Burgers vs. hotdogs? People, that’s a debate I’m never going to have to worry about. You see whilst pitching candidates in adversarial meat politics may interest some people all I care about is where I can bury my snout in the best of what ever it is that this pig is hankering after. In this case, some time in late September the sun was beating down and Mr. W. J. P. wanted an honest decent dog.
I rarely take recommendations from my legal guardians. A lifetime of gin abuse and a reckless dedication to food on the upper end of the scoville scale has left their palettes as refined as sledgehammers. When two grown people return from a hungover brunch with saliva trails down to their waist recounting tales of ham hock nestling in slow baked beans, rare roast beef with green sauce on toast, and hunks of Wild Caper sough dough bread all washed down with iced coffee and fresh OJ… I must say, my interest was piqued.
If ever there were an instance of breakfast by numbers this would be it. Please, dear reader, don’t presume I’m a morning nibbles elitist… I am not. When it comes to breaking the fast I’m all about the pleasures of the common pig. I need beans, semi-crisp strips of pork, sausages that verge on the underdone. You know what I mean, I love the breakfast risk.
Whilst I appreciate, nay LOVE the danger of the common dirty cafe fry-up I deplore the laziness of the folk that seem to think its acceptable to trot out an average few slices of greasy bacon, a portion of black pudding (that could essentially be burnt sausage) half a tomato and some sort of potato rosti masquerading as a hashbrown. IT’S NOT ON. Its not difficult, the nature of the Full English is in its title.
Lets face it, this was never going to be a plaudit cannon aimed at the popups and darlings of the London restaurant community. This pig belongs with the rank and file.
So, to that end, I felt it necessary to review the common, nay, staple morning treat favoured by hungover commuters from Lands End to John o’Groats… the McDonalds Breakfast.
Street-food‚ its one of those hyphenated words that conjures with it all those implications of observer food-monthly purgatory that make you want to slowly die inside. Thank the pig that Pitt Cue Co. are redefining street food, essentially by making it epically more ‘porky’ than any other vendor on the Southbank.
Soon to be regular reader, A. A. Gill I am not.
As a three inch tall plush toy, born out of the marriage of chinese ingenuity and an illustrious children’s author I’m now raised by two would-be advertising creatives. Until recently - as a result of my guardians wayward behaviour - one would presume my faculty for culinary appreciation barely extended beyond deciding between brands of breaded fish and oven chips. Fear not though fair reader
WJP here, entrepreneur, gastronaught, all round nice swine. Join me on my epicurean journey round the restaurants, bars and pubs of London.
