From the archive
We love going out for breakfast. We love the hungry hours of anticipation before we decide on a venue. We love the splendid taste of expertly cooked, herb-filled sausages, the aromatic texture of crispy bacon, the burst of yellow yolk as a knife breaks the surface tension. We love piping hot beans, buttered toast and squidgy grilled tomatoes. We love to wash it all down with a reassuring cup of tea as – deliriously hungover – we babble about the dodgy antics of the night before.
But we hate bad breakfasts. We hate nudging limp forks at greasy microwaved sausages, miserable pink bacon and the clear and runny white of an unloved fried egg. We hate beans that are room temperature and bread that’s only toasted on one side. We despise cold hard tomatoes. Hate it when we order tap water and it never comes and we don’t know what to say to each other and we have a relationship crisis and suddenly everything seems too cramped and stuffy and the night before embarrassing.
The “full English” refers not to our technological, cultural or military achievements. No: we live in a country where the ‘full us’ proudly refers to the first meal of the day. And yet here, in that country’s capital, there seem to be (far) more bad breakfast opportunities than good ones: Cafe Euro Med in Kentish Town, the Bishop in East Dulwich and Mac Bar in Camden, to name but a few recent crying failures.
And so we bring you a new champion: the London Review of Breakfasts. Because we’ve had enoeuf.
Malcolm Eggs, Site Editor