The commercial toast of London is quite often cooked by Europeans — Italian or Turkish or Greek. These cafes and their fried breakfasts are seminal. But here is one run by Moroccans, a place for fried eggs but also for tagine.
I found Lala Café along Streatham Hill, above the High Road (Europe’s longest high street), in a part of London made famous by Naomi Campbell, Dave (the rapper), and the late June Whitfield. It is opposite the Mediterranean Food Centre (MFC), surely one of London’s best independent grocers.
I ambled in on Sunday, where I found Moroccan-style decorations and elegant wooden sidings, a small fridge containing miniature bottles of perfume for sale (£6 a pop), a beautiful chequered floor, and café-regular tables and chairs.
Staff were warm and efficient but not obsequious. I had a double espresso and then, three minutes later, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. There was a light sense of Marrakech, a city I’ve enjoyed more than once, but nothing pronounced.
The menu flits between British and Moroccan, with a dusting of fusion in between; the cooked breakfasts come with turkey bacon and chicken sausages. There are also a couple of less obvious dishes, a spiced take on a club sandwich among them. This I ordered.
There was far too much mayonnaise — an issue partly of flavour but mostly of messy eating — but the sandwich sang nonetheless: three slices of toasted, buttery white bloomer, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, eggs, and chicken covered in ras el hanout (cumin, coriander, turmeric, and so on). It came with spiced French fries and a ramekin of horseradish-like sauce.
Gluttony prevailed this FA Cup weekend and so I had a lamb pasty on the side. Here the mince was ground finely, seasoned delicately, and entombed in a delightfully thin, rich pastry. Alongside? Lamb’s lettuce spritzed with none other than balsamic glaze. I’m not sure this combination, this dish, would appear anywhere but a nondescript London café. It was glorious.
Places like Lala define these areas of London that sit wedged between the big money of Zone 1 and the suburban nonchalance of Zone 6. They mean so much. I quite like how they serve their communities as well as those who arrive in them with a dream, a deposit from dad and a pair of Salomon trainers. Lala land and all that jazz; London is home to all.
