If, like me, you've found yourself delayed at Clapham Junction, or at least alighted there disgruntled because the idea of becoming a flailing salmon at Waterloo is too much, there is somewhere good to eat nearby.
To reach Piggies Sandwich Bar, the Grant Road exit at Clapham Junction is required. I imagine it’s an exit lesser-known to most. It takes you into Battersea, though not that of chic riverside apartments, Little Waitrose and the Lululemon activewear joggers of Battersea Park, nor the Lavender Hill end where so much women’s suffrage and socialism was forged. It’s somewhere in between. A dead zone. An untouched part of London, residential and tired.
Maybe I’m being harsh. The Royal Academy of Dance isn’t far away. Nor is Clapham Common. Whatever, I like these wearier parts of town: they are what daily London is to most of us. Here we’re not far away from Wandsworth, “the dodgy end.” It’s Love Actually season after all.
There’s an element of Stockwell to Piggies, too, because it’s Portuguese owned and run. Little Portugal is almost three miles to the east, past the thrum of Queen’s Town Road and the Abellio bus depot, but for whatever reason, the beat of Sagres and pepper omelettes made its way over 34 years ago and has been a busy fixture ever since.
Piggies is a notably inviting pitstop. Fresh green paint, a pink neon pig in the window, photos of plump eggs behind al fresco tables and chairs. Inside, Christmas is out in force: there’s tinsel everywhere, the Pogues billowing out of hidden speakers, and a small, snow-in-a-can sprayed tree in front of a mirror embellished with the words “cappuccino” and “espresso.”
Though we’re in die hard South London, there’s a White Hart Lane sign next to some miniature piggy figurines in the corner and a Tottenham Hotspur picture frame. Elsewhere, a photo of the owner with Cristiano Ronaldo (a canny Photoshop I’m sure), and various Madeiran scenes below sparkling fairy lights.
The food isn’t exclusively cooked breakfasts at Piggies. The place has a booze licence and the menu flits between Portuguese staples such as chicken and chips, pasta dishes and classic British café fare: jacket potatoes, spaghetti bolognese, gammon and eggs.
But fry ups are a mainstay. The first on the list, and the one I try, is £6. An egg, bacon, two sausages, sliced tomatoes, beans and two hash browns. Swapping my beans is no bother, and at Piggies, fried eggs are flipped but yolks remain runny; the sausages are long, thick and herby; the bacon is that mismatched stuff that comes in big plastic bags but tastes very much like bacon; the tomatoes are sliced thin for a more even cooking time; and the hash browns are among the crispiest I’ve ever had.
For £6, expect a plate of buttered toast and a mug of tea, the sort of tea that stays piping hot for far longer than anyone might deem physically possible. Expect friendly service, the kind only found at old-time places such as these. And expect more than one person to strike up a conversation with you, even if it's perfunctory. Piggies is every bit a communal, neighbourhood café serving its locale.
Anyone suffering the blight of Britain’s feckless railway at Clapham Junction, somewhere geared up to only really ever be transitory — 2,000 trains a day pass through — and which will swallow and spit out just about anyone when the mood strikes: Piggies is there and the welcome is warm. In its embrace, solitude is etched away.
