty as well as lacking in flavour. It pains me to say this, but as a purveyor of honest reviews in search of a great English breakfast, I cannot recommend Pellicci’s for its food, only for its atmosphere.

As we leave (and we pay after we eat, not before - take note, Fortess Cafe), I am reminded that a good Full English should come at a good price, and our meal set us back a fairly reasonable £5.50, which in this recession-riddled and inflationary society that we call Britain right now, struck me as priced above what it was worth by a measure of roughly £2. Still, I would definitely come back here for a coffee and a think. I can certainly recommend doing that, even more so if you plan on dining on Pellicci’s atmosphere. I notice, as I open the door, a photo of an elderly gentleman above the cash register. Pellicci the First, I presume. The founder of this establishment. I am struck with a pain akin to nostalgia and am painfully aware that cafs such as this one - longstanding and built on community - are a dying breed. Regardless of the quality of their food, long may they survive, I say. Long may they survive.

Until next time, dear readers.

Fortess Cafe, N19

Thu, 03 Jan 2013 18:58:01 +0000

117 days. 7 months.

…That’s how long it has been since your darling breakfast-gobbling maniac Eggsley has put metaphorical pen to paper and scribbled something wonderful about food most foul.

It is time, I have decided, to put an end to this inactivity. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Eggsley is back, and he went straight back to Fortess Road to sample the delights of the originally named Fortess Cafe.

Before I begin my ode to yet another fry up, I feel I should apologise for my absence. I’ve been out of the country, you see. Unemployment took its heavy toll on my shoulders and culminated in flight to the Iberian Peninsula. Indeed, Mr. Eggsley can now be found dwelling in the far sunnier environs of Madrid, where the food is always greasy, the beer cheaper than water and the women some form of manna from heaven. Life is indeed better, but I am glad my move is only temporary. I shall be back in Blighty come summer and I am already beginning to shake with excitement at the prospect of the Full English becoming a routine part of my life again. In the meantime, however, I must forewarn readers that this period of inactivity is likely to persist again for another 7 months (short of my shaking the lazy Spanish habit and getting a review of a Spanish breakfast written).

Now, back to business.

Upon my return to London, two things were of utmost importance to me. One was getting a fry up and the other was getting hold of a copy of The Sun. Fortess Cafe seemed to offer the prospect of killing two birds with one stone, as I noticed, peering through the window, that every table was carelessly littered with copies of Britain’s favourite newspaper.

I entered and almost immediately a dread-fuelled sweat adorned my brow. The waitress looked positively stunned to see someone come in, the radio stopped playing music and the chef looked up, cocking his head to one side like a curious dog, to see who on earth he was going to have to remember how to cook for.

Yes. I’d picked what is technically referred to in Cafe Culture as “a bad one.”

My good manners betrayed me. I couldn’t leave. Panic took seat in my stomach. What was I about to consume.

“I’ll take the, er…f-full english. P-P-Please,” I stammered.

No word of response. Not even a grunt. The waitress merely punched something into the cash machine and I could tell from the look on her scowling face that I needed to pay immediately.

Never a good sign.

I sat down and sank into the silence hanging over the room like Death himself as I prepared myself for what was undoubtedly going to be a harrowing experience. I’d flown all the way back from Madrid, I was preparing to have my first Full English in months, and I was coming…here. WHY OH WHY!

The door swung open. Another customer had arrived. Staring into his eyes, I saw the realisation of his mistake bubble over into panic as he too decided it was too late to leave. For a moment, it was as though I looked deep into his soul. Our eyes met and I felt a bond with a stranger I have not felt in a long time. Now there were two of us.

In the immortal words of Roy Batty, “Time… to die.”

Fighting back tears, I opened The Sun.

There was a noise and I looked up. My coffee had arrived.

It was, ladies and gentlemen of my readership, as good as it looks. I sipped at the ~~anthrax~~ foam, fought back my gag reflex and drank deep of the drink you see above. My mouth was filled with a lukewarm, sour and sticky liquid.

I swallowed.

I never touched the coffee again.

Moments later, my toast arrived. I thought you couldn’t go wrong with toast. Even with thick-cut, shit bread and too much lurpak, toast is toast is toast and it tastes great.

I was wrong. The toast arrived cold. The butter was half frozen chunks that the waitress had attempted to spread into the bread with little success, resulting in torn, floppy bread that my dog would refuse to eat.

Then the breakfast arrived.

It is as you see above, and it was disgusting. The baked beans were undercooked and hard. I felt like I had elected to eat gravel covered in cold tomato sauce like some form of Greek punishment, but then I remembered I was not in Hades. I was in Camden. The bacon, too, was cold and far too meaty. It was chewy. In fact, everything was undercooked and cold. Nothing bears talking about. I’m actually becoming unhappy and depressed whilst writing this “review” and feel I must stop.

I shall let the above speak for itself. Ladies and gentlemen, if ever you should find yourselves in such an establishment, or indeed in this very establishment, eschew your manners and take flight. Run, screaming to the hills and warn all that you meet of the danger that awaits them. Return with Hellfire and Pitch. Destroy the establishment that it may never again harm another human being. Eggsley lives to eat another breakfast, but I am sure that there are others who did not.

My quest continues.

Eggsley out.

Mario's Cafe, NW1

Wed, 16 May 2012 13:35:00 +0100

It really is shocking that, given the extensive period time that yours truly has dwelled in Camden and its boroughs, the establishment that forms the bedrock of this North London haven has gone unreviewed on this pitiful excuse for a website. Finally, however, after umpteen visits, that can change.

