Spotlight: Cafe Balthazar (i.e. New York New York #2)

The sophisticated interior of Cafe Balthazar, complete with sophisticated breakfasting-types.

Continuing in the theme of slinking and slunking from country to country in the name of international espionage and all things grub-related, the Spy feels compelled to pen a brief note about the Soho watering hole at which he enjoyed an excellent breakfast a couple of days ago: Café Balthazar.

Cafe Balthazar, outside and inside: the perfect bolt hole for a bedraggled, rain-soaked Spy.

He had been keen to try this place for a while, having fallen in love with Café Saturnus on the other side of the Atlantic in Stockholm, home to the biggest most kick-ass cinnamon buns in town. (Back in Blighty, the best, gooiest cinnamon buns thus far discovered by the Spy undoubtedly can be found in the Nordic Bakery in Golden Square, London, in which the Spy has actually scheduled work-related meetings with London-based clients so that he might have an excuse to make the train journey down from the boggy fenlands. But he digresses…) 

Cafe Saturnus over in Stockholm, home to the biggest cinnamon buns known to man (L) and frequented by pregnant women (R); possibly a connection there?

In any case, to come to the point, Café Saturnus was apparently modelled on its Stateside counterpart, which is apparent from the website design, if not immediately obvious upon entering either establishment. With its beautiful French décor, art-deco pillars, moulded ceilings and starch-stiff apron-clad waiters and waitresses, Café Balthazar is a perfect place for a weary Spy to chase away the sleep from his (sunglasses-clad) eyes. It also has a sweetly beautiful patisserie-bakery next door so their goodies can be taken away.

View through the window to its lovely little bakery, photo taken when the Spy was peering through like some sort of cake pervert....

And it was here, with that morning’s Guardian newspaper swiped from the table by the entrance (huzzah!), that the Spy finally enjoyed the best coffee and the most delicious fruit scone of his trip (with crunchy chewy oats on top: the Spy will be looking to replicate this inspired move), with a wee pot of Bonne Maman strawberry jam on the side. Bliss.

The spoils of a happy happy Spy.

And on the way back, tramping up Broadway in the rain, and passing through the Flatiron district, he found the sinfully naked Anthony Gormley statues peeping down from the rooftops like a bunch of suicidal nudists. (As in, naked statues by Gormley, not naked statues of Gormley. Though perhaps an idea for his next exhibition?)

   Exhibit A: one extremely wet-looking, glum statue. 

And now for a game of Spot the Naked Statue When Manhattan is Shrouded in an Enormous Rain Cloud...