Milk and Sugar, Sir?

I love a lunch out as much as the next guy, but to magnetically pull me back – like a proper 90s yoyo (not one of the shitty ones found in Christmas crackers) – seven times in three weeks indicates something a bit special.

Of the staff. They. Are. Cool. Not in a pretentious way, but in an I’ve-been-to-art school-and-when-I-get-home-after-a-day-shift-I-paint-(Jackson-Pollock-esque)-masterpieces kind of way. Also, if they don’t enjoy working at this grandly-housed food and drink dispenser, then they hide it really, really well. So well, in fact, that there would be no upward inflection in my caterpillar-like eyebrows if Daniel Day-Lewis plans to probe them for pointers – in their (method-acting) technique – prior to his next behemothic film (that I definitely will not muster up the will power to watch).

Of the food (as a whole). Going somewhere for lunch doesn’t require Michelin star-standard fodder; palatable and fulfilling dining is, however, essential. This establishment strikes the right balance between attention to detail and speed of service; call me a simpleton, but a purple(y), flower-like decoration on top of my Eggs Benedict made my internal albumen rise in temperature.

Of the food that I ordered. Eggs Benedict on the (oval-shaped) surface would appear a formality, but ensuring that the yolk remains runny when it arrives in front of your cutlery-wielding hands somehow eludes many culinary outlets in Wales’ capital city, (who also charge significantly more than £6.95). The hollandaise sauce had exactly the right level of zing to it: not a (head-butt)-to-the-gonads-from-a-(four-year-old) level of zing; more a (four-year-old-gently-increasing-the-pressure-of-his slowly-closing-jaw-(containing shark-like teeth)-on-your-placid-finger level of zing.

Of the clientele. Put simply: if a locale can attract the owners of Blue Honey (proprietors of the Sully’s evening café), then it’s got to be pretty, fucking cool.

One improvement point (and this harks back to my wedding hospitality days): cloth napkins. I don’t want a satin cygnet’s beady eyes judging me as I order my second chocolate brownie to accompany my moreish coffee; a fabric food collector resting on my occasionally bare thighs (yes, I can be seen wearing inappropriately short shorts in the summer months) would, however, provide additional warmth – as the sun inevitably hides behind Cymru’s inclement clouds – along with a dash of class.

So, whilst I take my Americano black, I like my lunchtime location with – a dollop and a sprinkle of – Milk and Sugar.

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