Can't make an omelette without...

Several months ago, I was sitting in the downstairs dining room of Eggbreak restaurant in Notting Hill. I had dropped in to have lunch, sit, and do some writing, and take advantage of an impressive and predominantly egg-based menu. The atmosphere was lovely, the serving staff charming, and the food amazing; I would recommend it without hesitation.

I would be lying, however, if I were to claim that I wasn't initially drawn to the place because of Lin-Manuel Miranda's Twitter recommendation, based on his period of living in the area during the filming of Mary Poppins Returns, but having found it, I felt very welcome there. Being the Hamilton nerd I am, I'm not going to claim I wasn't also a little excited to have been seated at the table Mr Miranda had occupied.

As I sat finishing an after-lunch coffee and half a cake (the accommodating waitress having agreed to split it with me), I soon found myself distracted by the behaviour of an American diner who arrived, her personality seeming to occupy substantially more space than her slight frame would have suggested. Eventually, albeit with some unnecessary palaver, she sat at a table a couple of places to my right and surveyed the menu. Elegant and self-assured, she ordered, as I would go on to become well aware, something with poached eggs. For some reason, however, even the ordering process appeared to be more of a production than I would have expected and, a little later, her food arrived and was placed before her.

After a moment, she sampled her lunch and recoiled physically, with a loud and dramatic, 'Eugh!' and pushed the apparently offending plate away from her, with enough of a flourish to make sure everybody else in the restaurant was aware of what was happening.

It was at this point I realised, if I had not already suspected it, that the floorshow was about to begin.

The American lady called across the waitress and complained that her poached egg was cold. That, it turned out, was not the only problem.

'I always come in here,' she went on, 'and I always order the poached egg, and it's always cold.'

The waitress was apologetic, although quite understandably confused. She attempted to explain the process whereby poached eggs were produced, but the American lady was in no mood to listen.

'I know how you do it,' she said, loudly and firmly. 'They make them at the beginning of the shift and then put them in iced water for later. I know what they do.'

After some haggling, she ordered and, subsequently, consumed an alternative item from the menu, before leaving, apparently satisfied, but still pontificating about the poaching method of eggs. I was, at the same time, fascinated by her thought processes, and impressed by the politeness and professionalism of the waitress who was dealing with her. After she had gone, and the waitress came to clear her table, I felt I could stay silent no longer. As the waitress passed me, I asked the question that had been bothering me for some time.

'If she always orders it, and it's always cold,' I said, 'why doesn't she order something else?'

La prima colazione

“Porridge!” exclaimed the waitress, looking from the man who had ordered it, across the table to his companion, open mouthed. She looked as if this was the strangest breakfast order she had ever encountered, and wanted the man and the man’s friend to share in her sense of startled yet excited bewilderment.

“Porridge!” she repeated. “Excellent.” and she scuttled off, doubtless to relay the strange events of that morning to her colleagues behind the bar.

It is a little difficult, when sitting in a restaurant at breakfast time, but only requiring a coffee, to avoid the overeager solicitations of the waiting staff. An entirely accidental moment of eye contact with one of them, and you run the risk of being approached – yet again – for your non-existent order.

At the bar, a genuinely Italian-looking lady in the uniform of a chef (rather than that of a waiter or waitress) stands by the Gaggia coffee machine, both hands over her mouth, as if witnessing some appalling tragedy. Perhaps, I wonder, she has just remembered having done, or failed to do, something of staggering significance in the kitchen. Whatever it is, it seems to justify my decision not to engage with the frequently-proposed breakfast eating.

A Scottish gentleman to my left, as he decries the banking industry, gesticulates wildly towards his partner in what I decide is a profoundly Italian manner. I start to wonder if maybe I’m reading too much Italianness into the goings on in this quasi-Italian restaurant, this morning, or perhaps there’s a general Italianate atmosphere that is creeping inexorably into the staff and clientele.

Another waiter arrives beside my table to enquire what I would like to order for breakfast. I seem to detect an air of disappointment when I decline the kind offer and ask for my bill.