A Bone To Pick: There's no good breakfast in Bristol
An ode to Wallfish Bistro
A new week, a new column! ‘A bone to pick’ will be a monthly series in which one of our writers (or you?) has a 600 word (humorous) rant about something that irks them in the Bristol food scene. Horrified by people saying things taste like crack? Flabbergasted by bad bread-to-butter ratios? This is your chance — get it off your chest. Email me; I want to hear your horrors. All published pieces will, as per all our writing, be paid for. Kicking off our new series is the undisputed breakfast champion Dan Vaux-Nobes, known for regularly causing people to salivate over their screens on a Sunday morning when the latest breakfast appears on his Instagram page EssexEating. Here’s the inside story.
I know there are many full English breakfasts available in Bristol, but none are quite how I like them.
I was spoilt by eating one every single Sunday for about five years at the much-missed Wallfish Bistro in Clifton. Its passing left a sausage-shaped hole in my heart, along with a fair old bit of cholesterol blocking up my internal gubbins. But why, you ask? What made it so special?
Quality ingredients, cooked with care and an eye for detail by a talented chef. Beans, yes — I’m not normally a fan, but spiked with pieces of pork trotter and never, God help us, in a ramekin. Excellent sausages, black pudding and bacon. A selection of the Sunday papers and magazines to peruse. Fancy silver salt and pepper pots — on reflection probably not silver, but weighty so presumably quality.
I bloody loved it. So much so that I became a permanent fixture. I didn’t need to book, I didn’t even need to actually order, which was handy when hungover. I just turned up, slumped in my regular corner spot and was presented with a cracking breakfast. I once filled in for a KP shift when they were short-handed. I even went to the wedding of owners Seldon and Liberty!
This was high living indeed and created a breakfast expectation that is damn near impossible to meet. So when their doors closed six years ago, I had no choice. I tried a few other places but nowhere matched up. I had to start cooking my own — I’ve made and eaten a full English breakfast every single Sunday since.
There are pros and cons to hyper-fixation. Starting with the negatives — I have to purchase the ingredients and do the actual cooking myself. There’s also no fancy salt and pepper pots, or a selection of Sunday papers. On the plus side, I get to tailor my breakfast exactly how I like it and as it turns out I’m very particular.
I’ve discovered that I’m something of a fried breakfast purist so, perhaps controversially, no beans. I’ve done sod all research, but I think you’ll agree I’ve eaten enough plates of bacon and eggs to be intrinsically connected to the invisible greasy-breakfast matrix that exists in the ether and I feel like they’re an Americanisation of our national dish. Also I don’t really like them, so there. The same goes for hash-browns. Though I do actually like them and if they were home-made and not the frozen triangles of sadness, they’d be ok. Such is the series of complex internal judgements and compromises that I must consider.
Sausages and bacon should be quality, preferably from a butchers, although I rate the M&S ultimate pork sausage, available in the big fancy new branch in Cabot Circus. I’m very fond of Fruit Pig black pudding and quality eggs are a must; Clarence Court Burford Browns are my regulars now.
More controversy in the form of tinned plum tomatoes: I love them. It’s partly a nostalgia thing, my family always had them on a fry-up and the fact I’ve eaten enough rock hard, uncooked, unseasonal fresh tomatoes sporting superficial charring to know where my true loyalties lie. Tinned tomatoes need to be cooked till they’re jammy and my preference is for the Cirio brand.
Bread for mopping is essential; Hart’s Bakery white sourdough, toasted and slathered in butter. Fried mushrooms, yes, and finally, the piss duh resistance — Colman’s English Mustard on the side for sinus clearing action. Again it’s a nostalgia thing. Two cups of deeply tannic tea to wash it all down and that’s that.
Now, you’re probably thinking: ‘cheeky bastardo, I know exactly how I like a full-English’ and this is entirely proper and correct. Everyone has an opinion and what you like undoubtedly isn’t what I like and that’s fine. I respect your choices, as long as it doesn’t include a ramekin of baked beans. But until Wallfish come back to Bristol — my breakfast is the best in town.
All words and photos by Dan Vaux-Nobes, edited by Meg Houghton-Gilmour
The Bristol Sauce is an AI free publication — all our work is written and edited by humans.
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