For those on the Scene -yes, I am now referring to breakfast loving as a “scene” (if they can do it for music, it can be done to breakfast. I’m also, as of now, crowning myself King of the Scene)- Mario’s Cafe scarcely needs introducing. However, for the benefit of the less-breakfast aware of you out there, Eggsley’s here and feeling uncharacteristically verbose.

I wasn’t lying when I said it forms the bedrock of cafe culture in North London. A quick search on the ever-more-ubiquitous Internet yields glowing reviews and eulogies to the eponymous Mario and his character-filled, cosy breakfast haven on colourful Kelly Street. It has its own website, and even a film (do watch it). Consequently, when I first visited, expectations were, as you can imagine, sky high.

…and I’m glad they were; Mario has never left Eggsley disappointed.

This visit, I came accompanied by two once again brand new Partners-in-Grime. For the sake of it, let’s name them Corporal Sausage and Mr. Hash. They came upon my promise of a superb fry-up - not something I promise lightly, mind - as you can imagine, my reputation hangs in the balance of such promises.

Upon arriving, Corporal Sausage was taken aback at the popularity of the place. Mario’s is a small place, you see. I’d call it cosy, others might say pokey. Every table seemed occupied, bar one - with space for three grease hounds. It was as though it was meant to be.

“It’s really busy here,” remarked Corporal Sausage.
“It’s better if you come at like 3pm on a Monday.”
“You really are unemployed, aren’t you?”

Quite.

Whilst Corporal Sausage and Mr. Hash stared, doe-eyed at the extensive menu hanging on the back wall, I began to lick my slobbering chops and salivate uncontrollably at the prospect of my order. Mario doesn’t simply offer a “Full English” (though I’m sure you’d get one if you asked), instead he offers “Sausage, Egg, Bacon, Tomato” which you are then welcome to adorn with a wide range of extras for additional money. The extras are where Mario shines: hash browns, mushrooms, black pudding (oh my God, black pudding!), chips, toast, beans (lovingly written “beanz”)…the list is extensive, and sinfully inviting.

I stroll up to the counter and greet Mario. He recognises me, which always makes me smile. I order “S.E.B.T.” plus hash browns (God yes), mushrooms (Hell yeah), black pudding (oh, I wish I wasn’t writing this at lunch time) and “beanz”.

“And to drink?”

Ah yes, the drink.

Coffee. Sumptuous, rich, aromatic black coffee. I’ve not visited another cafe that does coffee as good as Mario’s.

The drink arrives moments after I have sat down. It tastes as good as it looks.

I guzzle at the coffee like some kind of fiend whilst Mr. Hash and Corporal Sausage place their orders. Mr. Hash is staggeringly hungover and ordered everything on the menu. I try to warn him about the size of the meal he has committed himself to tackle, but he is hearing none of it, instead threatening to vomit all over me if I don’t shut up.

My breakfast arrives. Please, dear readers, behold thy master:

My God, ‘tis a thing of beauty.

I hold off eating until the others’ food arrives. Manners Maketh Man, after all. To save some time and satiate a little of my greed, I pick at a mushroom and grind pepper onto my egg. Mr. Hash is unimpressed by Mario’s “posh” pepper mills. I myself am partial to high quality pepper and loathe to the bizarre, off-white sneezing powder that is usually to be found in London’s Greasy Spoons.

Their food arrives, and I tuck in.

An explosion of sumptuous delight follows. My brain is positively drenched in endorphins as I dip the black pudding into the egg yolk. Jesus, I think to myself, our fine and mighty nation really knew how to feed itself. Mario’s sausages are the shining star in this consortium of delicious ingredients. They are high quality, well seasoned sausages with a wonderful crisp to their outer skin. I dunk them in brown sauce and cover them in beanz. Marvellous.

The sheer ferocity of my appetite for breakfast is troubling Corporal Sausage and Mr. Hash. At least, it’s either that or my repulsive face.

I’m not sure where the mushrooms went during my assault on the plate lying before me, but my tongue is informing me that they were probably tasty as I move onto the hash brown… As regular readers are more than aware, hash browns are an Eggsley favourite, and Mario’s really do cut the mustard. They are excellent hash browns: crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside - just like my own romantic, beating heart.

Everything about Mario’s breakfast is divine. The egg is beautifully fried and, as you may have gathered, everything else is pretty top-notch, too. I greedily order another coffee and prepare to pay the bill.

It’s then that I remembered my only criticism of Mario’s: it’s a little on the pricey side. The sum total of my delightful breakfast and two coffees was a hair under £8. Not Earth-shatteringly wallet-busting I must say, but noticeably more expensive than Café A’Thai’s perfectly-priced fry up. It’s a tough one to call, really: Mario’s quality is superb, and the atmosphere of his cafe is, I imagine, the envy of many a Greasy Spoon. As such, I am willing time and time again to pay the higher-than-average price for a breakfast at Mario’s, and I encourage you to do the same. It is, after all, over half the price of the repulsive disaster that is Simpsons-in-the-Strand.

And thus concludes a breakfast at Mario’s. Mr. Hash is stuffed and beginning to recover from his crippling hangover. Corporal Sausage is moaning about the price. It’s a sunny day, and we retire to a park to continue our discussions about what a bizarre social melting-pot Camden is.

Until next time, dear readers.

Olive Caff, W1T

Fri, 11 May 2012 10:29:00 +0100

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.

