“Ko-ha-nim…“

The cantor stands on the bimah, the raised platform in the centre of the synagogue, facing out towards the East, towards Jerusalem, towards where the Holy Temple once stood, before it was destroyed by the Babylonians, and then rebuilt, and then destroyed again, this time by the Romans, and yet whose legacy is such that it remains a spiritual lodestone, to where all synagogues are orientated, all the synagogues around the world.

The cantor now addresses the kohanim: the segment of the community who affiliate as descendants of the biblical priestly class. They shuffle in as one, cloaked in white tallis prayer shawls, setting themselves in a row at the front. Then, turning silently to face the congregation, they slowly raise their arms aloft, as is the tradition for this prayer.

And then they chant.

*

“Set beans, set tomatoes, hash browns. Any sauce?..”

The Regency Cafe is an old-school caff in the heart of Westminster: an old cabbies’ haunt where the drivers take their early morning victuals before a long day crisscrossing the city streets and circumventing its dysfunctional ring roads.

Nowadays, you’ll find more international tourists than taxi drivers, lured by glowing reviews in guide books, or its many featured cameos in films aiming to portray a characterful slice of London. Still, there’s always a smattering of old-timers and greasy-spoon traditionalists, and the occasional gang of ravenous construction workers on a morning break. It does the best fry-ups in town.

But more than that, thanks to an operation that stretches for almost eight decades, and a proud management with nostalgic sensibilities, the place is awash with rituals and symbols. And that is why visits here, however obliquely, remind me of synagogue.

*

I grew up attending an Orthodox synagogue in North Manchester. Every week and every festival throughout my childhood, my family would go. Such a regularity brought routine, and routine brought comfort. So when I say I am reminded of synagogue, it is this one in particular that comes to mind.

Not that other Orthodox synagogues are all that different. Orthodox Judaism holds staunchly onto its rules and traditions, viewing them as divine paths to immutable truths. Change is therefore anathema, and customs are preserved as though in amber, providing solidity in a world that is always moving apace. So wherever you are in the world, Orthodox synagogues all have a similar internal architecture, their services adhere to the same script.

Inside, at the very front, is the ark: the cabinet or chamber that contains the Torah scrolls. It echoes the ‘Holy of Holies’, the inner sanctum of the ancient Temple that was said to house the Ark of the Covenant, the divine wooden chest carried by the Israelites in the wilderness. The ark and the elevated bimah are like the moon and the earth, the axis by which everything pivots. Custom dictates that one cannot walk in the space between them whilst the ark’s curtain is open and the Torah scrolls are revealed. Growing up, it therefore felt a hallowed mystical space, as if inadvertently straying into it might result in being turned into a pillar of salt. Such is a child’s mind.

Around the walls, you won’t find any images of people, figures or faces: this is considered idolatrous. At most there is a modest stained glass window. Decoration and finery is instead lavished on the Torah scrolls, several of them huddled in a row inside the ark, cloaked in velvet or cotton, and adorned with an array of ornamental metalwork: engraved breastplates, towering finials that cap the wooden scroll rollers, and the yad pointer that the cantor uses to scan the ancient verse.

As it is an Orthodox synagogue, men and women sit apart – men along rows of pew-seating that line the flanks, women on corresponding balconies overhead, or alternatively, tucked behind the mechitza curtain at the back. (Growing up, that just seemed normal to me; I later learned that the more egalitarian Reform and Liberal congregations do not have balconies or partitions, and allow people to sit where they wish.)

There is a further methodology to the seating arrangements. The rabbi has a dedicated perch at the front, whilst other dignitaries sit in a row at the foot of the bimah, like figureheads on a ship’s prow. Members of the congregation meanwhile get assigned seats, under which they may keep service books, tallis prayer shawls, and perhaps even a few boiled sweets in reserve to throw jubilantly at barmitzvahs or on the festival of Simchas Torah.

In this way, one’s experience of communal prayer isn’t just limited to the one synagogue, but also to one specific viewpoint – the same vista week after week, festival after festival, simcha after simcha, year after year, and for many of the congregants, right up until death. Throughout that time, there’ll be the same familiar band of faces in the nearby benches, sharing banter, camaraderie, family news and mildly biased football analysis, not to mention the obligatory handshake each time someone passes through.

