So the next time you’re wandering London with a grumbling gut and a lost soul, skip the instagrammable brunch spots. Follow the smell of frying bacon and the sound of a kettle whistling. Find the caff with the sticky tables and the guy reading the racing post. Order the Full English with a cup of builder’s tea. Eat it slowly. Burn your tongue on the toast. Let the yolk run wild.
You’ll walk out feeling like you could wrestle a bear. Or at least nap for three hours on the Tube. And honestly, that’s the best kind of London victory. A perfect, greasy, reassuring embrace on a plate.
