Joyce M.
Yelp
Before I agree to meet you for a lunch date, please note I suffer from a crippling Fear of Missing Out. The problem is I never want what's on a menu, I want everything on it, but not exactly. It might involve mixing and matching, starters to mains, or having a side as start, or even, just having the cheese. In advance I appologise.
I do respect the craft and the curation of a skilled chef and if you want me to experience your totalitarian menu where nothing can be adjusted, then don't expect me to adjust my ratings when I think that I'd turn up the flavours, some.
You may think, to help me decide it may be useful to perhaps send me the menu before our lunch date, or got forbid make me pre-order. Never make me pre-order.
Send me a menu and ask me to preorder my food for your life event and yes, I'll RSVP, come to your party but I may like you less whilst I chomp down on a Suffolk ham terrine with loganberry compote, which I've been anticipating the taste of for the last 63 days.
So what can a contrary difficult to please person like me have for brunch at a Bakery and what can I have here?
Eggs any way I want them? Sometimes yes, but today, I don't know.
Pancakes with an array of teeth shattering sugary toppings? Organic Golden Syrups? Agave, even, fresh exotic fruits like the curiously tasteless dragon fruit, perhaps chocolate ganache with bouncing blueberries? Probably not today.
What about Muesli or a glorious homemade granolas? Nope. Definitely not, if I can pour it out of a box at home, or I've woken up in a bed that is within slipper wearing distance and this cereal is part of a buffet and breakfast is a tsk inducing experience as I see people stuffing pain au chocolates into their backpacks, no.
Pain au chocolates? Enough.
Let the inner rumbles of my hunger haunt me, let my indecision scrape at my empty stomach.
In a particularly indecisive mood during a brunch date; my date tucked into eggs florentine, a girl nearby comparing swathes of fabrics and tweeting their thread counts, pushed a grape around a plate and let a perfectly good cappuccino go flat until the chocolate had turned into a hard disk on the cooled milk. A gentleman nearby loudly cracked a financial times blowing crumbs of a perfectly crisp Almond Croissant from his plate all over his waistcoat, where I'm sure no doubt, flecks of sweet pastry would be found in his pocket watch pocket weeks later.
This place is a local haunt "where everybody knows your... ", preference of non-dairy milk.
After noticing a varie-Tea of Suki Teas that could be blended with ice and mixed like a cocktail, I was sold on the concoction of Apple Loves Mint which cooled my clammy neck as I felt flustered and hot with any calamitous decision I was about to make about food and had absolutely, no more time to stall on my order.
After our waitress had given me more than a moment, a few minutes more and even allowed me a final check at the desk just to make sure I wasn't making the wrong choice, I spotted the average person's midweek elevenses favourite.
Octopus.
A large plate of, sliced, firm but tender tentacles trimmed into medallions. Light and lemony dressed in an impossibly sweet nutty olive oil and finely chopped parsley to garnish.
Yes!!!
Served with a side of perfectly al dente fine, fine green balsamic beans. I had met my Waterloo in Kensington.
I still took a bite out of my dates, almond croissant. What? It was just to make sure! He offered!
I'd give them 5 stars but with porridge at £6, I'd be there all day making up my mind on what to put on it to justify that (and no amount of Dragon Fruit/ Ham/ Tahini compote would do that!)