Review: Ince's Cafe
London is still full of British-style cafes, bulwarks against gentrification, serving English breakfasts to workers in their high-viz vests and red-top newspapers. A “cafe” means different things to different segments of the population: to some, it’s a squeaky clean, modern, wood-and-concrete affair, with a cradle of pastries on the counter, Australian-style flat whites, oat-milk friendly. To others, it’s places like Ince’s Cafe on Wastdale Rd in East Forest Hill, an established family business trading in bacon, eggs, sausages, toast and tea for decades.
There are no frills and there is no bullshit at Ince’s. The awning counts “salads” amongst its offerings, but I doubt anyone has ever ordered one. You would probably be laughed at if you tried: places like Ince’s often offer “banter”, with the degree of spiciness depending on how well you know the person serving you behind the counter, as a free add-on to your order. You will often be greeted with banter if you offer to pay by card: the machine will be offered to you, but with a look of subtle disappointment, like you haven’t read the secret manual telling you how to behave in places like Ince’s. Cash for breakfast. Mug of tea with milk and sugar. Everything awash in beans (though not in my case, I can’t stand beans so I swap them out for an extra egg).
In England people like to talk about the decline of the pub, and of pub culture. Once the cornerstone of every community, pubs are now closing in record numbers across the country as people turn to different cornerstones, or simply decide to live without any community around them at all. Unsurprisingly, cafes like Ince’s are also on the decline, with more and more people showing preference for breakfasts with fewer than 1000 calories, coffee over tea, card over cash.
It’s not as obvious what the intrinsic cultural value of greasyspoon cafes is, whereas pubs have a long and romantic cultural history (which of course entirely ignores their central role in creating generations of alcoholics and broken homes). I like to think of them as an example of something that is becoming very rare: they do what they say on the packet. Sure, the best fancy cafes are truly great, can be very pleasant places to spend time and money, but the average ones are entirely forgettable and the bad ones are awful. Cafes like Ince’s are unpretentious and simple and the transaction (and the menu) has been the same for decades.
The older you get the more change you are exposed to: this is a tautological statement but it is also profound in its ability to explain why people change as they get older. In a sense, we are changed by all the change we experience, we become weary of it, become desperate for something familiar, something constant, something that isn’t going to change, that will still be there next year. One day Ince’s won’t be on Wastdale Rd anymore: this corner of London is rapidly changing, and soon you won’t be able to find anywhere you can buy your breakfast with those strange metal coins in your pocket.