A literary celebration of the Full English
You wouldn’t expect to find much literature on breakfasts
but there are one or two extracts from ‘King of the City’, the book that
told us what happened to the Oak.
“Whereas I was inclined to indulge myself with a Full
English occasionally, Fromental
could eat a Full International”
“It was, of course, mostly a poultry and game bird
restaurant, but it also did, at that time of the morning, the best Full English
I’d had in a million years. Eggs
straight from the chicken. Bacon
sliced from the pig. Black pudding
that wasn’t dead yet. All singing
in its own delicious grease. Even
the fried bread had a slightly feral quality, as if it could slip away from you
at any second. Portobello mushrooms
that seemed to have been torn from the secret vaults below us.
Tomatoes that seconds before could have been bouncing on the vine.
The toast was Polish rye with Jamaican Walkers
Wood cane sugar marmalade. First
Press Assam in the pot. What is it
about some markets that they demand such high quality grub? Others seem to sell nothing but weak tea, Wonderbread
sandwiches. Microwaved back