Loves: Breakfast. Hates: Mornings.

I’m not a morning person. In the slightest.

There’s something unnatural about all that bright light, and chirping birds/people that makes my want to curl up under my blanket like it’s a cave, and stay there. The down side to my self-imposed hibernation, however, is missing out on breakfast. I love breakfast. Sweet or savoury, light or heavy, simple or smorgasbord. It’s all on offer, and it’s all delicious.
The only thing I love more than breakfast, is Fremantle. Born and raised a Fremantle baby, the quiet bustle of the streets, aromatics wafting from the bajillion cafes, the hum of the markets, the rhythm of dreadlocked buskers/Metros at 4am… I feel it all like my own heartbeat.
So to draw a close on a glorious Queens birthday/CHOGM long weekend, I was determined to get out among it. After I hit the snooze button a couple of more times…

I dragged along my Non-Foodie Companion to come check out The Attic with me. He’s also not a morning person. Or a Fremantle person, for that matter. This may have been a mistake…

The Attic

The Attic, tucked away on Bannister St, just off the main cappuccino strip. From the street, it would pass for someone’s humble red-bricked abode, lest for the chalkboard out the front, with an arrow pointing inside. Stepping through the doorway, lay the bustling counter, laden with caffeine fixes and sweet treats.
After standing a bit awkwardly in front of the counter (me? awkward?) I managed to score a couple of menus, and quickly stole upstairs.

Specializing in Tunisian baked eggs, called shakshouka, it makes an interesting changed to a traditional cooked breakfast.
The rest of the menu is fairly simple, and caters well to vegetarian/vegans/gluten-free crowd, as so required in Fremantle.
On the drive down, I was hell bent on getting stuck into the eggs, served with chorizo in a tomato reduction. But once I got there, my stomach had its own ideas. Oven baked oats, with berry compote and natural yogurt. There was no way that was not happening. I’m weak willed, what my stomach says, goes. Clearly, I know who’s in charge here.
Non-Foodie, however, before he’d had a chance to look at the menu, declared “You’ve brought me to one of those weird places where I’m not going to like anything, haven’t you?”.
I did my best to placate him with promises of a trip to a bakery if he remained unsatisfied. He settled on a toasted breakfast wrap, and I scuttled downstairs to place our order, as frankly, I’m not exactly human until there’s a cup of coffee in my system. No, really, I shouldn’t be spoken to, least I actually growl at you. It happens.

Back upstairs, the space is an eclectic group of couches, crates and chairs, and one looong table, either next to pretty stained glass windows, or overlooking the counter chaos.
Before  long, coffee was served. It’s good coffee. Nothing annoys me more than paying $5 for burnt, bitter, scalding hot sludge. This was none of those things.
Surprisingly quickly after, my oats arrived. They looked nothing short of amazing in their little jar (“what’s wrong with bowls?” asks Non-Foodie), piled high with chopped raw almonds.

Baked Oats

I nibbled a few, while we waited for the other half of the order to arrive.
Except it didn’t.
I’ve worked in and around kitchens since I could hold a pastry brush, and Non-Foodie has 7 years experience working in hotels, so we both know that bad days in the kitchen happen. We weren’t too fussed if they were a little slow. However, after a half hour of trying to make eye contact with a waitress (who oddly never seemed to want to look directly at us), I finally managed to point out that we were missing something.
“Oh, the kitchen knows they lost it. But they’re taking care of it.”
Oh. Thanks for giving us the heads up on that.
A few minutes later,  it arrived. The waitress wasn’t overly apologetic, however did offer another round of coffee to make amends. Hey, I’m easily pleased.

Breakfast Wrap

Fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon, greens and tomato relish. A winning combination in anyone’s books.
My oats were sensational. Filling without being heavy, and the tart of the berries cutting through the sweet to avoid being over the top sugary, it struck a perfect balance.

On the way out, fully loaded with tasty goodness, I spied some seriously good-looking blueberry tarts. However, there was no way I was going to be able to have it survive the trip home intact. I had further Fremantle adventures* to embark on…

All together, I’d go back there again (Non-Foodie will probably not). The coffee was perfect, breakfast was spot on. The service leaves a little to be desired, and a quick glance on their Urbanspoon page confirms that this is not out of the ordinary for them. However, for another chance at those eggs… Well, we know my mind doesn’t make these decisions.

*Note: That’s a hint. A blatant, subtle-as-a-punch-in-the-face, hint. Yes, there’s more to come. Clever you for guessing! I knew we were friends for a reason. You’re awesome.


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