Scrambling Eggs

It has been nine weeks since opening and having received some really positive reviews, especially about the food, I have a humbling admission to make to myself. There is no ‘I’ in LanTana.

While I may be the chirpy proprietor steering the ship, below deck there is a formidable team beavering away in the kitchen and propelling us forward.


All of the awesome food we serve at our stunning café, from the properly scrambled eggs, the super salads and sunny breakfasts offerings, to the irresistible home baking is made at Lantana by a small dedicated team who arrive in the dark early hours of the morning and leave in the dark hours of the late afternoon, rarely surfacing from the basement kitchen to see daylight.

There’s Lisa, our calm, unflappable head chef from Newcastle Australia who handles a squeeze bottle like a sheriff handles a pistol;


Pete, our sous chef, who left the poorly paid, shallow world of advertising to pursue a more glamorous life as a chef, knowing he looked his best in white;

Slimane, our multilingual French Moroccan kitchen assistant who never loses his cool or his sense of humour, no matter how high the dirty dishes stack;

and Becky our part time chef, who is to vegetables what Gok Wan is to women- the makeover queen.
They spend their days sating the appetites of people they don’t know and rarely even see, so if they could have any meal prepared for them, what would it be and who would they want it prepared by?

For Lisa it’s a Lebanese feast with homemade chapattis, tabouleh, hummus and kibbeh made by her flatmate Candy. Pete requested roast swan or peacock prepared (posthumously) by Auguste Escoffier the grand-pere of French cuisine. Slimane misses the cous cous that only his mother can make, and Becky wants to re-experience the 14 course vegetarian dinner she had in a 12 seater restaurant in Japan, made by a chef called Mr Michi.

For me, it would be roast chicken made by my dad....but this is not about me.

Lisa, Pete, Becky and Slimane, thank you - from the bottom of my stomach.

Last week I had a phone call from the marketing department of Timeout Magazine to tell me the exciting news that Lantana is to be included in their Cheap Eats Special.

First thing on Wednesday morning I was at the newsagent to pick up a copy of Timeout, eager to read what they had written about the cafe.


While I don’t want to sound ungrateful for any free publicity, I admit, my brow did furrow and heart sank a little when I read the opening sentence: "This new Antipodean-style eatery is run by chirpy proprietor Shelagh Ryan."

Chirpy? Clowns are chirpy. Couldn’t I have been described as charming, charismatic or even good humoured? Chirpy just sounds annoying.

I thought I may have misunderstood the meaning so I looked up the definition of ‘chirpy’ and my heart sank further as I read some of the useage examples.

"He's driving me mad, he's so chirpy and chatty I want to kill him".

"Reese Witherspoon came on set about noon and seemed chirpy".

Suspicions confirmed. Chirpy people are annoying.


So if I seem a little mysterious and aloof when you next come to Lantana, don’t take it personally, I’m hoping its not too late to re-invent myself.

In my old life, working for the government, we used to have 360-degree performance reviews where everybody in the organization, from management to the mailroom, got feedback on how well they were doing their job. In hospitality, however, it’s a one-way street.

Customers can tell the waiters what they think of their performance through the tipping system and restaurant critics are allowed to say whatever they want about the talents of the chef and the standard of the service when they review a restaurant. But what about the views of the shop assistants, chefs and waiters: the ones earning £5.50 an hour, on their feet for 10 hours, and expected to accept that the customer is always right despite everyone knowing that claim is statistically impossible?

I’d like to see customers receive a score, given by the staff, for how well they performed: were they polite and appreciative, were they adventurous in their meal choices, did they overstay their welcome...


If you want to score highly you should avoid the following:

Talking loudly on your mobile phone while being served and then whispering to the person serving you as though they are the person you shouldn’t really be having a conversation with.

Asking for some jam, watching the waiter run up and down the stairs to get it, then asking for a glass of tap water, watching the waiter run up and down the stairs to get it, then asking for a new knife because you’ve just dropped yours…And don’t preface the request with “I hate to make you run up the stairs again but…” Clearly you are enjoying being waited on hand and foot. I know I do.

Ignoring the meals listed on the menu, which have been carefully thought out by someone who is trained and skilled in this area, and asking if you can order something that you have created. That’s what your own kitchen is for.

Losing perspective: On an insanely busy Saturday I was told by one irate customer that I had ruined his day because he and his friend’s breakfast had not arrived at the same time. Annoying, sure, but hardly worthy of ruining your day. It’s only breakfast and you have the whole day ahead of you sunshine.

After nearly twelve months working at Tom’s Deli I’m finally leaving so I can focus on getting the café started. For the next few weeks I’m going to enjoy being the customer, safe in the knowledge that I will not be shamed by a low score even if I behave like a complete twat.

Bye bye Tom’s. Missing you already.

Wanting to take advantage of a rare Sunday off (I’m managing a café on weekends but that’s a story for another day) and an even rarer beautiful sunny day, I decided to cycle to the Sunday markets in Spitalfield. The day did not start well after an altercation in Hyde Park. A man took issue with me cycling in a no cycling section of the park (around 99% of the park) and actually grabbed me and tried to pull me off my bike. The fact that he could grab me shows how slowly and carefully I was riding your Honour. Despite Ken Livingstone's proclamations I haven't found London to be overly bike friendly. The unpleasant exchange ended with him yelling “Piss off back to your own country” and me replying “So you’re uptight, a knob AND a racist”. To which he surprisingly agreed.

