Classic orange is what you’re getting, but at the champagne-to-OJ ratio and speed of service (you’re always on your first glass if it’s never empty!), you’d be a fool to want any variety.

Once you translate all the charming British-isms (rocket means arugula; black and white pudding remains a mystery), you’re left with standard-fare brunch options, including a “Proper English Breakfast” that’s somehow a bigger mess than Brexit.

You’ll be blessed with the fastest food service this side of the Mississippi, while still getting a few mimosa refills in between. Our waiter patiently absorbed many questions about the menu’s eccentricities, and even if they all remained unaddressed, you had to admire his patience.

Cozy-chic probably isn’t actually a thing, but a corner table nestled under a window is certainly a vibe, and when combined with red telephone booths and soccer on TV, you feel a sense of place rare for noon on a Saturday.