I have three images of breakfast in London in my head and one of them is horrific. It entails queueing up behind twenty nylon ‘business’ suits and waiting for another twenty minutes at a completely soulless, 'business' hotel while officious looking Eastern Europeans in low heels shuttle us in for our pre-paid morning meal.

I have images of asking five different people for my tea five times. As I wait, I know the scrambled egg will be dry and congealed into bright orange on top whether the line is quick or not.

I know the blood pudding will make me want to self-harm. I know that the solitary German men and bunches of Japanese (does that nation not do solitary travel at all?) will be surrounding me, loudly masticating and blackberrying.

It's enough to not only make me want to get out of the queue, or never get out of bed, but to contemplate jumping off the highest hotel room window.  Ah: I can't do that either – the damn thing doesn't even open.  You can't say they're not prepared.

If you want to have a decent breakfast... All right - strike that. If you want to have a  stupendous breakfast in London, there is only one way to do it.  Eschew the  horror at the hotel. Don't pay for the 'inclusive' breakfast. For the same price  or less - which means you can stay at a B&B - go to one of two places: Baker and Spice or Roast.

Baker and Spice have four branches: one in Chelsea, another in Belgravia, one in  Maida Vale and another slightly soulless one (which defies the point really, considering the others are so lovely and warm) in  the Selfridges Food Hall.  I love the Chelsea one and have managed to combine it  with a stay at a B&B practically opposite where the owner was so deranged I had  her taken off the Alistair Sawday list of Special Places to Stay.

Baker and Spice bake beautifully. Their croissants, cakes and muffins are the kind of thing to make a low-carb foodbook author forget her roots and her water-retentive tummy. They are just absolutely scrumptious. The last time I was there, I bought TW a bunch of 'pasti' (as we once used to do from Cordina when we went to Valletta) but in the hassle of fighting with the bitch from hell B&B woman, I forgot them in her living room.

They make a superbly organic, free-range, close-sourced English breakfast. The bacon was sublime, not salty, streaked with fat so sweet I had to lick my lips and my fingers. The yolks were bright orange for all the right reasons (also called 'duck' rather than 'hen'). The range of breads stretches from granary and sunflower to pain de mie.

The quiches make you want to return for brunch, and all through the day, they serve deli items. I so adore that place I went, I ate, I even bought the t-shirt. Literally.

 

Another favourite of mine is Roast. Roast is a hell of a long way off from the centre, in the City of London, but it is also on top of the Borough Market.  My plan was to go, have breakfast, do a bit of food shopping, then fly back.    I called them on the way, from the taxi. After all, I reasoned, it's a Saturday and most bankers have lost their jobs anyway.

But no, Roast was packed. I pleaded and threatened and squeaked and they finally conceded to a table for half an hour. Roast is like nothing you would expect accompanying a farmer's market: it is chic and slick and its waiters and waitresses are beautiful without looking like models who never eat.

From my table for one on the first floor, I could see the hubbub of the market. The kipper was sublime - fresh and savoury and soft in texture. The bread was granary, the butter French and creamy. The tea was some exotic white infusion and I pined for English Breakfast, to which I'm hooked, but enjoyed it anyway, as I should have seeing that it cost me more than a half bottle of champagne.

I had beautiful sausages, the contents of the casing balanced beautifully between fat and meat.    On my way out, ten people were standing at the reception desk trying to plead their way in, but there was simply nowhere else to put them. I smiled beatifically at them, rushed down to the market and through the stalls buying fresh Scottish lamb, merghez sausages and honey bacon, almost missed my flight, then spent almost four hours savouring the aftertaste and eating a croissant I’d bought to take away, smeared in the butter.

For once, I had every excuse not to touch my Air Malta breakfast.

 

www.bakerandspice.uk.com

www.roast-restaurant.com

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