Every day except Sunday, a large and unlikely queue forms outside a mansion block in Westminster, a stone’s throw from Channel 4, the Department for Transport and a public loo known mysteriously as the “iron lung”. The queue’s a mixed crowd: along with all the tourists, there are plenty of office types, civil servants and people in hi-vis jackets. Above their heads a sign reads Regency Cafe, its bold white lettering set against coal-black tiles. The place they’re lining up for opened 77 years ago, back when Clement Attlee was prime minister and rationing was still in place.
Step inside and you’ll find a dramatic dining room. Gingham curtains line the windows, oxblood linoleum covers the floors, the rest is all laminate tables and beautifully brown fixed seating. But most people are here for the fry-ups, or things such as liver, gammon, and bread-and-butter pudding. Five miles across town at E Pellicci, another famous art deco spot, you’ll encounter a similar brand of Italo-cockney hospitality and enough intricate wood panelling to furnish a library.
It’s easy to forget that Britain used to be full of ornate restaurants such as these, where you can eat hearty, inexpensive food and linger without being moved along. Some people call these places greasy spoons, or better yet, caffs. We still have lots of relatively new ones, but far fewer really historical spots, with their creaky chairs, period light fixtures and time-honoured signs. A few survivors have become famous, but the majority have been under threat for years.
Most old caffs were wiped out in the early 2000s. We shuttered countless numbers of these vital spaces, maybe because offices and coffee giants could pay more rent, or because we didn’t find these restaurants pretty any more. Heartless developers and the rise of greaseless breakfasts played a part too, along with proprietors with nobody to pass the back-breaking family business on to.
When I moved to London in my 20s, I fell in love with the historical spots that were still soldiering on, many of them almost hiding in plain sight. I became convinced that there were more left than people thought, so I decided to document them on Instagram, to showcase the places that were still around.
I went to the River Cafe in Fulham, to admire its sepia-toned posters and azure-blue ceramic tiles. I went to the Electric Cafe in West Norwood, a place so old its name hints at a time when electricity was a novelty. I went to Beppe’s Cafe in Smithfield, where there’s a framed, 72-year-old shopping list in the corner and the breakfast burgers are from the wholesale market across the road. I couldn’t believe people were walking past these places, rather than shouting from the rooftops about them.
I fell head over heels for Randolfi’s in Bow, where they squeeze your tea bag with special little tongs. I ate escalopes with spaghetti at Mario’s Cafe in Kentish Town, where the place’s eponymous proprietor doubles as cook, waiter, barista and front of house. I stumbled across ancient spots I’d seen no one else write about, such as Mary’s Cafe in Walworth and Rock Steady Eddie’s in Camberwell, safe havens that seemed about shelter as much as food.
I eventually settled on my favourite caff, Scotti’s Snack Bar in Clerkenwell, which feels like a 1960s living room, mainly because it basically is one. But Scotti’s is more than a museum exhibit: people travel miles for its elegant chicken escalope sandwiches, which are fried to order and balanced by the addition of onion, lemon and mustard. The place is run by two genial brothers – Al and Max Scotti – who live upstairs and have a superhuman ability to remember their customers’ names.
What do they think about the changes they’ve seen? “Things evolved slowly,” Al tells me. “The factories moved out. People stopped working on Saturdays.” Al remembers the advent of takeaway cups, and the days before pubs, chemists and petrol stations sold food. Back then, working hours were more regimented, so most of their customers popped in for a quick breakfast or lunch break. “You never brought food back to the office, so you went to the caff,” Al says.
Like many classic spots, Scotti’s has its roots in the waves of Italian migration that taught British people how to eat out. First it was the Victorian street musicians and ice cream sellers who turned their hands to restaurants, popularising fry-ups and deep-fried, battered fish. After the war, Italians were instrumental once again, creating a new breed of bright, mid-century, modern dining rooms. According to the definitive book on the subject, Classic Cafes by Adrian Maddox and Phil Nicholls, the number of caffs in Britain doubled from 1,000 to 2,000 during the 1950s.
In Scotland, these early days live on in spots such as Forte in Dundee and Vald’oro and the University Cafe in Glasgow. In Wales, it’s local landmarks like Pino’s in Mountain Ash, The Prince’s in Pontypridd and the Kardomah Cafe in Swansea. By the coast, it’s heritage ice cream parlours started by families such as the Morellis in Broadstairs, the Bruccianis in Morecambe and the Alonzis in Scarborough.
But places like these have been closing for ages: 18 years ago, Maddox told Guardian writer Chris Hall he reckoned Britain had 500 classic cafes left. That number could be closer to 50 now. And the present situation is tough for any restaurant, with a post-lockdown vortex of shrinking margins, fluctuating costs, rising energy prices and a Brexit-induced labour shortage. Catherine Croft, director of the C20 Society, was interviewed in the same story from 2005; her view is that listing the buildings isn’t necessarily the answer, since the caff’s fixtures and fittings may not be covered. So what can we do to support these places? “Go and eat in them,” she tells me.
Old caffs aren’t just historical artefacts; they’re living, breathing businesses that have been sheltering and fuelling ordinary people for more than a century. The easiest way to keep them alive is by spending our money in them, since businesses stay open when they’re busy and profitable. Regency Cafe and E Pellicci draw the crowds because they’re famous. I think every old caff should be.
“Years ago, everything was word of mouth,” Al Scotti says. “That was how you got your new business,” his brother Max tells me. Today, things operate differently: if we’re not drawn in by the familiarity of a chain, we’re likely to be influenced by PR and social media. But newer spots tend to get all the publicity.
We have such a long tradition of destroying historical things in Britain that it’s tempting to think all of our old caffs died out years ago. But there’s some left, and they’re worth preserving. We should venerate the ones that still remain. Our eating choices now can still dictate their future.
Isaac Rangaswami is a writer based in London, and runs the Instagram account @caffs_not_cafes