"Girl brings 2 plates of full English over with plenty of scrambled eggs and plenty of fried tomato!" - The Streets, "Don't Mug Yourself"
I've had a full English breakfast in London's East End. It was amazing. It fully lived up to its cultural references in songs (e.g. "Don't Mug Yourself"). But the "full English breakfasts" that I've experienced in America leave much to be desired.
Until now.
Piper's Pub's brunch is an extraordinarily British experience. First there's the pub itself: soccer on the widescreens, deep oak paneling, a bar stocked with so much Scotch it's mindblowing, and the coup-de-grace: a full English breakfast. A REAL full English breakfast.
So overwhelming were the choices that I opted for splitting the raspberry French toast with a buddy. (Do NOT, by the way, pour the inferior Mrs. Buttersworth on this bad boy - just let it soak in the raspberry sauce and slather the whipped cream over it). But I didn't stop there. With my innate portion-control issues, I ordered the full Irish breakfast. Eggs were perfect. Bangers were out-of-this-world. Mashed potatoes were appropriately potato-y - red skins intact! Ham steak was thick and well-seared. Tomatoes were ripe and flavorful. The roll with butter and jam was a delightfully sweet contrast. Good God, this meal was killer in every sense of the world. I probably killed my cholesterol level.
So how do I know the full English breakfast was 'real' if I only had the full Irish? I just know, friends. I. Just. Know.
For this brunch, I will willingly break my rigid no-bridge-crossing-for-brunch standard again and again.
Nuff said.