Early some mornings, when I’m working in London, I go for breakfast with two good friends. So that’s me, a fabric dealer and a psychotherapist. Obviously this sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it’s one for which, at the time of writing, I have no punchline. Soho’s our hunting ground, the hunt in question being for somewhere to have breakfast at 7am. There’s not much open at that time. I mean, it’s not asking for much, is it? Somewhere to sit and eat at what is hardly a punishingly early hour.
Being gentlemen of a certain age, we also require access to a toilet, which narrows our options still further. What this leaves us with is the grand total of four establishments. Three are fancy restaurants; one isn’t.