Simpsons-in-the-Strand, WC2R

Sat, 11 Feb 2012 17:56:00 +0000

I have often wondered how one should go about defining “abysmal” with regards to a Full English Breakfast; how bad does a fry-up need to be in order to be so repulsive as to be entirely inedible? The answer, it seems, is that all it needs is an outrageously high opinion of itself, absolutely no care and attention and a price tag that would make even the wealthiest greasehound weep.

Ladies and Gentlemen of my readership, I give you the odious, pretentious and disgusting sinking ship that is Simpsons-in-the-Strand.

Simpsons-in-the-Strand was meant to mark a special occasion: Lurvensteen (that mysterious and enigmatic man who attentive readers will have heard mention of before) had returned triumphantly from sowing his influence in and around the Atacama Desert, and your dear Eggsley and he felt that there was no more fitting a way to herald the return of “Good Times” than a Full English. It was then decided that it should be the greatest of Full English breakfasts; a sumptuous feast of egg, sausage and bacon that would leave us wheezing with gluttony. Some research led us to settle upon old Simpsons, here, with its promise of:

Cumberland sausage, streaky and back bacon, Stornoway black pudding, fried mushrooms, baked tomato & egg (fried, poached or scrambled)

And:

[All of the above includes] toast, pastries, freshly brewed coffee & tea or herbal infusions.

Choice of cereals, porridge or half a grapefruit.

Orange juice, apple juice or grapefruit juice.

I’m sure you’d agree, my dear Breakfast-loving partners in crime, that it sounds most promising, non? The price tag, too, seemed “reassuringly expensive” (as I’ve heard it said). Almost a month in advance of our set date, with the reservation set in stone, I was already salivating with greedy anticipation.

Little did I know how disappointed Lurvensteen and I would be left following the ordeal that was breakfast on the Strand.

The date arrived and, all smartened up, Lurvensteen and Eggsley presented themselves to the charming and polite lady at the front desk. Sure enough, there was our reservation. Our coats were taken and hung up as we were then informed there would be a short wait as they readied our table. This all seemed reasonable, although upon glancing inside, we noticed that only a handful of people were actually dining. How was our table not ready? How peculiar, I thought to myself, before shunning the thought in order to listen to the greedy rumblings of my enormous and repulsive stomach.

It was a short wait indeed, and we were led over to our table - a small one at the back. Ideal for two young men of questionable integrity and demeanour, like us. Two menus were given to us and our drinks were ordered (it won’t surprise you, dear readers, to know that I asked for a good, strong and bitter black coffee).

Having already read the menu, we knew what we wanted and so sat patiently waiting for the waitress to return.

And wait we did.

Before waiting a little bit more.

This waitress was really putting the ‘wait’ in ‘waitress’.

She clearly graduated in Waiting from the College of Waiting, Waitsville, Waitland, with magna cum laude. I wonder if she waited for her degree to arrive by post?

I think I’d begun to put on weight from waiting for so long.

Puns aside, we waited for fucking ages.

Eventually, someone else spotted our grumpy faces and came over, asking what it was we wanted. I felt it was quite clear; we were sitting with closed menus, no food and a near empty pot of coffee.

“Could we order, please?” I asked, politely, as though nothing was wrong.

Off trotted the plump little fellow, back to our original waitress, who duly came over and took our order without so much as even the vaguest hint of an apology for her excellent skills in rendering Breakfast a tedious affair. On top of that, her ability to communicate left something to be desired. That is far from a slight on her as an individual (learning languages is hard!) but when ordering “The Great British Breakfast” and pointing to it on the menu, I was slightly perturbed by her inability to decipher what it was I wanted. It became a genuine ordeal when Lurvensteen attempted to order Eggs Benedict. Lord Almighty.

Things hadn’t got off to a great start, it must be said. I’ve received better service in Farringdon’s Finest, and this place is meant to be a British Institution, don’tcha know? Amidst pursed lips and a refusal to admit that so far the experience was less than stellar, Lurvensteen and I waited for the food. Fortunately it arrived quite quickly. Or rather unfortunately, as I soon realised why.

If, my dear readers, you would cast your eyes up to the image at the top of this post, could you tell me what you see? Glancing at the photo now, I don’t believe it looks too awful, but I wouldn’t say it looks great, either. Unfortunately, given the flatteringly soft light that Simpsons is cast in, the camera seems to have done this breakfast a few favours as, when it arrived, I felt like displaying exactly how I felt about what had just been presented to me, amidst farcical pomp and ceremony by bitter, jaded and (I suspect) woefully underpaid waiters. It looked like breakfast, but it smelt only vaguely like breakfast. It smelt…old. Something wasn’t right. Lurvensteen’s choice of dish looked even more miserable, like some sort of weeping attempt at food with a curdled pig’s orgasm unlovingly splattered on top. His Hollandaise sauce had coagulated before even being presented to him to eat.

I picked up my (rather small) toast to butter it. It was cold, and not simply “no longer warm” but cold. The butter, too, was straight from the fridge and thus solid as a rock. I should also mention it was that shitty little chocolate cube-sized, foil-wrapped butter that you get on planes and in other crappy, budget “sort-of a meal” environments.

The meal wasn’t starting well. Lurvensteen and I ate the food in miserable, disheartened and, above all (this was meant to be a special occasion!), disappointed silence.

It was then that I realised what was wrong with my meal.

Absolutely every ingredient, ladies and gentlemen, was from a hot plate. Sausage, bacon, eggs, mushroom..everything. Every single ingredient had been cooked at some point previously (I suspect around 6am or so) and had been left to linger, wilt and soak in its own grease, under a tray, in a metal tin, somewhere in the kitchens of this disgusting excuse for an eatery. The food was soggy and devoid of flavour. My sausage miserably bled watery grease as I cut into it and the last of its flavour spilled out into the atmosphere around us. I felt mildly nauseous.

