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.

Wong Kei, China Town, London, 25.01.09

Wong Kei. Wonky? Well it's certainly not standing up completely straight if this visit was anything to go on. There's a certain canteen charm to it when you leave the bustle of Chinatown outside, but the stairs up to our first floor table could have been the setting for any grotty multistorey car park. That aside, it was a busy night and service was in full flow.

The cripsy duck was prompt and reassuring. There's always the pancake issue and not enough of the green bits, but extra supplies were provided. Moving on, the first crispy seaweed had its texture enhaced by a piece of twisted metal buried within it. The apologies were present but unenthusiastic and the replacement plate arrived shrapnel-free. Whilst the rest of the party chose family favourites along the lines of chicken and cashew nuts, and sweet and sour pork, I thought I'd branch out. Roast pork and oysters- bit of an intriguing combination and it felt like it could be the genuine Chinese article. Unfortunately I've seen more meat in a pork scratching and the oysters had left the sea a rather long time ago. Pushing it aside, I glanced to my friends for charitable donations. To my left, was a curious combination of chicken, a few cashews, and the contents of a tin of mixed veg (you know, small carrot cubes, a few peas and the obligatory sweetcorn). To my right, more mouthfuls of fatty battered pork with sweet and sour sauce. I ordered another beer instead.

We finished up pretty swiftly and judiciously decided to leave the dessert menu for another time. The toilets were again set in car park territory, but full marks for consistency of the theme. Our British joviality was assisted by a young waiter who decided to mock one of the party's laugh as he swaggered past the table. Not sure where the arrogance came from- there's certainly nothing redeeming here.

Chinatown can be hit or miss. Recommendations can be boring and safe, and sometimes it's the sefl-congratulation of finding an impressive unassuming place tucked away somewhere that makes the night. Wong Kei isn't tucked away. Walk on past...