The food’s better, the price is better and the company is better. You know where you are at a proper caff
E
arly some mornings, when I’m working in London, I go for breakfast with two good friends. So that’s me, a fabric dealer and a psychotherapist. Obviously this sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it’s one for which, at the time of writing, I have no punchline. Soho’s our hunting ground, the hunt in question being for somewhere to have breakfast at 7am. There’s not much open at that time. I mean, it’s not asking for much, is it? Somewhere to sit and eat at what is hardly a punishingly early hour.
Being gentlemen of a certain age, we also require access to a toilet, which narrows our options still further. What this leaves us with is the grand total of four establishments. Three are fancy restaurants; one isn’t.
It’s the “isn’t” which is my preferred choice. What it is, is a cafe – or caff if you must, or greasy spoon if you really must. Obviously it’s the cheapest option, the others being so epically expensive that for the rest of the working day you feel – in golfing parlance – like you’re playing three off the tee. Also, the food’s better. The eggs Benedict here knock into a cocked hat the eggs Benedicts served up on silver platters in the posh places. Also, by the way, the tea comes in mugs. Yes, mugs. A pox on teacups, teapots, tea leaves, tea strainers and all that faff.
