The mighty greasy spoon, the king Cafe of Cafes. Not a quaint little country place selling scones with a view of some lost castle, no, we are talking of the bacon and eggs, sticky floor, plastic chair variety, which you can find in most towns and cities on this fair isle’s.
The cafe is a unique British institution. This is the place where you eat alongside every possible element of society; be it plasterer or builder, a lawyer or teacher, off-duty policeman, a gang of spotty students: all, once they have passed through the door and the misty condensation of the heavy windows, are at once viewed as equals. Venerable followers of the greasy spoon.
In a country stacked with class and endless issues of identity, the cafe is a hallowed zone of neutrality. Nothing matters. Everyone is equal. The only thing of importance is brown or tomato sauce, coffee or tea (with tea bag left in the mug obviously) and a stack of tottering heavily buttered toast. Its where you must come to get a sense of a place and its community. Long live the cafe.
In the coming weeks, I will explore some very quintessential cafes of London and report back on what I find.
The London Walker 
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