Get that bread

Writing a blog (or certainly this blog) is about 45 per cent trying to avoid the most obvious cliches, 45 per cent repeating yourself and ten per cent actually writing original, witty content. I appreciate the latter figure could be seen to be a little generous.

One of my least favourite cliches - and also one I probably repeat the most - is the classic; 'has been on  my radar for a while'. While it is often invariably true - there will always be an, ever-expanding, list of places I want to visit at any given moment - it is also more hackneyed than a taxi rank at kicking out time. Still better than some of my metaphors, though. 

In the case of this post, however, it seems entirely appropriate. In fact not only had it been on my list for a while, it was also one of the only places the Ewing had expressed any interest in going to; mostly after seeing the estimable Max Halley himself appearing on Sunday Brunch, making a fish finger sandwich stuffed with Scampi Fries.

I'm hardly sure I need even say this but, being a Saturday afternoon (and certainly after our cocktail crawl the night before) we were a little worse for wear, although a brisk walk up the Stroud Green Road had helped somewhat. The Ewing plumped for a hair of the dog, although she did show some restraint by picking a Kernel Table Beer at an eminently sensible 3.1 per cent.

I ordered a cuppa - yours for just a quid - and was rewarded with this practically perfect example, hot and strong and in a very appropriate mug. I also ordered a Arnold Palmer, the magnificently named 50/50mix of ice tea and cloudy lemonade that was said to be a favourite of the flamboyant golfer. It's one of my favourites, too, and unexpectedly exciting to see it on a menu this side of the pond.

Tom's Amazing Wings - soy and vinegar chicken wings fried in Smash, guindilla yogurt, lime pickled onions and spring onions - lived up to their name. The potato flake coating was revelatory, as was the addition of pickled chillies with the yogurt. Double onions provided tang and crunch.

Brown paper packages, tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things. Well, a slightly less exciting elastic band, if I'm being pedantic, but still an exciting parcel of squishy carbohydrates and promise.

I chose the Et tu, Brute? Murdering the Caesar', their riff on the classic salad featuring confit guinea fowl, pickled grape and tarragon salsa, baby gem, parsley, garlic croutons and anchovy mayo. 

Let's just take a moment to look at it, a hulking beast comprising of warm, pillowy foccacia, stuffed to the gunwales with all sorts of exciting things that spill out as you unwrap the waxed paper bundle.

This was everything I love between two pillowy slices of excellent bread. Soft sticky strands of guinea fowl, sweet and sour salsa and salty anchovy, all offset with the crunch of bitter leaves. I would go as far to say it rivalled my Mum's Boxing Day turkey sarnie; the highest praise indeed. 

If there was one, minor, quibble was that the tiny croutons made the whole thing pretty rich, a situation that probably wasn't helped by my delicate constitution. I could also have done with a metric tonne more of the glorious mayo, but I'm just greedy.

The Ewing chose their signature sarnie, the Ham, Egg 'n' Chips filled with slow-cooked shredded ham hocks, piccalilli, a fried egg, shoestring fries and malt vinegar mayo. If the anchovy mayo was great, this could have been even better, mixing two of my all-time favourite condiments that gave the creamy spread an extra tangy punch.

As you can see, the Ewing was utterly in her element, giddy on carbs and the fact she had finally made the pilgrimage to try what is, possibly, London's most famous (certainly one of the best) sandwich.  I was glad that we could tick another one off the list, and squeeze in another cliche to boot. 

Breakfast at Browns

I've eaten a fair few fry-ups recently, which is slightly unfortunate as I'm going to California in a couple of weeks and far from being beach body ready, I'm more in danger of being harpooned if I get too close to the shoreline.

Still, where's the fun in porridge? Especially if you're in the City of Dreaming Spires for the weekend and you've got the opportunity to go to Brown's Cafe for a proper breakfast.

Inside is old old school fomica and closely packed wooden tables and chairs, pretty much how it's always been; in fact a recent episode of Endeavour - the pre-Morse Morse, set in the 60s - featured scenes that were shot here and pretty much the only thing they had to change were the menu boards.

Speaking of the menu, of course it had to be the May Day breakfast - named for the annual Oxonian celebrations that start on nearby Magdalen Bridge - twice, once with beans and fried bread for me and once with grilled tomato and toast for the Ewing.

Tea is still made in an urn, with loose tea leaves and is the colour of Frank Butcher when attempted to woo Pat in his rotating bow tie (and little else) and strong enough to stand your spoon up in. Proper stuff.

One handy thing about being an ouef-avoider is there’s always scope for swapsies, in this case half a grilled tomato for my egg, a deal I was more than happy with, although I also got hit up for a spoonful of my beans. The other constituent parts were all present and correct – comfortingly paste-like sausage, two rashers of thick unsmoked back bacon, a scattering of token mushrooms and a couple of discs of black pudding that weren’t quite as crisp as I would have liked, but I like them to be fried until they are black on black.

Toast, slightly irritatingly, comes perched on top of your breakfast, which saves on washing up but makes it much harder to construct a cheeky bacon sarnie on the side. Again, in the spirit of sharing, we went 50/50 on our sliced carbs – half toast and half fried slice.

Reader, I can tell you it was a revelation. Whilst a good fried slice remains a god amongst mere men as part of a breakfast, anyone who has ever eaten a whole slice, or heaven forfend, two, at breakfast time will probably tell you there day all went downhill from there. The first, crisp triangle, anointed with a few sweet beans and a slash of spicy brown sauce, slips down easily enough, but soon it becomes an greasy trudge to the finish line followed by a packet of Rennies for lunch.

If chops, chips and cups of creosote coloured tea aren't your thing, then the Portuguese heritage of the owners mean you can also get a bolo de arroz- a kind of Portuguese muffin made of rice flour and wrapped in a distinctive skirt of lettered paper - or the perennial favourite, the pasteis de nata, or custard tart.

After just half a fried slice even the Ewing couldn't manage one of these crisp and flaky beauties, with their wobbly centres and burnished tops, but they were still fine a couple of days later, accompanied by a pot of strong coffee.

While I'm looking forward to a couple of weeks of In-N-Out burgers, Dodger Dogs, french dip sandwiches and avocado on everything nothing beats a good British fried breakfast; I just hope I can still get in my shorts.