Beagle, Hoxton: The Ryan Gosling of restaurants



Everyone has that one thing they take really, really seriously. It’s what algebraic formulas were to Pythagoras. What falling apples were to Newton. What never brushing your hair is to Boris. Something which isn’t looked upon lightly, which is honed to undeniable perfection until you know that little ‘C-Squared’ answer inside out, until you know all there is to know about that godforsaken fallen apple and you until you know that you can brazenly walk into parliament without a shred of shame about the fact you look like a freakin’ scarecrow trippin’ balls. Yeah?

Well, for us, our mathematical gravitational political equivalent is brunch. It’s like a sport to us. A sport we never lose at. So finding a new place to go to for an amazing brunch, a place we can train to be the best goddam brunch goers there ever were, well, it’s a big deal. Our latest find is probably one of the best training grounds – or brunch gyms, if you will – that we’ve been to for a long time and because we’re ace, we’re gonna share the love and tell you all about it.


Beagle in East London sits tucked away under the railway arches of Hoxton’s overground station. You might miss it if you didn’t know it was there. But that’s Beagle all over – it’s not the drunken teenage girl who dances on the tables at parties, it’s the well-dressed understated dude who chills in the corner sipping bourbon and seducing everyone without even trying. Beagle is the player of players and for interior design whores like us, it played us like putty in its hands.



Beagle’s exterior is an outfit of charcoal metals, rubbed-down oak sleepers, Edison bulb lanterns and perfectly clipped topiary. What a stud. Step inside and the sexual prowess continues. Exposed brick walls, potted lush saplings, stylish furniture pieces and the hollows of the arched barrelled ceilings overhead. Woof. Our appetites had been satisfied before we’d even seen the menu.



Of course, if we know Beagle, which we now do, the art of seduction didn’t stop there. The brunch menu was full of alternative offerings with original twists which shunned the usual eggs and bacon options. With zero willpower and a huge lack of intention to retain our dignity, we succumbed far too easily to the fruits of Beagle’s chat-up. It wasn’t long before we were filling our faces with vanilla-infused buttermilk pancakes accompanied by rhubarb and crème fraiche which were ‘the best god damn pancakes I’ve ever had’. So light and fluffy. We interspersed those with the delicious flavours of superior-cut bacon, hash browns and perfectly poached eggs – the hot orange runny yolks of which got everywhere. Filthy. All this, whilst Beagle got us drunk on sublimely ridiculous Bloody Mary’s and Rhubard Bellinis.

We’d arrived at Beagle feeling probably a little bit too cocksure. Expecting to practise and perfect our brunch chowing abilities. To be better contenders at a game we thought we’d practically invented. We didn’t expect to be so thoroughly wowed by every aspect of this place that we’d leave with a little bit less brunch-know-all. Maybe we needed bringing back down to Earth a bit? Either way, Beagle didn’t put a foot wrong. The food was outstanding, the booze was precious and the interiors were borderline arousing. Seriously, London. Get yourselves here to sort your Sunday heads out to the highest standards.

It’s official, we’re in love. In fact, we’re taking Beagle home to meet our parents.


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