Put simply: absolutely everything about Simpsons-in-the-Strand is a disappointment, from the food to the service to the “Grand Divan” dining room itself (woefully in need of refurbishment). Its only saving grace was that the loo seats were clean enough to sit on comfortably. Ignore all other reviews, dear readers, and, above all, avoid Simpsons-in-the-Strand at all costs. I am saddened that The Savoy still recommends it to guests in need of a bite to eat. I hope this changes soon.

Lurvensteen and I returned home disappointed, nauseous and still hungry…

…Weeks later, I found myself on The Strand again and, resisting the urge to firebomb Simpsons and hungry once again for breakfast, I left it to my nose to find a place to eat. What I stumbled across was Crown Cafe-Bar and, for the sum of £5 as opposed to £19.50, I was given this:

And let me tell you readers that, whilst the bacon was a little too greasy and the sausage underwhelming, the toast, eggs, beans and tomatoes were all heavenly. Most of all, however, this humble breakfast was leagues above the quality of Simpsons-in-the-Strand’s insulting excuse for a breakfast and I was in and out of the establishment in under 20 minutes. I was so impressed that I left a tip.

So, next time you find yourselves hungry for a fry-up on the Strand, readers, screw Simpsons: go to Crown Cafe-Bar.

Eggsley out.

Café Fresco, W1T

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 13:57:00 +0100

Located just next to Goodge Street station, your humble Eggsley has been frequenting Café Fresco’s charming environs for nearly four years now. Fresco – and it does indeed offer an al fresco dining experience, albeit a rather barebones one – is a charming independent café (I’m still atoning for my sins) that offers complementary reading material that all too quickly reveals the desired audience (hint: frequenters of The Breakfast Club, Hoxton branch are not welcome). One can often while away a morning here, face buried in The Sun, piece of toast in hand and builders tea on the side. It’s a truly fantastic place for a breakfast epiphany (I knew I’d manage to wrangle that sentence in one day).

As with Bruno, customers are expected to approach the till and place their order first before sitting down but, unlike Bruno, table service is offered too (if you’re patient). At lunchtime a veritable queue forms for the grub, so eggspert Egglsey recommends that you aim for the 10 o’clock spot to maximise relaxation in Fresco’s peaceful environs. A radio pumps out the tunes in the background as sunlight floods the café on this crisp October morning.

I place my order (a Full English, of course), but sadly they are out of chips. Would I prefer hash browns? Would I ever! (I am thrilled that this is the offered solution). I opt for coffee over tea (I am hungover). Phil Collins, it has been decided, will soundtrack my meal. The waitress calls me darling, darlings, and I like that: it massages my (already colossal) ego, and that feels wonderful. A short wait and two pages of The Daily Star later and my coffee arrives, with a smiley face:

They must really like me here.

The coffee is nothing special (despite the fact that it cheerily greets me every time I take a sip): it isn’t bad, but it isn’t great either. It’s perhaps a bit milky, leaving a slightly sweet flavour on the palate once the whole cup has been finished. The coffee would be better were it either brewed from a stronger bean, or provided with less milk. Eggsley likes coffee like he likes his women, you see: bitter.

Moments later, the food arrives, followed swiftly by toast. This time, my desire for English Breakfast is tantamount to manic. I am salivating at the prospect of dipping a sausage in brown sauce and then devouring it. Yummy.

I am greeted with a sea of colour. If there’s one thing Fresco gets right, it’s the artist’s palette. What follows, in terms of flavour, is a bit of a mixed bag.

The egg is wonderful. I sprinkle some pepper on top and tuck into the yolk. I cut the bacon and the sausage and coat them in yolk juice. I eat. Divine. The bacon is wonderfully salty, and the sausage, whilst not a high-quality sausage, or traditional banger, really hits the spot. My belly smiles with comforted happiness. My headache begins to fade. Fresco, you are doing me good. I splurge brown sauce onto the plate in an excitable fit of greed and devour the sausage. I turn to the hash browns, eager to dip them in the yolk and eat them with some beans, but I am disappointed: the hash browns are inadequate. They are floppy (I want to say soggy, but they weren’t wet) and suffer from a slightly bitter taste. I suspect they are undercooked, or perhaps just poor quality hash browns. I suffer the dissatisfaction and eat them anyway, but I feel the pain of disappointment, rendered all the more acute by my state of mind. The beans fail to impress as well: like Bruno, these beans are hard when bitten, and lack the comfortingly sweet taste than Heinz usually provides its customers. I suspect they have been undercooked, too.

Whilst the hash browns and beans were a bit of a let down, the dish as a whole is satisfying and I remain pleased with Fresco. I sit back and take in the environment. I hear Tottenham Court Road dirtily throbbing away in the distance as another absolutely cracking song soundtracks my thoughts: Eddy Grant’s Electric Avenue. This radio station really knows how to cheer me up.

I’ve recently been spending a lot of time in Germany. It’s certainly an odd place to find oneself, I know. The prospect of moving there full-time looms faintly on the horizon as a blurry shape and as such Herr Eggsley has been making efforts to eat German breakfasts (the Bavarian weißwurst being an excellent example). Sadly, they don’t quite live up to the English offering (insert joke about “The War” here) and I’ve really struggled to find a place in Munich that offers a Full English. Were I to move to Germany, I might never be able to dine in my favourite way ever again…

What a depressing thought. Blame the hangover. Grab The Sun, turn to page 3, smile at the waitress, hum along to Eddy Grant and plan what I’m going to do this evening.

