Spaghetti bolognese and chips, please...
If you want to see the best of the working man, regardless of race, creed or colour, pop into one of their traditional eateries. I’ve frequented the English variety all my life and I’ve never seen a waitress abused in any way shape or form. I can’t say the same for posh restaurants where male patrons seem to think verbal abuse of the waitress is inclusive. It’s a given these days that masculinity is ‘toxic’. I’m not so sure. Could it be that the dearth of masculinity, is what’s causing the problem? Though this is probably best left to those brainier than me and, let’s face it, there will be no shortage of those.
These guys, the ones who say please and thank you to those serving them, are the same cats who, on being called up to fight for their countries, go without question—or at least—did. I suspect that in England, that well has run dry but my view may be jaundiced through living in London… A few months ago there was talk of a war with Russia. If the Russians bombed this city, they’d be doing the place a fucking favour and, I swear to God, if I had anywhere to go and the money to get there, I’d have gone. Unfortunately, I don’t. It’s my fault, I should have worked harder. Or at least…worked.
Mick, you’re veering off track again…
These guys don’t rise at the crack of dawn, eager to get out and freeze their bollocks off. They do it because they have to. Much like the waitress serving them. Look, I’m not in the habit of lionising the English Working Class, apart from all else, most find Fools and Horses hilarious. However, when I was down, it was they who pulled me up.
Years back, many used to distinguish areas of London by the pubs. A possibly more productive group did the same, with cafés. Guys who got around, especially sandpit dwellers. These being members of the building fraternity, on being told of a potential job, would instantly recall if there were any decent cafés in the vicinity and, if none sprung to mind, the chances of the job being undertaken would diminish - rapidly.
These men started work at seven am and finished around four pm. This meant that not only were they reliant on the café for breakfast but lunch too. Hence, a decent place to eat was vital. What constituted a good café was of course, a matter of taste (see what I did?) but I can tell you this much (for free), I’m not even entering one of those with generic menus, the ones with photos of the food and the price scribbled beside or underneath. Why? Because ninety-nine times out of a hundred, it’ll be shit.
The dream find is an establishment owned and run by Mediterraneans, but good luck with that. Years ago, the majority of good cafés in London were owned by Italians. Though many may have been Greek Cypriot, Spanish or Portuguese for all I know. Or care. Their relationship to the food they served was excellent. My wife’s late father, who was a Quantity Surveyor, spent much of his time dealing with sandpit dwellers and eating in cafés, felt that crusty bread, sliced before your eyes, was a good sign. For my part, as a teenager, I was quite content with a couple of slices of Wonderloaf.
My wife’s brother, a lifelong sandpit dweller, sat in a crowded café one morning a few years ago and, having devoured a “Full English”, was contentedly sipping his tea while scanning the back pages for Arsenal news. His tranquillity was disturbed by the entry of a well-known ‘character’. By lowering his eyes and raising his tabloid, my brother-in-law managed to remain undetected. What he witnessed shocked me to my core and, if you’re for want of a better term, blue-collar guy, it’ll shock you too. What follows is a form of extremely shocking low-life behaviour, you’ve hopefully never encountered.
The café’s crowded and on eventually reaching the front of the queue, this guy orders and pays for “Tea and two toast”. This raises my brother-in-law’s suspicions as the cat in question, can put it away like there’s no tomorrow. My brother-in-law, watches this guy carry his tea to a small table that’s reserved for staff but who cares about them getting a sit-down? Anyway, a couple of minutes later, a waitress emerges holding a plate and calling out “Double egg, bacon, sausage, chips and beans.” Our guy raises his hand and proceeds to sit there, tucking into another man’s fucking breakfast…
On regaling this to me, my wife found my bewilderment hilarious. Stealing a man’s breakfast and sitting there eating it, goes beyond shameless- into sociopathic. The odds of getting caught are fifty-fifty and, if you are caught, the odds of getting ironed out are considerably higher… I mean, roofers eat in these establishments. Worse yet ‘Felters’. Oh, and just to clarify, this isn’t the act of a desperate, hungry down-and-out. If this cat were to find himself marooned on a desert island with, access to only drinking water, his fat reserves would keep him alive for what, I don’t know- a year?
