Eggslut, a US deluxe egg sandwich chain that will no doubt be opening somewhere near you soon, cannot be discussed in polite British society without us first tackling that name. Let me say it again: Eggslut. For people who are sluts about eggs. In a world where “you can’t say anything any more”, apparently, Eggslut has spread its legs: New York, Los Angeles, Seoul, Tokyo and now five sites in London, including a large new eggy pleasure palace in Stratford, where they play She’s Lost Control by Joy Division into a stark, industrial, cement-chic setting and the scrambled egg and salmon roll costs £15.
Eggslut, which since 2010 has grown from a humble food truck into a global, albumen-focused fast food conglomerate, does not care what you think about its name, though. It doesn’t care if the name gives you the ick, pushes you into a feminist rage or sounds a lot like non-edgy people trying to be edgy. Over the past decade, I have waited for a company stooge to plead for forgiveness and for the place to rebrand as Eggqueen, but no – and, to be honest, it is this type of unapologetic doubling down in restaurant land that I live for. Without such chutzpah, I’d never get to enjoy Clap, which opened recently in Knightsbridge offering “sensory Japanese dining”, rather than a large dose of antibiotics to bring down the swelling. Or, for that matter, the billion-pound luxury hotel refit OWO, which opened in Whitehall late last year, defiantly ignoring what “OWO” means to any Londoner who has seen those adverts that used to be left in public phone boxes.
While Eggslut doesn’t care about semantics, it does have an interest in the death of the British greasy spoon, which is slowly being strangled by rates and rents. Brands such as Eggslut know that people still need casual breakfast dining options – hash browns, sausage muffins, coddled eggs in little pots with soldiers – and that the likes of the Breakfast Club have long queues every weekend. It also knows that Gen Z doesn’t quite believe that eschewing fancy, £9.95 scrambled eggs, which Eggslut serves on a glossy roll with cheese, sriracha mayo, chives and caramelised onions, will help them to save up for a £300k starter flat, so they’ve decided to enjoy the eggs anyway.
Eggslut’s menu is brief; it is comfort food made ostensibly of good produce, and almost everything comes in a brioche bun. There are eggs with applewood smoked bacon, cheddar and chipotle ketchup, eggs with portobello mushroom paté and hollandaise, chopped hard-boiled eggs with honey mustard aïoli and dressed rocket. Other options are the Gaucho, which features seared wagyu tri-tip steak with an egg over easy and chimichurri sauce, or a chicken-and-egg sando (presumably for people who find saying the word “sandwich” arduous), or one with crisp pork belly and romesco.
Whatever you order, however, you’re facing a meal on a tray, with no cutlery, and in a room that’s only slightly more comfortable than a building site. The paper napkins will be your closest friend, too, because another problem with almost everything at Eggslut is the sheer drippy, oozy messiness of it all, with yolk down your face and a brioche bun that cannot stand the weight of its innards. This bun is cheap. It is not fit for purpose. Don’t eat here if you wish to retain any decorum, or to dine while wearing anything prettier than a sou’wester. Modern, yes. Decadent, absolutely. But a pleasurable experience? Not really.
Having tried Eggslut several times now, and after weathering several collapsing £15 sandwiches, their OK if forgettable hash browns and a dessert list that offers an odd-looking chocolate chip cookie covered in grey salt and served in a bag, I can’t help thinking that, for the price, it should all just be a bit better (the plastic display containers on the counters showing the dessert choices should definitely all look a little less wilted).
Eggslut is the plain, minimalist reaction to the bright, multicoloured, kid-friendly McDonald’s or Burger King, with their glowing, above-counter menus and enforced jolliness. Eggslut is a sea of cement where no chair is the best chair, and where they take £45 out of your account for two of you to eat an unmemorable fried-egg butty with a slice of salmon, a filter coffee and perhaps a doughnut each, before heading back out into the February winds with egg yolk down your sleeve and a creeping feeling that the local greasy spoon, where set menu A, with double bubble and a cup of teafor about £6.99, used to be so nice.
I have tasted the new face of the all-day breakfast and, while it’s intriguing, eggs is eggs, and there’s nothing revolutionary happening here. The prices, though, are a – cough – yolk.
Eggslut 36 Victory Parade, London E20, 020-3745 1950. Open all week, 8am-7pm (9pm Fri & Sat). From about £13 a head, plus drinks and service
