I arrived late, apologetically so, but having been waved with dispassion to the corner group of be-Christmas-jumpered rowdy cats in the back, next to the rows upon rows of other brunching groups in santa hats and others with crackers on the table, you'd a thunk I'd stood up my server not missed the first round of Bloody Marys (they went down well as they were in fact rather good- my choice every time over a 'hard shake').
My group, of caterwauling cats at the back, were only in festive spirits, not misbehaved. Of course, it was only me who brought to the table complications. Other wise what would I write about? I know I can be a testing diner for any server, however my poor pencil moustachioed man-server was merely run off his feet not mercurially presenting a lack of personality. For this he had plenty.
So for brunch as usual, all I wanted was breakfast with a poached egg as soft as my Christmas temperament after watching 'Miracle on 34th St'.
As the first eggs were laid on plates around the table, I noticed what seemed to play in slow-mo, the tension of the knives around the table plunge into powdery hard edged yolks and soldiers which were submitted to the reverb boing into an overdone egg, I panicked. Being the last to order I sprang out of my tables festive formation and alerted my sassy disinterested server of my need for a very runny egg.
My poached order on fried rye and tomatoes arrived and was continuing to coddle in an iron pan, so it was with great urgency that I needed to get started. It came not quite hard boiled, thank god. Yet it wasn't soft nor cascading with runny yellowness. My h'angry party weren't as bothered about a soft egg as I am, but please breakfast chefs, get those eggy bad boys out of the hot water as soon as you say 1 Mississippi!! By the time it's sat under the serving hatch there'll be less chance for eggy disappointment.
It was dangerously hardening by the second. But I needed Mustard. English Mustard.
I requested Coleman's of course, Maille I'd have happily gone with, but the server replied "There's Mustard on the table", but I wanted English not vinegary weak American, ironically French's.
The Diner brand's discourse was that, "Hey This is Shoreditch, someone wants Soy Milk, the next person wants Almond, one guy wants Stevia, the next Agave, which we do have, would you like that"... "Oh we've run out" was the recoil, "So where, does it end". I would have preferred being creatively lied to, simply "we've run out" would've been better, but the reasons for no English mustard were weak when paying nearly £20 for the novelty of a shabby New York diner style breakfast, for that much I want you to crown me with condiments. I've been to better burger vans on the coast with a better selection of sauces than here.
I'm not a Christmas Killjoy, only I just don't get how the theme of a New York diner is so popularly impressive. To me, the epitome of a New York diner is being served by some sour-faced Betty near or over retirement, with well kept nails, hair complete with a hairnet and doily, serving up greasy food; stack em up pancakes, over easy eggs and terrible drip coffee, (The Diner's coffee was actually acceptable and with the US tradition of free refills being available, I'm surprised we weren't all rocking in our seats with how much caffeine we had coursing round the table), but why on earth would you want to recreate the model of a drab American diner experience, I don't understand. Bloody Shoreditch!
To make it more of a novelty, kitsch uniforms at The Diner would be cool. (Like the City Cafe in Edinburgh) It is a little embarrassing being less chic than the server, I was wearing a Christmas Jumper though. read more