Come join me, on this half-arsed Odessey of cafes that had an impact.
Fred’s (Mill Lane, NW6)
Hampstead Comprehensive was trendy. I’d go as far as to say that, barring Holland Park, it was probably the trendiest school in London. How does one measure a school’s ‘trendiness’ then Mick? That’d be by the percentage of middle-class kids who attended and Hampstead’s was high. In essence, it was a school within a school.
This can be exemplified by two eateries on nearby Mill Lane. At the top end, was The Ancient Lights. A little further down, Fred’s… Guess who went where? I’ve no idea what the menu in The Ancient Lights consisted of and while I had a keen interest in middle-class hippie chicks, I had none for brown rice. What with my Mum being a health food freak, I had quite enough of that at home. At least that was when she could face “traipsing” around Sainsbury’s on Kentish Town Rd. Eventually, we devised a system that ensured our food stocks and saved her traipsing. Except during the football season, I’d skip “Games” on Thursday. These shopping trips went on from the Second Year right through to the Fifth and not once did the school complain over my absence.
“Egg and chips and a tea please, Fred,” was our standard order. There could be minor variations such as double egg and chips. Or “a slice” (occasionally two). This was apart from one kid who, at thirteen, was selling shit out of suitcases on Oxford Street and ordering exotic items such as sausages and bacon in Fred’s. It was he who introduced me to the world of Spivery. He was a great kid with a heart of gold. RIP Jameo.
If you wanted sugar in your tea, you’d stipulate to Fred how many and he’d apply the requisite spoonful. This may have been due to the “Sugar Shortage” but I doubt it. That’s just how things rolled in Fred’s café. For the food, ambience, and memories, Fred’s gets a 4-star review. It wasn’t the kind of place you could dawdle. It opened early and it closed - early. Cafés you could hang about in though, certainly existed…
Ron’s (Junction Rd, N.19)
Whenever I was suspended from school– which occurred on a semi-regular basis - I’d pop down to “Ron’s”. There, I was guaranteed to find kids from Acland Burghley hanging around until four pm. They’d be bunking off and the minute that clock struck four, home they went. Hampstead Comprehensive was over five miles from my mum’s, Burghley less than two minutes but Dear Mother had taken against AB – I can’t remember why but as her logic was askew, it wouldn’t have made any sense anyway.
Ron’s was a transport café on Junction Rd, opposite Station Road, at the end of which was a storage depot. It was a small establishment with maybe half a dozen tables. Ron’s had two things in its favour, letting us hang around for hours being the first. At the time, it was always a mystery to me, as to why Ron suffered a load of kids who’d hang around all day long and barely spend a penny between them but retrospectively, I’ve come to understand that having a group of teenagers knocking about probably wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Especially that is, teenage girls. The combination of slightly wayward, very bored, teenage girls amongst long-distance lorry drivers doesn’t seem ideal. Unless you happen to be a noncey long-distance lorry driver…
The second thing was the Pinball machine. It was a good one too, five-ball, and you could nudge it. Regarding the fare, the house speciality was Ron’s “Dog Roll”, a fried sausage in a crusty roll. As far as I can recall, Ron's menu didn’t stretch beyond egg roll, bacon roll and of course, dog roll. As much as I liked the café, given that I’d had scrawled “Eat at Ron’s” on the back of my Parka, I did. I can’t give it a 4-star review. It gets a Two Star. Both- for the pinball machine.
Spaghetti House (Tufnell Park)
Just along Junction Road was/is “The Spaghetti House”. The SH’s an infinitely better establishment and one that still exists. Along with the San Siro, it’s the only one on the list that does. A fact that ought to make my reviews superfluous but I mean, why stop now? It’s not as though anything on here’s covering Geopolitics. The Spaghetti House is on the foot of Dartmouth Park Hill, opposite that den of iniquity known as “The Boston”. Last time I was in the SH, Enzo, had gone semi-upmarket by opening during the evenings and turning it into a restaurant where you could bring booze.
