The Last of the Greasy Spoons

There’s something about a full English. I don’t eat them often — the last one I can remember was back in June 2024 — but every so often the craving strikes. This time, it led me to the Moor Café in Sheffield city centre, a place I’d never tried before.

Like many cities, Sheffield has fewer and fewer of these traditional cafés — the no-frills kind that once lined every high street. They’re being nudged out by coffee shops and bakeries with hipster decor and steeper price tags. I enjoy those too, but it would be a real shame if we lost the honest, slightly worn cafés along the way. They might trade in nostalgia, but there’s a certain charm in their scuffed tables and straight-up food. Everyone’s welcome, and the meal won’t empty your wallet.

On a quiet Saturday morning, I step into Moor Café and find just a handful of solo diners dotted about. The owner greets me warmly and shows me to a table at the back, with a perfect view of the street outside. The walls are a collage of lived-in character: slightly psychedelic horse prints that seem borrowed from another decade, a jubilee plate of Queen Elizabeth II, a scattering of fridge magnets, and even a half-and-half Sheffield United / Wrexham scarf (as a Blade, this infuriated me a bit). It’s cluttered in the best possible way — the kind of place where you feel at home instantly.

I order a cup of tea (never coffee with a fry-up) and go for Set Breakfast 3: sausage, bacon, fried egg, beans, and black pudding, with two slices of toast on the side. All this for £8.20.

The breakfast arrives exactly as I’d hoped. No faux fancy plates, no garnish of micro herbs, no ramekin for the beans. Just cheap sliced bread toasted. Sourdough has its place, but not here. The beans are hot (take note, Wetherspoons), the bacon thick and nicely cooked, the black pudding decent. An egg that is maybe a touch overdone and cooked in a mould for neatness, but I’ve seen far worse. The sausage won’t win any awards, nor was the pig in question reared on a diet of açai berries and mindfulness — but that’s exactly the point .The simplicity is what makes a full English such a comforting meal.

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Taking advice from Alan Partridge and using the sausage as a breakwater

As I sat there, tea in hand, I made a vow to come to places like this more often. Britain doesn’t have a huge amount of traditional food culture, but this — these warm, unfussy cafés, turning out good food for a fair price — feels like one of the few we can truly call our own. If they disappear, it won’t just be cafés we lose, but a piece of everyday culture worth keeping alive.

A Welcome

“Passeggiare”. A perfect analogy, for why I’ve decided to do this blog.

The Italian verb “to walk”, but with no real purpose. A meander, if you will and a perfect summary for what this blog is. A need for exercising. In this case; creativity, expression and an offloading of the internal thoughts. Mainly of places visited and food eaten. But, following the intent of a passeggiata (noun), there’s no ultimate end goal, other than to enjoy the process and take each instance at face value. 

Whilst it’s an Italian word and whilst anyone who knows me will know that I am bordering on obsessed with Italy, it won’t be an Italian blog.

Nor is the intent of this blog to be a travel, or a food guide. Other things shall be written of (football, music and being in the outdoors). Other people and places do a far more concise job than I’d manage. I hope to share my thoughts, views and ideas on a broad spectrum of topics that I know and live. 

It’s a place of open and honest thoughts. Of expression. And sticking to the theme of honesty, an outlet for personal creativity, which may just be an oblique way of saying it’s a personal folly. However, even if a handful of people enjoy it from time-to-time, it shall be worth it.

For now, goodbye!

The omnipresent ‘passeggiata’ of Italian towns, in motion.