“ Address: 4 West St / Dunstable / Bedfordshire / LU6 1SX / England / Tel: 01582 475110 „
I was enticed to enter Jennys...
There must be a link with Austerity and Full English Breakfasts. I've recently experienced well-mannered members of the public with a glint of facial pride and gushing fast wordage, go into excruciating details on how they prefer their engineered Full English Breakfast manufactured on their oval plate. They salivate whilst telling of their anecdotal delights, moving their fingers in mid-air as if illustrating they're platter of choice. Plus it is infectious. While one goes into a descriptive Lord Byron style frenzy of sizzling sausages and how an equal width lineage of ketchup is frequented on the circumference of the plate, so that a breakfast ingredient is never too far away from the 'red' sauce. Other folk pipe-up in admiration and nod in unison, stating it saves time-management while shoveling in their mouth a week quota in grease in one sitting.
Appreciation of a fine dine is subsequently a deep stomach baring belch, apparently it is necessary to all hard-working labour intensive men as its all part of the morning ritual. The closest thing to it is an animal 'war-cry' warning off predators who dare to take away their smeared fatty residue plates before the customary plate mop of eggy-bread.
I've had quite a few prolonged introductory conversations regarding the glorious brave-heart fatty feasts that have sunk many men, making them immobile in their groaning chairs for ten minutes thereafter. This evidently is the time for morning contemplation, so I've been told. It has nothing to do with their arteries realizing what has just happened at all. "Ah yes, a big hearty breakfast with all the trimmings, and I mean all the variations of tomato products imaginable is what made Britain 'great - Make no mistake there". So I've been told, more than ten times, by the same person and his artery clogged followers. I bet it is only subject that he speaks of with passion and pride; each morning a different adjective spills out like a verse out of Shakespeare's Richard III. And now I've been blessed with the working-mans charismatic morning verse, the rest of the time you'll be likely to get a grunt or an eyebrow twitch as a form of acknowledgement.
Ultimately, the biggest gift a working-man could receive with his culinary repertoire was the announcement of 'all day' breakfasts at Jennys. The first reported hand-written message in 'bubble text' no doubt, was in the early 1990s. Obviously Thatcher's finest hour, twenty-four hours of swimming in grease, regardless of regulatory time restrictions. I had not succumbed to ingesting an out of house fry-up before, in a Jenny establishment potentially requiring you to wear extra arm and derriere padding just in case of any slip-ups. It hadn't occurred to me to try it out, not until recently. I guess that the constant theatrics of a full English breakfast, all wide-eyed and still salivating about it six hours after the event, it was too much. I had to eat-out at Jennys.
Gingerly I enter Jennys....
This was after I practically starved myself so I could experience the full Jenny effect on an empty stomach, crying out for some sort of substance preferably dead which was marinated in salt plus attired up in ketchup. Everywhere was spotless, although worryingly shiny; it looked as if 101 Dalmatians had licked the place from top to bottom. The interior design observation was an adult version of a nursery; vibrant red and yellow chair - table units, bolted to the floor in the material of plastic. Aromas from the kitchen coated my nasal passages of a scent I can only describe as a gigantic hash-brown, oozing with an intravenous pump of fat. Jennys epitomized an American off the high-road café; excluding the chrome long breakfast bars that Native Americans perched, while gawping at waitress's thighs. Jennys is an equal opportunity employer, if you're hair can cope with the grease, you're in. Greeting the customer taking orders and offering table tags is also part of policy - a waitress wisely rubber soled, swiftly emerges with my platter, she absconds avoiding interaction.
My greasy sausage didn't touch the sides.
A curvaceous Sarson bottle of vinegar was carefully centred on the table adjacent to yet more salt. Each ingredient had its own placement, as if in an invisible cubicle. Meticulously weighed up and dispatched to the client, ingredient grease absorption vital to maximize profit margins, so any products deemed to be 'not' sponge like, for example crunchy vegetables, won't be on the menu. Not that the Jennys menu deviates into a healthy option. The platter consisted of: Fried eggs, bacon (not crispy to gain extra weight in fat absorption, therefore rationed at two rashes) 4 large mushroom sponges, a side plate of two thin white toast slices, grilled tomatoes, and two anemic sausages, not the gourmet kind. All for 5.99 GBP accompanied with a greasy mug of tea that had some notable vegetable oil contact, prior to client dispatch. Well, it was to be inevitable considering the reservoir of daily grease employed in aiding profit margins, in terms of platter weigh-ins.
The key to eating a fry-up consisting of high grease content is to eat it slowly. To let your stomach deal with the dietary turmoil at a leisurely pace, the stomach's vital data messages to the brain requires deciphering over - just to inform the docile brain how the proceedings are going. Shoveling in ship loads, only shamefully bombard the stomach unnecessarily, therefore leaving a much needed contemplation period and customary belch.
Jennys not a wham bam thank you mam kindda establishment
Trumpets played from the kitchen area as I finished at 4pm, it took twenty minutes to mop it all up. I then slowly made an attempt at my oily tea and remarkably enough I had been in Jennys for nearly forty minutes, not once did I feel a prying eye in my solitude direction even when engrossed in a broadsheet, nor did I get an attempted interruption to usher me out of the establishment, by eagerly recycling grease from table to table.
I can believe the conquering great British Empire was built on a greasy platter; hard-working souls greased up to their hairstyles, victorious in wars; well insulated bellies, combating bitterly cold winters. I comprehend the paraphernalia of a Jennys fry-up and I've slowly deliberated over my 'Jenny special' - although I was too aware of my clogged arteries - especially as recovery took until the next morning before facing a lightly spread margarine crumpet.
Jennys left me... feeling dazed and I didn't really know what had hit me!