Why not? Might as well utilize every hour god sends. The SP is a more than decent place to eat. It always has a good atmosphere but, despite selling eggs, chips and beans by the truckload, it was never a full-on workers café. The trouble is, it’s not quite anything else either. Over the years, during different phases of life, I’ve spent a lot of time in there and never had a bad meal. Enzo’s Spaghetti House gets 4 stars.
The San Siro (Parliament Hill)
What follows relates to the San Siro years back. I think it went a bit trendy-Wendy as the decades flew by but it used to be two cafés. The one on the left was (generally) more of a snack bar. The one on the right, proper meals. The San Siro featured outside tables seating and during the summer, these would often be taken up by gangs from various vicinities. They’d have come up for The Lido or wander over the Heath.
Most of my time was spent in the snack bar side, eating poached eggs on toast. This was my breakfast whilst employed by Camden Council as a gardener. During the summer we’d meet there, have breakfast, and go to work. During the winter, we’d meet there, have breakfast and go- home…At one stage, after never being able to find us, they made us start signing out. This meant we’d meet in The San Siro in the morning, sign in and go home. We’d then meet there again in the afternoon, sign out… and go home. What a job that was. The San Siro was a decent cafe; Three Stars.
The Bonbon (Carnaby Street)
The biggest influence in my life was a guy I never met as he died thirteen years before I was born. His name was Damon Runyon and he wrote the most fantastic short stories. As a kid, I read Runyon on Broadway along with Runyon First to Last more times than I care to remember. For those unfamiliar with Runyon’s work, I suggest you remedy that – post haste. Many, if not most, of the Broadway stories either begin or at least involve, “Mindy’s” restaurant, which may have been based on “Lindy’s”. Long shot, I know… It was from here our unnamed narrator encountered a litany of Broadway characters. All of whom, were “colourful” with names like “Harry the Horse” and “Little Isadore”.
The Oxford Street spivs had names like “The Brain”, and “Baby Brain”. Sitting in the Bonbon each morning was like living in a Damon Runyon story and, as a fourteen-year-old, I couldn’t believe my luck. The café’s entrance is narrow and somewhat deceptive as one would imagine the premises to be small– au contraire! The Bonbon was deep, the food was good, and the company was excellent. It was the spivs telling their stories that made The Bonbon so magical… Unquestionably - Four stars.
The aptly named Favourite (Kentish Town Rd)
The Favourite differs from the others as there are no memories attached. It’s all about the food. The café was close to Camden Town Tube, near to what used to be Holts. They served three menus. English, Italian and, Irish. The latter consisted of delicacies such as boiled beef, carrots and mash. The reason for the Irish cuisine was due to there being so many Irishmen in Camden Town.
These were proper Paddies who’d buy a suit on Thursday, wear it out that night, go to work in it the following week and repeat the process next payday. Some of these guys were huge. I recall sitting opposite them, hands like shovels, fingers like sausages. Many resided in boarding houses or, the infamous Arlington House on Arlington Rd. They’d walk down to Park Way each morning and wait for the wagons to arrive at Camden Town Station. They’d be whisked off to work, to perform some form of hard labour most humans wouldn’t survive. Those Irishmen were some tough monkeys.
The first thing that let you know The Favourite wasn’t fucking about were the plates; they were huge. The food was clean and man, the portions- massive. Then, things got even better. I can’t recall how long it lasted but they got a chef, he may have been Milanese. He’d worked in the top hotels the world over but there was an issue, may have been boozing but whatever it was, it resulted in him plying his trade in a cafe, in Camden Town. If The Favourite’s food had been good, it shot up to excellent.
The Italian dishes were spectacular, and I’ve never tasted anything as good since… This was the best café I’ve ever known- 5 stars!