On closer inspection, there were more folk in civvies than in
cycling attire, and the staff were incredibly welcoming. No exclusive cyclist
ghetto is this, unlike the terror of deigning to perch on the wall where Poland
St meets Broadwick.
Focaccia was a good size and price (£4.50) for these parts,
especially when eating in and it’s grilled and served with a decent handful of dressed
salad. It was packed full of prosciutto, mozzarella, tomatoes and basil, and a
great lunch. My long black was delicious – I believe they’re moved from
Monmouth Beans to Square Mile.
Interestingly, it was predominantly male and is effectively
a very blokey coffee joint. Any ‘coffee date’ I have with a male friend inevitably
results in a brief stand-off before one caves in to proclaim “fuck it, fancy a
pint?”, and the faux-intentions of coffee are long consigned to history. But at
Rapha there are actually plenty of guys having a coffee together. Talking tats.
And hedge funds.
They sell booze (a short, eclectic wine list and Kernel
beers) and with some music on, it wouldn’t be too shabby a place to come for a
quick evening drink, or a cheeky afternoon one. And I thoroughly enjoyed the
buzzy, original surroundings too, which reminded me of the many ‘concept’ café-in-retail
offerings in Tokyo. I look forward to returning for the braised beef brioche –
effectively pie filling encased in a brioche bun, which at £3.50 seems
great value.
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