The 7am crowd of builders and the SW1 suited queue for the perfect fryup. A majestic simplicity of doing one thing well, relentlessly. For me, perfect eggs topped with perfect Hollandaise, elsewhere someone is having full English chips and beans announces a cockney siren with no graces or affectation, completing aurally the totality of this robustly London theatre of breakfast. Mugs of a black brew from the steamer, on formica tables, beneath gingham curtains. There is nothing twee, everything is tonkable. A little self-aware, perhaps too self-referential, in its wall hangings, but it has nothing to lose in perpetuating its own mythology. The Regency is king of cooking a tradition that will never grow old.