How Not To Make An Omlette

Because we are here to make observations not ruin people's businesses thus causing additional unemployment, add to the already woeful economic figures and  plunge Britain into a triple dip recession the name of the guilty will not be mentioned but there is a restaurant in Notting Hill filled with earnest staff who are on the bad side of a hot mess. Let's call it X. It all started with a brunch date with two girlfriends. Being London, last week's blazing sunshine ( see reminder below) had been replaced by grey skies and chilly temperatures so al fresco was not an option.

Restaurant X started well, beautifully appointed on the corner of a Notting Hill Mews and toasty and loving like the embrace of a doting grandmother when you stepped in from the cold. Jackets dropped, scarves unwrapped, trying to catch up before one girlfriend grabbed a plane to Madrid and ready discussions about wine or tea ( both) meant the food order was going to be delayed. The menu proudly trumpeted its British credentials. Everything was either "from British shores, farms or fields". In hindsight I can hear my friend questioning my decision to order an omlette. Yes it is true the omlette is a French concoction but I thought how to make an omlette even an egg white one must have been lesson one at cookery school.

Thirty minutes later our orders are still not on the table. I presumed it was the other ladies' pies, what with all the baking and crusting and so on. It was long past two and I was ravenous. Eyes hungrily chasing every wait staff with a plate and trying to keep your mind on good quality conversation is a not an easy game, someone always loses. Perhaps sensing our desperation ( or seeing us panting like Pavlov's dog) our waitress came over and told us our meal will be there shortly but confided that the chef was having a problem with the omlette. RINNNNGGGG! Alarm bells. Problem? Omlette? Is it not stuff in a pan folded into an egg blanket then decorated with some herbs? Perhaps omlettes from British kitchens are different. Ten or so minutes later their pies came. Ten minutes beyond that my omlette was still to arrive and I had already tasted the crusts of the pies.

As soon as I saw our waitress bearing down on the table with a bowl I knew no good could come of this but let me not leap hastily to conclusions. Have a look and you be the judge. And remember I said omlette and bowl in the same sentence.

I have no words, neither did the waitress who was now pink-faced nor my girlfriends. I laughed at the obvious joke for this is not "Tilley’s Farm duck egg omelette with Golden Elegance tomatoes,wild garlic, soft goat’s cheese, Shetland Black potatoes and English truffle (v)". My friend ordered me a full English vegetarian. "Hold the eggs!" I chirped. I didn't want any more eggs to give their lives for me. But cue the previously mentioned earnestness or maybe it was chef pride. Whatever the motivation ten more minutes later another "omlette" was presented to me. Again I will present this picture to you and ask for your verdict.

I could not eat them and most importantly I could not pay for them. Soon the manager was at our table, there were apologies, shamed faces ( he was cute though), all I wanted was some bread, olive oil, salt and balsamic. I had forgotten about the English vegetarian until he told me they had run out of gas but they had a back up kitchen upstairs. Too funny. In the end even after the late beans, toast and mushrooms this was my breakfast

And this

Let it not be said there is no balm in Gilead. Wine and girlfriends make everything better. And this pudding was divine. Divine enough for redemption? Perhaps not. An omlette is basic and I am afraid the beauty of London with its surfeit of dining options is a knife that cuts both ways you never have to go to a bad restaurant twice so you must impress immediately. If not, as they would say from British streets "I'm not havin' it bruv!"