Early some mornings, when I’m working in London, I go for breakfast with two good friends. So that’s me, a fabric dealer and a psychotherapist. Obviously this sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it’s one for which, at the time of writing, I have no punchline. Soho’s our hunting ground, the hunt in question being for somewhere to have breakfast at 7am. There’s not much open at that time. I mean, it’s not asking for much, is it? Somewhere to sit and eat at what is hardly a punishingly early hour.
Being gentlemen of a certain age, we also require access to a toilet, which narrows our options still further. What this leaves us with is the grand total of four establishments. Three are fancy restaurants; one isn’t.
It’s the “isn’t” which is my preferred choice. What it is, is a cafe – or caff if you must, or greasy spoon if you really must. Obviously it’s the cheapest option, the others being so epically expensive that for the rest of the working day you feel – in golfing parlance – like you’re playing three off the tee. Also, the food’s better. The eggs Benedict here knock into a cocked hat the eggs Benedicts served up on silver platters in the posh places. Also, by the way, the tea comes in mugs. Yes, mugs. A pox on teacups, teapots, tea leaves, tea strainers and all that faff.
But the main thing I like is that when I look around at our fellow diners I get a good sense of what they’re about, sitting there in big boots and trousers with big pockets, eating great big breakfasts. Builders, scaffolders, plumbers, sparks, engineers of many stripes. I know what they’re up to. Proper clever work doing proper stuff. This, compared with the besuited smarty-pantsers elsewhere, picking at lavishly pricey morsels on china plates. What are they up to? Who knows? Doing no harm, one hopes. Moving money about, perhaps – always important work, as is a whole range of other highly remunerative white-collar capers.
Let’s be honest: the fabric man, the psychotherapist and I probably blend in better with that crowd. But I know where I’m happier in my skin. And as I down my second mug of tea, it gives me some pleasure to reflect that it’ll be a good while before AI is doing any of the work they do. As for the clever-dick crew, I’m not so sure.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