Until next time, dear readers.

Bar Bruno, W1F

Sun, 16 Oct 2011 11:12:00 +0100

I’m sure that my absence was bitterly noted, and unfortunately Herr Eggsley (as I am occasionally known) really doesn’t have an excuse for the poor frequency of his contributions to the World Wide Web.

Once again, jaunts and various (obviously very important) meetings have led Eggsley into the violently-pumping heart of London that is Soho, this time bringing your sausage-stuffing friend to a mainstay of the area: Bar Bruno.

As I am still saying my prayers to the Gods of independent breakfast these days, I took great time and care to discovering Bar Bruno as the greasy spoon of choice for this particular meeting, and the friend (no, not Lurvensteen, sadly) who accompanied me was suitably (un?)impressed by its hot atmosphere and dying-yellow hues.

A little more on the atmosphere, as I believe that this is the first café to feature on this mediocre website that can truly be labeled a proper greasy spoon. Myself and my colleague are the only members of the café not wearing high-visibility clothing and clutching at a copy of The Sun. This is a very, very good thing - the presence of these fellows, that is, not my lack of high-visibility clothing (I have plenty of that, I can assure you) - as the establishment is positively brimming with atmosphere. People come and go with more frequency than a News International editor, and Radio 5 Live cheerily drones away in the background. I recall a television, but I am not sure if that is just my imagination. Nonetheless, one certainly couldn’t critique Bar Bruno (isn’t that name just hilarious - who is Bruno? Where can I find him? I want to shake his hand.) for a lack of atmosphere.

The “waiter” - he is also the cashier and the…everything front-of-house - calls me over (I was mistakenly presumptuous in pulling up a seat and awaiting service), and I dutifully approach. I am asked what I want. Do they do Full English? A hand gestures to a board hanging from the wall displaying the offerings…

No Full English.

I’ll have the “Sausage, Egg, Chips and Beans” then, is tea or coffee included? No. Toast? Non plus [The waiter did not say this, but allow me some creative license. That said, yours truly would have been remarkably impressed had I received such an answer].

Things at Bar Bruno have begun to spiral downhill. Eggsley finds a bastion of London’s wondrous cafe culture, and yet it fails to offer the dish that made it so famous, doesn’t include the drink (or toast, though I can forgive that) in the price and charges…?

Too much.

Oh well, I think. Not to worry. I’ve heard good things about the place from numerous sources, and I love the greasiest of greasy spoons an almost certainly unhealthy amount. I place my faith in the enigmatic Bruno and await my favourite meal.

Before we speak of the food, let us first address the drink. Eggsley opted for coffee. It was not good. Perhaps worse than old A’Thai, and that’s saying something. A sip of the drink fills the mouth with the taste of metallic water, sullied by lukewarm milk with an aftertaste that perhaps hints of coffee. A real shame. Water is ordered. The toast arrives alongside it.

The toast is possibly Bruno’s saving grace. It is a good, hefty slab of bread with plenty of butter. I do believe that toast is one of the most comforting of creature comforts, and as the weather starts to turn and London transforms itself into the urban equivalent of a hedgehog curling up into a big ball of Hamleys-tinted festive warmth, it’s good to see that Bruno will be warming many bellies with its toast.

The breakfast, sadly, fails to inspire, but honestly, my dear readers, look back up at the photo of that breakfast and tell me you think that looks like an appetising meal. Even hungover, I would feel a twinge of disappointment as this meal was set down before me. The sausage is unloved: a dried-out, over-cooked object that sweats grease onto the plate. My chips were dry as a bone and lacked the bouncy fluffiness one associates with such a (normally) tasty mainstay of Western food (once again, I would have preferred hash browns). The beans are not the Heinz variety (these well-practised taste buds can tell), and are slightly hard when bitten – more nut than bean, you might say. Oh, Bruno, how underwhelming you have proven yourself to be! Surely the egg can save you?

…In short, no, it cannot. The egg is undercooked and my mouth is filled with egg goo (technical term), which always makes me feel a little queasy. I’m unhappy.

Rather than linger and ponder the meaning of existence, the nature of humanity as beast or any other of my favourite pastimes, I signal to my accomplice that we should leave, with haste. Eggsley exits, stage right, back into the streets of London. Cold air batters my face and I’m suddenly consumed by another thought: Steve Jobs is dead.

Tragic.

The Breakfast Club, W1F

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 16:30:00 +0100

As their ludicrously trendy website illustrates, The Breakfast Club is a far cry from the greasy spoons yours truly is used to visiting.

Having originated in humble Soho, The Breakfast Club (not to be confused with the stellar 80s movie, mind, no matter how hard they try to push their “love for the Eighties”) has been hard at work on the asexual reproduction front: Angel, Spitalfields and - surprise, surprise - Hoxton are all now host (I wonder why?) to the delights of this breakfast ~~café restaurant brasserie~~ …place.

The atmosphere is an interesting one: people were queuing (yes, queuing!) and this disgusted me - there are a dozen neighbouring, independent greasy spoons in the area that would offer equally good food for less money. The trendy waiters (and there are many) are very friendly, sitting down alongside you to take your order - a behaviour I have only ever before observed in a Chinese restaurant in Los Angeles. It is a little disconcerting to have a waiter address you as “mate” and laugh at your friends’ indecision when it comes to ordering from their (very welcomingly) large breakfast menu. I’d certainly prefer the more traditional affair, but their friendliness and desire to attend to your needs cannot be reasonably knocked. It isn’t a greasy spoon, I must keep reminding myself of that.

