On the fourth day of our Week of Breakfasts we were in Barn Street Diner. Or were we? On stepping inside we seemed to be in Pauline’s Diner.
Wherever we were, Richard Trengrouse liked it:
Day 4: Barn Street Diner
Think that this could evolve into a column on the philosophy of cycling. This morning cycling in, it was blisteringly cold and some cars coming in from the south were covered with a light sprinkling of snow. The potholes on the Stratford Rd just get worse and I was reminded of the famous ‘Third Policeman’ by the Irish writer Flann O’Brien. Where if I remembers correctly, one of the coppers who had read a smattering of atomic theory, believed that the effect of the potholed Irish Roads was such that the transfer of atoms between his backside and the bike was making it difficult for him to tell where he began and the bicycle ended. I think I can see where he was coming from.So at 7.15 in a state of confusion I arrived at Barn St Diner to be joined not much later by Nicky, Pat,and Michelle, who gave us a graphic description of the shortcomings of her alarm clock which had let her down yesterday.
Barn Street Diner is another converted pub according Pauline, our welcoming host, it might have once been known as the Falcon, but she wasn’t sure. The place is very brightly decorated with nice table cloths and gate back chairs and again well used by the workers from the local factories who were consuming breakfasts of gargantuan proportions.
Being a wimp I plumped for a fried egg sandwich and my colleagues for the ‘small’ breakfast which effectively means that you don’t need to eat for the rest of the day.
The service was very fast and the food was piping hot. My fried egg sandwich was excellent and like all well made sandwiches of this sort the yoke exploded and dripped down my shirt.
I think at this point I must make reference to the impact of tomato sauce on a good breakfast. For an aficionado the quality of the tomato sauce can make or break a breakfast. Heinz or a similar brand are fine, but many of the catering brands have a nasty weak acidy taste which detracts from the enjoyment of a good meal and have been no nearer a tomato than a pot of paint.
The tea at Barn Street Diner was a joy, strong and full bodied you could almost cut it with a pair of scissors.
The conversation as ever was excellent exchanging anecdotes about our bizarre and surreal experiences in Ireland, and one of our companies infestation with fleas when working with the homeless in Cork (me actually).
I have to interject here with a great story Richard told about who tramp who shouted, “you can’t sit there, mate,” when Richard tried to sit next to him. When Richard asked why the tramp pointed to an army of lice making their way from his person to Richard’s. Ewww.
As a final point I have to mention the very fine views of the City Centre, particularly St Martins Spire, the Beetham Tower and Selfridges’ all of which glowed in the early morning sun, sad to think that this wonderful compliment to a good breakfast will be lost when Beorma complex is built at the top of Digbeth.
The small breakfast I had was not small by anyone’s standards, and I felt too stuffed to move afterwards. But if you’ve more stamina than me, you can have a nice, post-meal game of pool in the back room.
Tomorrow’s the last day and we’ve decided to celebrate by giving ourselves a bit of a lie-in and starting at 8.00am. Come join us in the Diner on Fazeley Street next to the Fellows Moreton Clayton building, which has some weird Italian name I can never remember, for the last stop in our little crawl.
