The Wolseley

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The good life, I believe it is called. From flying in from Copenhagen, meeting up with my best friend (who I flew into London), cocktails at the Shard, more alcohol at the Ku bar where the bartenders were topless and were packing… it reasserted my opinion that I cannot be poor. It motivates me to strive, to understand that all that suffering and strife is for something… and then we brunched…

Certainly enough, the Wolseley is incredibly fancy. It felt good passing through the throngs of peasants wanting to eat but with no reservation, being set to wait in line, like 2nd class citizens. Yes, eating at places likes this can give me a little bit of sense of entitlement. And that’s a good thing! Sure, I have too much of it, but if I didn’t have any this place would really inspire me to try and climb the social ladder.

We all went for the eggs: be they Benedict, Florentine or Arlington! Unfortunately for us, brunch seemed to end at 11:30 and we were there at 12:00 on a Sunday evening, so the only other breakfasty things they had were the eggs. Onwards to the judgement: whilst they were all poached well, the yolks needed to be slightly more runny. They were good (and the English Muffin was also quite nice), but nothing incredible. Nothing special; I had eaten better, cheaper eggs Benedict.

The Macaroons on the other hand were delightful, with quite a varied range of tastes and textures (the last one with berries was a bit more tangy and fresh). The service was, however, impeccable, and I presume people more come for this than the food. I am still quite the opposite: give me good food and poor service anytime. I prioritize the taste to “the experience” .

Grade: Sainthood

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