I could write about the extensive, continent-spanning menu on offer, but yours truly (and, I hope, you too, dear readers) is only interested in one thing: The Full English, here named, “The Full Monty.”

For all of its trendy pretence, your dear Eggsley simply cannot knock their breakfast. The egg was immaculately prepared (as the photo should illustrate): the yolk was runny, it was not greasy and it was full of free-range flavour. Eggselent (yes, I finally cracked that ~~yolk~~ joke). The bacon could be a little more charred, but is also flavoursome and delicious. The black pudding and sausage are superb. Black pudding is a lovely surprise to find on a Full English in London in any case, and here, when dipped into the yolk, is simply sublime. The sausage is on par with Farringdon’s finest: a delicious cumberland providing an abundance of meaty and herby flavour.

Like Café A’Thai, the toast deserves a special mention. Here, the toast is a poncy, probably Italian bread, lightly buttered. By itself, the toast is delicious, however its hints of olive oil tarnish the (usually delicious) combination of toast and baked beans. Not quite up to par with old A’Thai, then, but a very good effort.

The mushrooms, too, are delicious. Usually one finds that a greasy spoon’s Full English mushrooms will be a slight afterthought of the straight-from-the-tin-into-the-frier variety that only become tasty once submerged in beans and/or egg yolk. Here, chez The Breakfast Club, the mushrooms are meaty and packed full of flavour. Absolutely delightful when covered in black pepper and put on top of their poncy toast.

The breakfast, however, does have one weakness, and the weakness is almost fatal. It is the potatoes. The Full Monty comes adorned with American-style fried potato chunks (I forget the correct terminology) with rosemary. I, and any other self-proclaimed breakfast-lover, simply cannot abide a herb such as rosemary before one o’clock. It is simply too overpowering, especially with potatoes. Spuds with rosemary should accompany lamb at lunch, not breakfast at half-ten in the morning on a Sunday. The flavour almost ruins the breakfast. Were I the Eighties-loving owners of The Breakfast Club, I would be quick to change this default option, replacing it with the unmatchable: hash browns.
I am fairly sure I could have asked for the default option to be replaced with chips or hash browns, but your dear Eggsley likes to have a cafe’s offering as intended by the establishment - if I didn’t, then my reviews would not be trustworthy now, would they?

As I nurse my (predictably delicious, as I should bloody hope so for the price) black coffee, my thoughts turn to a short story just-completed and accompanying film just-watched: Ian McEwan’s The Comfort of Strangers.

The story itself is wonderfully maccabre with excellent passive-aggressive undertones, homoeroticised heterosexuality and a general air of menace. Excellent stuff. The film, on the other hand, is a pathetic, dreadfully-written, -edited and -directed pile of twoddle with a cast that should impress and yet, in almost every role, are horribly mis-cast. None of the tension or atmosphere of the book remains and the “twist” that occurs halfway through the story is blown out of the water in the opening second of the film. I could not believe it. Absolutely class-A atrocious film-making. Crap. It makes me angry to see such a good story so expertly ruined by poor just-about-everything on the film front. Steer well clear, my friends agree. Well clear.

With that thought, I leave The Breakfast Club, concluding that it has unashamedly commodified breakfast - a fact that really rubs me up the wrong way. I feel as if I should not return, out of principal, and that I should recommend that you do not go either…and yet, I find myself organising a meeting there in the near future. It is, after all, a great place for a group larger than four (most cafes struggle with seating and consistency for groups above four), and I would be lying to you all if I did not admit that their “Full Monty” is very, very good. Yet…I can’t help despising its unabashed trendiness and shameless location prostitution.

Thus…go once every six months, pray for forgiveness afterwards, and visit twenty-five independent, traditional greasy-spoons as penance.

Eggsley out.

Café A'Thai, EC1M

Thu, 18 Aug 2011 17:59:00 +0100

Weather-wise, this summer seems to be getting no better, and a trip to Europe (France and Germany - thoughts on their respective…attempts (shall we say) to make a breakfast are soon to come) yielded no less overcast clouds and rain. A subsequent health binge brought about by my loathsome inactivity, and seemingly insatiable desire to consume anything and everything presented to me, resulted in a rather drastic decrease in my consumption of everyone’s favourite greasy goodness.

Lurvensteen’s absence is bitterly noted whenever I venture out these days, and has put an abrupt stop to any interesting conversations and musings that were to be enjoyed during the consumption of Britain’s finest meal. Thus, dear readers, you must put up with Eggsley flying-solo until I can find a new partner in grime.

But, for now, at least I am back.

Café A’Thai, probably the most unsuitably named Greasy Spoon in Farringdon, is a pleasantly welcoming cafe. Located on the corner of a street, its all-glass walls provide a beautiful view of the seething masses’ depressing commute to and from their ~~vile dungeons of misery~~ jobs, allowing for plenty of musing upon society’s inadequacies as you gorge on what proves to be an incredibly reasonably-priced (almost perfectly priced) Full English.

£3.95 is the price paid for this culinary delight, and that price includes a tea or coffee.

First things first: Hallelujah. Breakfast priced as it should be. It’s no wonder that this cafe has been a haunt for workmen and city boys alike since I first discovered it on my path to graduation. The atmosphere is delightful, though it would be a fair bit sweeter if the staff smiled (or said anything, for that matter), and were radio 5 live murmuring away in the background. Anywhere that will charge less than a fiver for breakfast gets an instant Eggsley Gold Star Award, providing, of course, that the breakfast delivers.

