The Brunch Before Lunch.

On face value, the plan was perfect.  The European’s bike urgently needed servicing, and the ever-amazing Condor Cycles asked us to bring it over on Saturday morning at ten.  I figured that we could both use this opportunity to ride into London, drop the bike, and I would book us a table at Big Mamma’s new restaurant, Carlotta, in Marylebone.

The plan fell apart swiftly.  Firstly, cycling wouldn’t work because a) I wouldn’t have anywhere to leave my bike (I certainly would not be chaining it up anywhere outside) and I refuse to push it around with me all day and b) we would need to either dress up for cycling or dress down for cycling.  We chose the former.  The European rides a Brompton, so it was no issue to take in with us on the train.  We dropped it to Condor on time, job done.

Amongst all this middle-aged excitement, we had skipped breakfast.  The plan continued to unravel as we came to the realisation that by the time we’d left Condor, we were ravenous, but were too close to lunch to eat anything substantial.  By this time, we’d been walking north into King’s Cross, and began eyeballing food trucks.  “No no, we’re eating at one”, I told The European as she rubbernecked outside a pho van that was setting up in Coal Drops Yard.  “We just need a pastry or something”.

For some reason, despite us being literally surrounded by cafés and bakeries – some of which are more than noteworthy – in this moment of need we could find none.  We found Dishoom though, and even contemplated going in there for breakfast, umming and ahhing over the queue.  We decided to go for it, but a family of six joined it before us, and so we rapidly came to our senses and moved on.

The European segued and declared that because the grey clouds above us were parting (literal grey clouds, not metaphorical ones), she wanted a beer now.  I remembered The Lighterman, a gastropub on Granary Square where I met an ex-colleague for drinks recently. We headed there, expecting little from their brunch menu but really hoping that it included a pastry or some dressed yoghurt, things like that.  The pub has a monolithic presence on this vast empty-looking plaza, its canal-side location and cavernous interior split across two levels screaming ‘tourist trap’ rather than ‘hottest brunch table in London’.  Nevertheless, it serves up a decent selection of beers, which was the assignment handed to me.  The European spied the first-floor terrace, bathed in sun.  It was weirdly empty, and we asked the host if we could sit up there.  “It’s closed”, she solemnly declared.  “Hang- on”.  She made a call to someone.  “It’s fine, go on up”.

With the clock passing eleven, we bagged a lovely table in the corner of the terrace that caught every ray of sunlight that escaped through the clouds in a rapidly re-overcasting sky.  Our beers were fabulous.  I ordered a Crate Brewery I.P.A. for myself and a Purity Session I.P.A. for her.  The European declared Crate’s straw coloured, hazy offering to be the best beer in the history of beers and took it for herself.  Not that I cared too much; Purity’s S.I.P.A. was a light and lovely drink to have on the indecent side of noon.

The Lighterman’s concise menu offered little in the way of light bites.  The menu consisted of five brunch dishes and another five mains that weren’t yet available (their main kitchen opened at noon).  Still conscious of over-eating, but with willpower waning, we opted to share an amazing-sounding fried chicken Benedict and a side of corn ribs with spiced honey.  We were told that the corn was only available at noon so, despite The European insisting that the Benedict would be find and me kind of thinking the same but eyeing up a tasty looking flatbread with Suffolk chorizo, fennel, and smoked mozzarella, we – I – capitulated and ordered both.

The food swiftly arrived, and it was clear immediately that, given Carlotta’s imminence, we had over-ordered.  But what a way to do so!  The fried chicken Benedict was incredible.  Perfectly crispy and spiced fried chicken, and a plump, well executed poached egg, atop a muffin and slathered in sriracha mayonnaise.  It was a dirty, perfect, and unusual piece of bunch perfection and we mopped the plate clean.  The chorizo flatbread was excellent.  The waitress had reassured us it wouldn’t be too much: “The flat bread is really flat, so you won’t get full”, but it was still sizable, enticing us to clear the board it was served on with its piquant balance of rich chorizo and delightful flavour pops of fennel and chilli, all bound together by just the right amount of smoked mozzarella.  The European was struggling, so I did myself her a favour and ate more than my fair share.  By the time we finished everything, I felt just as full as she was.

We decided to settle up and get on the road, hoping that a ninety-minute walk up and around Regent’s Canal to Marylebone would get us ready for our eagerly anticipated lunch.  The plan continued to go south.  After talking shop, we left The Lighterman late, our table in the sun being such a lovely place to be.  We shambled out of the sunbeam and left the now heaving terrace.  With no time to detour along the canal, we rushed westwards along Euston Road, weirdly feeling that our upcoming lunch, courtesy of the one of the best restaurant groups in London, risked being beaten by a pair of eggs on muffins and flatbread that was surplus to requirements.

Visited on 19^th August 2023.

Two beers and two brunch dishes came to £forty.