Noms and the City: Balfour - a damn fine brunch

It seems to me, my best beloved, that the mark of a civilised society is brunch. I cannot understand breakfast – it’s too early in the morning, and I’m not hungry, no matter what I have got up to the night before. No. It takes me a good couple of hours to want to eat, and when I do, I would infinitely prefer to partake of something savoury and nomsome that can get me through until afternoon tea, possibly via some sort of luncheon on the way.

I am supremely fortunate in my life that I am surrounded by like-minded folk, and so when I took my last-but-one jaunt down to the capitol and was met off the train by my beloved nephew, Julian, it seemed only right and proper that we wander the streets round Euston until we found a suitable venue for brunch.

It took a small while. We were distracted by the Black Books bookshop, and briefly considered a little café I had eaten at before until we discounted it for being too crowded. We stumbled on, lost in a haze of enjoyment at each other’s company and the promise of the weekend ahead, until we found Balfour on Marchmont Street.

This really was a find. We made the most of the glorious summer weather and sat outside, me with my calming cup of herbal tea, my nephew with a latte, and watched the citizens and denizens of Bloomsbury wander past as we waited for our meals to arrive.

We had, perhaps, played it safe and gone for those staples of the brunch menu Eggs Benedict and Eggs Florentine. Eggs are an integral part of brunch for me, and spinach makes it all healthy, thus achieving that balance between decadence and well-being that is at the heart of my life path.

When the plates were brought to us by one of the charming and attentive staff it was clear that this particular meal would be weighted towards decadence.

Much as I was looking forward to my choice, the sight of so much perfect bacon (it may have been described as pancetta. It wasn’t. It was bacon) on darling Julian’s plate naturally drew the eye. Seriously, when a restaurant puts that amount of time into sourcing an ingredient, cooking it to perfection and laying it out in such an enticing way it would be positively rude not to gaze in awe. Julian is an indulgent nephew, who tolerates all my whims, and he generously shared some of the bacon so I can confirm that it tasted every bit as good as it looked – thick slices, crispy at the edges and with that perfect sweetness that bacon only has when you are on good terms with your butcher.

It should be noted that the Eggs Florentine were equally as good, if not better, though they lacked the visual appeal of the Eggs Benedict.

Two poached eggs, yolks perfectly soft, nestled in a bed of barely wilted spinach that was redolent of garlic, supported on slices of fried bread and blanketed in the nicest hollandaise I have ever had the good fortune to eat.

It is the spinach that sticks in my mind though. When you serve it barely wilted as it was, there is nowhere to hide. The spinach has to be fresh and young, yet not too young (as is my maxim of most things); you have to cook it gently so that there is no bitter charring to mar the freshness of the flavour; you have to be judicious with the seasoning; most importantly you have to have the courage to take it off the heat while it still resembles leaves. The timing between this stage and the stage when it becomes a vibrant green mush is infinitesimal and of paramount importance. They had got it completely right. And the garlic? Pungent enough to make the whole dish savoury and interesting, yet not so overwhelming that eating it at 10am would be off-putting either to you or the object of your affections.

Mr Carrot: I would also like to add that the bread was not only of a fine quality but had, if I recall correctly, been lightly fried in good quality olive oil as a deliciously decadent touch.

When a restaurant puts this much care and attention into their brunches it promises very good things for the rest of their menu, and a glance at that showed it was wide ranging and reasonably priced. I would definitely return here – the real problem was persuading ourselves to leave so we could embark upon a day of cultural exploration and scientific discovery.

I would make one extra point. The waiting staff were excellent. Two young girls on the table behind us had some problems with lager-swilling louts who decided that any girls dining alone were fair game. The way this was handled was deft and responsive, and I was impressed with it.

Balfour Italian Restaurant

75-77 Marchmont Street, Bloomsbury, London WC1N 1AP


020 7713 6111

http://www.balfourrestaurant.co.uk