…and boy, does it deliver.

Let’s start with the obvious: it comes with hash browns, not chips. I could write a book on why hash browns are the better, tastier, fluffier, more wonderful, more fitting accompaniment to a Full English than chips, but I’m far too lazy and thus, my dear readers, you simply have to just take it as ‘given’ that hash browns are greater than chips. For one, they actually have a flavour, and do not need to be drowned in salt. Nor do they need a condiment; they taste even better dipped in beans or egg yolk (and absolutely foul with ketchup, which is clearly God’s way of telling you not to spoil your breakfast with an unnecessary extra variety of Heinz).

The breakfast is an ideal size, and a good, healthy portion of lavishly and lovingly buttered toast is delivered before the breakfast itself arrives, giving you something to douse your salivating lips with as you await the taste of bacon. It’s amazing, but the owners of this fine establishment have somehow managed even to make toast taste better than normal, especially astounding given that the bread itself is, frankly, crap bread. I suspect it’s the salted butter. In any case, good toast.

The bacon is cooked expertly, with that wonderful charred flavour hitting your tongue without drowning out the taste of the bacon itself. It is also clearly good quality bacon - the kind that isn’t smothered in smeggma (as I like to call it) upon arrival and is also not overly-greasy so as the bring on an unwanted heart-attack (unlike others). The tomato is also a meaty tomato, and retains enough juiciness to allow its welcome acidity to cut through the saltiness of the bacon.

The egg, too, is well-cooked, with a wonderfully runny yolk and no horrible, uncooked egg white. If it did have one flaw, I would say that the egg is perhaps a smidgen too buttery (taste reveals that the egg is clearly fried in butter), and could have done with some salt and pepper being ground into it during its cooking, as the condiments on the table are nothing to write home about (I hate that ghastly white pepper powder).

If Moonlight Cafe had a lethal pièce de résistance, then Café A’Thai has a mouth-watering one: the sausage. This, dear readers, is the kind of sausage that really gets your darling Eggsley going - a good, herb-filled, flavoursome, delicate, not-overly-greasy Cumberland. It is (as you will eventually find out) one of the key pillars of my Breakfast Lore. The sausage should be the crown jewel in any Full English and is all-too-often completely overlooked by London’s greasy underbelly (I suspect price is an issue). A’Thai’s sausage is definitely not the usual 90% breadcrumb affair, it is the 100% tasty affair. I cannot laud them with enough praise, and whilst it is far from the best sausage I have eaten with a Full English, for a cafe to provide a sausage of such quality at a price so low (£3.95! With a drink!), it is astounding. Bravo, A’Thai, bravo. Now change your bloody name.

I suspect I shall definitely be venturing back here…indeed, this is my fourth (or fifth) visit since I first discovered it a mere two months ago.

Yet surely there has to be a downside? You are right, my dear readers, there does have to be a downside. At £3.95, surely this cannot be the be all and end all of English Breakfasts? Surely, a mere handful of posts into this blog, I cannot have found the answer?

I’ll stop the rhetoric and confess that yes, there is a downside: the coffee is diabolical. I mean, it really is disgusting. I imagine they’re blowing all the budget on the ingredients for the breakfast and so decided to just collect buckets of rat piss instead of buying coffee beans. I was loathe to include this detail, but every time I have visited, my coffee has made me feel ill. It has a horribly saccharine quality to it, as well as being watery and just generally reminiscent of a big mugful of human waste. Stick to the tea. I can’t before 11am, it has to be coffee, and I would gladly pay Café A’Thai a full £5 if it meant their coffee was as good as their breakfast. I mean, really, is it that hard? As it is, I’d rather bring a tub of Nescafé Gold Blend and just ask them to add hot water. Whatever that machine they have is making is vile.

The recent collapse of British Society has left me bereft of musings, thoughts and opinions, other than one over-powering feeling of disgust. For that, I apologise.

My quest for the perfect Full English continues…

The Healthy Breakfast for the Unhealthy Man

Sun, 17 Jul 2011 15:14:00 +0100

Your dear Eggsley has ventured into the countryside as yet another bout of hefty rain tumbles down upon us this fine, British month of July.

This breakfast is once again home-made (by yours truly), and special care and attention has been paid to make our nation’s favourite go-to meal for heart failure into something that the arteries can accept a little more readily. It has been a heavy weekend. Uncharacteristically heavy, you might say. Lurvensteen’s impending departure is likely to blame. Unbelievable tristesse is liable to follow.

(please excuse the obligatory trendy iPhone photo)

This delicious breakfast (always consumed at noon on Sunday - another vital rule of Eggsley’s Breakfast Lore) consists of free-range Burford Brown eggs (with an absolutely delicious yolk) fried in a very small amount of salted butter with ground black pepper (remember the Pro Tip), reasonably lean, unsmoked streaky bacon (grilled, not fried), and toasted Poilâne bread. It’s rather pretentious bread, but deservedly so - I have yet to find a bread that so perfectly complements a good yolk.

The blend of flavours is simply gorgeous. The result is a protein-rich, filling English Breakfast that, yes, compromises on beans, sausages (and we all know by now that I bloody love a good quality Cumberland, although have yet to review one) and hash browns, but, as a consequence, feels light on the palate. The eggs are of such good quality that the taste is rich, grease-less and bursting with flavour. The salt of the butter and the pepper combine with the yolk to produce an egg that actually has flavour. Placed on top of the bread (buttered) with a cut of the bacon, and I do honestly believe I might be entering a new circle of comfort food Heaven - perfect on this miserable Sunday.

