Fish! Kitchen, Borough Market London, 03.03.12

Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially when you leave it until eleven o'clock and have a handful of hungry relatives in tow. The March drizzle melted into insignificance as we stumbled upon Fish! Kitchen, a buzzing, glass-surrounded eaterie in the heart of Borough Market. After a couple of stolen glances through the window at plates piled with black pudding and sausages, our minds were made, and we secured our table quicker than you can whisper full-English-and-a-black-coffee.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can now tell you that the anticipation of this breakfast was the most enjoyable part of proceedings. Our first stumbling block was a thoroughly luke-warm cappuccino, which was attractively (and perhaps coffee-chillingly) decorated with the lettering F.I.S.H. A replacement was requested, along with some milk to accompany the tea, and we placed our food orders. A piping hot cappuccino arrived shortly afterwards, along with a forgotten orange juice, but still no milk. We sat a little while longer, resisting the temptation to revisit contentious family conversation topics, but slowly autodigesting. The milk finally arrived, beautifully steamed and hot. We let the error slip past us, conscious of our parched and shrivelled kidneys, but all the same muttering "hot milk, heart of England, blah blah..."

25 minutes pass and we had still not received any food. A distracted waiter informed us they were a little snowed under in the kitchen, and that our food would be with us soon. When? Dunno. Now I am not a management consultant, but common sense would tell me that Saturday at 11am would be a predictably busy time for the breakfast service. The restaurant was half full.

Eventually the food arrived, and the full breakfast plates were bulging with produce. The sausages were firm and herby, but the scrambled eggs lacked seasoning and the poached eggs were hard. There are smaller dishes for the safety conscious client, including tomatoes or mushrooms on toast, but the former were drizzled in garlic. It was a unnerving position for any breakfast tomato. The kippers were dry and arrived drenched in butter, despite a request to arrive without. We ate. Solemnly. Desperately. And then we did the very British thing of kicking up a (bit of) a fuss. A couple of dishes were refunded and we marched out, to the tune of the waiter apologising to the table next to us, and offering a refund.