By the time I reached the markets I was in desperate need of a coffee and in no mood for a frappuccino. I circled the markets and its surrounds before homing in on Market Coffee House on Brushfield St.


It had all the markings of a good coffee experience: next to a foodie mecca A. Gold, coffee served in small cups rather than mugs, lots of customers and friendly ones too who were happy to share tables, and some antipodean accents behind the counter. Maybe I’m racist when it comes to who I trust to make my coffee.

After a false start (in my still shaken state I ordered a white coffee and was handed a long black with cold milk) my persistence paid off and I was rewarded with a lovely latte.

All was well with the world again.

I don't mind admitting that it was with feelings of trepidation and preemptive envy that I made the trip to Brighton to visit Bill's Produce Store (no connection to the three Bill's cafes in Sydney set up by Bill Grainger). A gaping hole in the UK market is casual cafe dining for foodies - something that Australia has in abundance. From what I'd heard, Bill's in Brighton had a very Australian feel and did great breakfasts, salads and fresh juices. What if they were doing exactly what I'd envisaged for my cafe but better than I ever could?

After getting hopelessly lost (it's 100 North Rd Brighton, not North Street or Brighton Rd) we arrived at 1pm and were seated at the last free table. Literally ten minutes later there was a queue - not bad for a weekday considering Bill's is by no means small (looks like it seats over 60). Its a food store/cafe housed in what feels like a shed with high ceilings, crates of fresh fruit and vegetables in the front, a cafe in the back half and shelves of upmarket pantry items like chutneys, vinegars and oil lining the walls throughout. I don't know how many people actually buy any of this stuff; no-one while we were there. But despite the slightly staged look, it all lends itself to the farm-shop, rustic atmosphere they are trying to create.



They have managed to fit a lot of different offerings in a relatively small space with takeaway sandwiches, salads and cakes, a juice bar, the fresh produce and goods section and the eat in cafe which is clearly what most people come for. The menu marks it as more cafe than restaurant and is weighted towards breakfast which includes all the usual suspects - scrambled eggs, eggs benedict, pancakes, grilled mushrooms, etc. For lunch there are a selection of pizzas (thick based like a focacia and heavily loaded with ingredients) and quiches (English cafes are very fond of quiches) all on display, as well as a couple of daily specials written up on blackboards.

I had the steak sandwich (9 quid) which came as a gristly, though generously sized, piece of steak sandwiched in home made focaccia bread with horseradish mayonnaise and roast vegetables including roast parsnip, zuchini and sweet potato. I'm all in favour of mixing flavours and textures but I also think that if you use really fresh quality ingredients (which given the props and setting you assume they do) its better to keep it simple. I think the roast vegetables were a mistake.

Nothing is minimalist or understated at Bill's - portions are huge, flavours are mixed together with gay abandon, and the presentation is a little overwhelming. I gave up on desert because I couldn't see what any of the cakes looked like underneath the decorative flora and fauna.


And yes, the coffee is served in cups for giants with calcium deficencies.

In contrast to all the chaos and clutter going on in ingredients, presentation and people, the waiters are amazingly calm and efficient. We had excellent attentive service, although I did take issue with the man serving at the fruit and veg counter when he mocked my Aussie accent. Ah a cunning linguist: "You don't hear me making fun of your accent do you?" "Well go on then". So I gave him a rendition of my cockney accent, something I felt I'd honed from working at a jacket potato shop in Holborn 13 years ago: "I'll have a jacket wif beans and cheese and don't be shy wif the beans". Not bad he conceded "but you still sound like an Aussie". I didn't think he'd appreciate a history lesson explaining Australia's convict beginnings so I let it go.

All in all, nothing amazing about Bill's considering the hype - they are still way superior to most cafes I've been to in the UK and are obviously doing something right to be so popular. Maybe I was just unlucky but I was peversely happy to be a bit disappointed.

Armed with an A-Z and a list of places gathered from reliable sources, I am embarking on a pilgrimage in search of good cafes and, more importantly, decent coffee. Unfortunately due to lifestyle choices (i.e sleep) I'm now a one coffee a day drinker - hence the importance that I place on that coffee- so it will be a slow journey.

Whenever I complained about the coffee in London people would ask "have you been to Bar Italia in Soho"? What better place to begin this pilgrimage than at the godfather of coffee houses.


A classic Italian espresso bar, if I wasn't sitting across the road from Ronnie Scott's I could swear I was in Pellegrini's in Bourke St Melbourne. Same floor bolted vinyl bar stools lining a long mirrored wall (not a bad hair day or large group venue), same nonchalant 'I could think of better things to do than wait on you' waiting staff and same mix of city workers, Italian men and groovy young things drawn in by the retro kitsch...


and the coffee: lovely strong Italian style coffee served in a normal sized cup with nice thickly textured milk; but relatively expensive at 2.50 (ludicrously expensive if you convert to Australian dollars but what's the point).


I just had the coffee but I did see some impressive paninis walking by including a prelude to a heart attack: a chicken schnitzel ciabatta sandwich.