I really wish I had a newspaper…

I’m reminded that I haven’t bought a newspaper in approximately 3 years.

Suddenly, I completely understand “new” media’s rise to power. Coincidentally, BBC News mumbles along in the background. Brookes has been arrested. Now, News International’s PR disaster (it seems that just about every media outlet wants them to miraculously file for Chapter 11) seems insignificant: it was going to happen, anyway (well, not quite - I sensationalise)… best to have it happen with scandal and fury, though; a gradual demise brought about by withering shares is so dull. Print is not dying, it is dead and has been for about three years. I absolutely could not care less about what happens to Murdoch, but am filled with pleasure at the idea of it being bad and juicy, not for what I will read in the newspaper I won’t buy tomorrow, nor for what I will hear on the television channel I never watch that same evening… No, I am excited to read the masses’ jubilant rapture and the plurality of opinion to be offered on twitter.

A true breakfast epiphany. What exciting times we live in.

Self-portrait with eggs. - Eggsley, 2011.

I note that I should breakfast solo more often and lose myself in thought. I sip at my coffee to wash a good breakfast down. Three days later and I still feel tired. White nights are certainly over-rated.

Moonlight Cafe, N19

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 12:41:00 +0100

As the rain tumbles down upon the roads of Tufnell Park on this July morning, Eggsley and Lurvensteen venture out to Moonlight Cafe, perhaps the best cafe on Brecknock Road (suggestions welcome).

The decor is welcomingly uninspiring, with a wall-mounted television quietly mumbling nonsense in the background, adding some texture to the repugnant sound of feeding human beings. The owners are polite and very speedy, with a warm, welcoming smile that your humble misanthrope looks forward to before gorging on greasy, belly-busting, heart attack-inducing grub.

The Full English (pictured) costs £5 (or was it £6?) and comes with a choice of Tea or Coffee. Tea or Coffee included in the price is an absolute must, and any caff that does not offer this is a heretic; a blemish upon our beautiful city’s greasy spoon underbelly (once again, more on this to follow when yours truly finally gets round to writing his own Breakfast Lore).

The size of the breakfast is staggering. Upon its arrival my stomach wept with both joy and fear at the prospect of tackling this beast. Coming here hungover is absolutely incredible. Sober, however, it is a little terrifying.

The beans are your standard affair whilst the bacon itself is very salty, but well-cooked and without that disgusting white phlegm that it just can’t help but excitedly excrete upon meeting an oily frying pan. Mixing the beans with the bacon or adding some brown sauce is an absolute must, or you will (as your Eggsley did) find yourself rapidly asking for pints of water to avoid salt-death.

The egg is nothing too special - it is fried without love, lacking definition, shape or flavour (of course, the secret to a tasty egg is to fry it in the bacon grease). Pro tip: add some pepper.

The sausage (80% breadcrumbs, mind - is that really a sausage?), whilst looking absolutely repulsive, has been well cooked (deep fried?) and is absolutely splendid when dipped in brown sauce, dunked in egg yolk or saturated with beans.

“God this weather’s minging.”
“Yeah.”
“I am not gonna leave the flat today…I’m going to sit indoors, play FIFA and drink tea.”

Whilst hash browns are always preferred, chips with a Full English can be good when cooked well (i.e. not McCain oven chips), and balanced (quantity-wise) in a decent ratio between other items. This is not the case here. My breakfast is struggling to fend off a pointy, potato-based invasion. They overwhelm, and are left largely unfinished.

The true pièce de résistance however (and, also, the murderous heavyweight of this fine establishment’s breakfast offering) is the delightfully-named “Fried Slice”. A staggering feat of achievement, this seemingly-harmless object managed to completely destroy any desire to eat for the rest of the day and made my body fear for its life. The decision to include tomatoes in the breakfast at this point has to be highly-praised, as their welcoming acidity provided the only escape from Slicey’s mouth-ruining grease (having to run for a bus afterwards did not help matters, and almost resulted in Moonlight’s offering reappearing all over the windows of the 134).

“God that new Cher Lloyd song is fucking awful.”

Yes. It really is. It really, really is.

The Debut

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 15:18:00 +0100

To start proceedings your darling Eggsley felt it necessary to prepare his own Full English.

The glorious sausage (more on sausages to follow) is notably absent due to budgetary constraints imposed following a night with His Royal Purpleness last Sunday (and a subsequent two-day hangover). However, what is included is:

Egg
Bacon (3 rashers)
Beans
Toast
Potatoes (for a lack of hash browns and desire to not eat chips)

The beans are of the 57th variety, and the eggs sadly are liable to have been battery-farmed due to Lord Tesco’s ambivalence towards ethics. Taste, however, was not compromised, with the burst yolk of the fried egg wonderfully complimenting the fluffy potatoes and the bacon adding a delicate touch of saltiness to proceedings.

The day is a beautiful one, and in reality it is far too late to be eating breakfast (unemployment can be a wonderful thing), but my arteries needed clogging and turning down the opportunity to start the day right would be the 8th deadliest sin, had Our Lord had the foresight to see His religion spread to these shores.

Lurvensteen accompanies me on this culinary delight as we stuff our fat (and bony) faces with glorious nosh.

“I’m seeing Weezer tonight. I hope he doesn’t play anything post-2001 except Pork and Beans.”

Bacon and beans would be more fitting.