Regency Café
REMARKABLE THOUGH IT SEEMS, the backstreets of Westminster are the most unadulterated in Central London. Only a stone’s throw from the Abbey and Houses of Parliament, yet blissfully uncluttered by tourists and non-doms, they retain a flavour that evaporated long ago in Knightsbridge and Mayfair. To wander at leisure is to find oneself weaving in and out of pockets of wealth and poverty, age and modernity, that coexist in a state of relative, if no doubt grudging, harmony. If it’s authenticity you’re after, you can’t do better than breakfast at the Regency Café. Let me be clear: one doesn’t come here for the glamour.
Looks-wise, it’s strictly retro: floor-to-ceiling tilework, wipe-clean melamine, and plastic chairs bolted to the kidney-coloured linoleum floor. The fry-ups are the thing. They are, I’m pleased to report, unsurpassable. There’s no table service. Having queued with the neighbourhood brickies and electricians, one places one’s order at the counter. When it’s ready, one is called to collect by a lady whose voice could carry across three counties. The newcomer may be braced for an unappetising puddle of grease. Instead, he’s rewarded with a sturdy white plate of eggs, bacon and sausage cooked to a level of perfection ritzier gaffs couldn’t hope to emulate. Mushrooms, beans, fried bread and hash browns can be added for a matter of pence.
See also: M. Manze, Mustard, Paul Rothe & Son
