16th November, 2007
Some mornings are built for the Wolseley. I am self employed as an artist manager, and right now, while both of my acts are writing albums, I am in a period of downtime. Often it’s depressing as hell, feeling a little bit useless and a little bit like I should be doing more with my time, but other times, well, it’s brilliant. I have whole mornings, days sometimes, with nothing to do, and with a Blackberry by my side I don’t even need to worry that I might be missing something. Score.
The night before began with Sony BMG’s Artist Manager Drinks and finished up with my coat being stolen at the Student Radio Awards. Despite slight upset over the coat, it was all remarkably enjoyable, and arising at 9am didn’t seem nearly as painful as it should’ve. I decided to get up and go into town, and still wearing my smart jacket of the night before meant I felt quite smart. Pretty on it. Kinda hip. Fairly chipper. All of those whistle-while-you-walk adjectives, you know.
Bond Street was empty as I wandered to Selfridges in an attempt to find a winter hat. That mission failed, but feeling cheerful, I thought to myself, what shall I do? Where shall I go? I definitely need some breakfast. The Wolseley it is then.
The Wolseley is basically my favourite. My friend Gareth and I first came here looking for an upgrade from our regular morning-coffee haunt, Fopp on Tottenham Court Road (RIP). I seem to remember ordering pancakes with bacon the first time, and both Gareth and I have been hooked ever since. Together, we’ve been for birthdays (his and mine, both group gatherings) and for meetings. Separately, we’ve been for more meetings, GoodBooks’ album release day, and breakfast at 7am charting the end of a very long night. I would reckon that my visits to the Wolseley have probably charted the latter half of 2007.
Today I am prepared for a breakfast alone – my first try of the full English, perhaps – until my girlfriend rings and asks what I’m up to, am I still in town, and I say yes, yes, come to the Wolseley, we’ll have breakfast. A walk down New Bond Street leaves me feeling like maybe one day I’ll be this rich, but until then I’m young and well dressed and a little bit hungover, so to hell with the rest of it. I get a table for two within minutes, and as soon as I sit down all of the hangover and the tiredness hits me. Tea and orange juice are both required, and my request for both is accommodated quickly. Thank goodness for that. The orange juice is a rip off, but I already knew that, and I just don’t mind this morning. I’m simultaneously broken and on top of the world.
I’m joined at 11.29am, and the breakfast menu finishes at 11.30am. We are told that it has finished, but our looks of despair – “Really? But! It’s 11.29! What if we order really quickly?!” – pass muster and we’re told that yes, we can indeed order really quickly, and still get away with fried eggs and bacon. I go for full English, plus toast, minus mushrooms (never will there be room for mushrooms on my plate) and black pudding. It’s 13 quid. She goes for brioche, scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. That’s 11. I’m not even bothering to count until the bill arrives.
Both arrive. I’ve got one sausage, about seventeen pieces of bacon, two fried eggs, three fried tomatoes, a small portion of beans, and about five pieces of brown toast. The eggs are just right for dipping the toast in the yolk. The sausage is pretty perfect, actually, and I wish there were two – it’s fat and meaty and substantial, and with a dollop of ketchup I can feel my mood rising. But I’m still not sure about the Wolseley’s bacon. I never have been. It’s streaky and crisp, and I think I prefer back bacon slightly more tender. But you can’t win ’em all, and on toast it does the trick – especially toast soggy from the baked bean juice. You just can’t go wrong with soggy beany toast. It’s an English classic.
I’m not fussed about the fried tomatoes, but she is – I pass them over. Then I drop one of them in my cup of tea. It was cold anyway, and the sight of a tomato in a cup of tea is pretty funny. It’s moments like this at the Wolseley which make me enjoy it so much – feeling about 8 cuts below the social status of the usual clientele (overheard on the table next door: “You know, I run billion pound companies…”), and no one bats an eyelid. It feels like infiltrating the upper classes, and being allowed to do so.
The bill hits £40, but I’m still not sure I care. That was a brilliant breakfast. Not entirely for the food – Chamomile remains the best fry up I’ve had – but the company, the surroundings, the service, the atmosphere and that totally awesome sausage all make it well worth it. And anyway, it’s pretty much two meals for the price of one – I don’t need to eat again till dinner time. I’m happy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge that a bit of my heart will always be devoted to it.
Eating London 