The Breakfast Club

I love nothing more than going out for breakfast and yet it has taken me a full decade to try The Breakfast Club, which I believe many will agree is ridiculous. I have tried to tackle the queue at the original Soho branch before, but got beaten by the rain and a severe hangover that would wait for no man (nor eggs and a Bloody Mary). However, all has been rectified and I am now a convert. Something that wouldn’t have happened had it not been for a four hour queue in the baking sunshine at Glastonbury that caused an innate inability to camp anywhere further than a ten minute stumble from Pedestrian Gate A.

“You look like you’ve had a religious experience,” my friend observed, looking up and down at me as I walked away from the van that would become a staple of my Glastonbury. “I think I have.” Later, my cider fuelled ramblings of the bacon butty I’d eaten that morning would direct friends there the next day. That bacon butty was far better than any similar fare I’ve eaten in a restaurant before, let alone at a festival. The bacon was thick and juicy, plenty of it crammed into the most buttery toasted brioche bun. The most genius part I will fully take the credit for: ordering a side of hash browns and whacking them in the bun with lashings of Heinz ketchup. The coffee is good quality and strong. There is no better way to stave off the Strongbow fuelled hangover of the previous day than The Breakfast Club’s bacon butty, and all for the bargain price of £4.50, far less than most meals you’ll pay for at a festival.

I returned with friends in tow and we ate crispy buttermilk fried chicken buns with delicious coleslaw and avocado on thick toast topped with salty chunks of crumbly  feta and chilli. No soul left unhappy, no hangover left unmended. The Breakfast Club should have an additional central location at next year’s festival, and they are firmly on my brunching repertoire in London from now on in.

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