This Latin American/Mediterranean cafe (hear the warning bells?) is a handy little place to spend a morning, eat breakfast and watch a little of the world go by. But its South American soul seems to have got lost somewhere on the way to Southwark. What I mean is, it's nice, but it's a little vanilla guerilla to strum the heartstrings - or the tastebuds.
This light, airy and industrial cafe will, I hope, survive. In the hour and half or so I was there, about 10 customers arrived, but almost no-one walked past, as almost no-one is likely to in this obscure corner of Southwark. The quietness of the cavernous space is almost zen-like. I can imagine working quietly here all morning on my laptop - if I were the sort of person who worked at weekends, or did it quietly.
The concrete-floored room boasts solid wooden benches and pillars bearing graffiti. Not tags, more 'Gail and Bob and Bump were here' (which made me so sick I nearly refused breakfast - which would have been a first). Fortunately, the space is so cavernous you can successfully ignore other diners. And it's the other diners that worried me. Apparently, this place has just moved premises from a grungy little backstreet joint to here. And it all seems, well, terribly civilised. Note the graffiti. Note the lattes. Note the young family over there. I'm not sure I belong.
The menu is extensive, and on the Saturday I visited the breakfast menu was available all day, so while Friend of DDD had chicken tacos, DDD selbst had breakfast.The interesting breakfasts are twofold. The "Latin American" (how telling that there is only one) is a mixture of scrambled, chorizo or bacon, refried beans and village bread. The vegetarian option is much the same, but with avo instead of chorizo. Obviously, I asked for the regular LA - but with extra avo.
The proportions weren't quite what I'd hoped (gargantuan) but enough - the fat slices of chorizo juicy and crispy and the slick of beans salted just right. The eggs weren't pretty and were a little overcooked, like the crispy village bread, but the ensemble worked. The little pots of salsa on the table contained a splendid green mix, to be liberally applied.
Like a worker's caff, a mug of tea was part of the deal. For pudding (YES, you can have dessert for breakfast) I ordered halva, but instead received a spiced nut cake, drenched in syrup at the bottom, which was perplexing but a far better idea so I didn't complain.
The experience was enjoyable, but definitely missing something. Authenticity? Other people? Chilaquiles (my all-time second favourite breakfast ever)? Or just, soul? El Vergel is Latin lite, yet another one of those national cuisines that has been watered down to appeal to Master and Miss Urban Living. But if that means it survives to fight another day, then Vive la (sort-of) Revolution.
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