Sunday. The day that assholes the world over partake in the tragically middle class ritual that is brunch. Being one such asshole, and never one to be left out, I too frequently partake in the custom. This week's brunch took me to Market Cafe. Generally, I like the place. It's full of gorgeous natural light and offers Prosecco on tap. I appreciate this because I enjoy hiding my alcoholism behind socially acceptable lunch beverages, such as mimosas. It's also a fantastic spot to check out all the hot local hipster dads. There, my friend and I talked about all the usual brunch classics: life, love, and our respective opinions on whether or not we should stay in the EU. (Fuck you, Boris Johnson. I hope you cycle off your shitting garden bridge. We're not leaving.) Everything was going great until it was time to order. As a vegan - I know, I'm the worst kind of human being - my options were somewhat limited. So I ended up settling on the Ratatouille. Approximately five mimosas later, my lunch arrived: a bowl of what appeared to be a handful of sad courgettes in some gnarly tomato sauce. Being a disgusting pig-person, I was somewhat dismayed. This would not be enough to satisfy my ravenous appetite. So, to remedy the situation, I ordered some sourdough bread. And when that was not enough, I ordered some more. (In total, I think I ordered something like four slices. But who can really be sure, because at this point I'm borderline blackout drunk.) Desperately needing something more substantial, we decided to pay our bill and go somewhere else in search of sustenance. Imagine my surprise when I found I was charged close to six pounds for my bread. Now call me old fashioned, but I don't think I should have to remortgage my flat just to be able to afford a meal in Hackney. Now, this situation was troubling for me as it filled my heart and soul cognitive dissonance. Was I an idiot for paying close to six quid for what was less than a quarter of a loaf of bread? Or was this the best fucking bread in the universe and worth every penny? Since I'm a pathological narcissist, I was unable to accept the former as a reality. And instead, had to concede to the following: Market Cafe sells the BEST FUCKING BREAD in the entire universe. 5/5 stars