*

The Regency Cafe has two doorways fixed into its Art Deco exterior – an entrance and an exit – like you find in a cathedral. As you step in, you are immediately confronted by two things. Firstly, its lively bustling interior, the buzz of people chatting, the clattering sounds emanating from the open kitchen. Secondly is the queue, which has invariably wound its way to the doorway, arcing through the room like a particularly scoliotic spine.

The queue has its rules. Namely, you have to join as soon as you enter. On no account must you try to bag a table first. This is not permitted. A sign tells you this as you walk in. You will be spotted, and the host at the counter will announce your misdemeanour right across the room, leading to all the diners turning towards you, admittedly in some bemusement, as you sheepishly stand up and make haste to the back of the line.

The queue’s slow shuffle at least gives you time to inspect the walls. There is much to see – photographs, illustrations, posters, autographs, an oversized wall clock in the classic style, and a shrine to Tottenham Hotspur Football Club, where photos of Jimmy Greaves and Ledley King hang like proud certificates or cherished family portraits. Just adjacent are posters paying homage to boxing idols Rocky Marciano and Muhammed Ali, whilst a prized pair of golden gloves dangle off a hook. On reaching the till, there’s a vintage framed board just behind detailing the breakfast menu: the text is divided into two sweeping columns like biblical commandments.

The interior is marked by swathes of contrasting colours: coffee-brown chairs welded to the tables in Tetris-like configurations of two, four or six; red-and-white checked curtains hanging from a brass bar by the windows; pastel green formica table tops, some of which are upended sideways to double-up as partitions; lino flooring of deep garnet whose swirling pattern resembles the ceaseless surface of the sun.

At the back, a combination of counter and pandemic-era perspex divides the dining space from the kitchen, behind which staff go about their work with clockwork efficiency, garbed in matching white aprons, paper catering hats, and blue chequered trousers. Everyone has their role, including the worker whose main job is to clean up as soon as diners have moved on, flitting like a bee from table to table armed with cloth and detergent spray.

On reaching the front of the queue, you deposit your order through a small circular hole in the screen, like some kind of confessional booth. If you’ve ordered tea, it is promptly dispatched – a thick tannic brew poured from an industrial-sized steel pot. Then come rounds of toast (white, naturally), crispy on the outside, chewy in the middle, and accompanied by foiled parcels of butter that soften quickly in the warmth.

Now it’s the moment that has no doubt been on your mind ever since you joined the queue – where to sit? For throughout this time, you would have been keeping a furtive eye on table occupancy: which groups are mopping up their last morsels from their plates, or draining the last dregs from their mugs. Once potential options have been identified, you’ll find yourself counting up the parties ahead of you in the queue, hoping that a place reveals itself just at the right time.

If the stars align, you may end up bagging that perfect spot – for me, a small quiet table nestled in the far corner, drinking in the sunlight that streams through the expansive front windows. Such predictions are however inexact and unreliable: parties at tables can linger longer than expected, whilst groupings in the queue aren’t always obvious, save perhaps for the occasional band of labourers all wearing the same branded work-shirt.

Either way, never fear: there’ll always be a seat. Maybe even a choice, so get yourself over to your preferred spot and claim it. The universe has designated this space as yours. But don’t make yourself too comfortable just yet: one ear needs to be out for your order.

Over several visits, I have noticed there seems to be one of two people behind the counter – a man or a woman – never together but both in possession of an imperious set of lungs, as if shared between them and worn by whoever’s on shift. (In my head I also imagine them to be a couple, conversing at home in the same booming voice – “YOU SEEN MY KEYS, LOVE?”.. “DIDN’T YOU PUT THEM BESIDE THE DOOR?”..)

Watching either in full flow is a sight to behold, how they seamlessly move from one task to the next – taking down orders, pouring out some tea, replenishing the tea jug, calling out someone’s toast, calling out diners who’ve claimed a table before queuing, processing a bank card, taking another order, squirting sauce over chips. They don’t miss a beat; time bends to their will.

*

“Ya’amod Aharon Akiva Ben Yehonatan…“

The gabbai calls out from the corner of the bimah, and directs his gaze towards the hailed congregant. The announcement is an invitation, a calling to the bimah to recite a prayer for a section of the Torah reading. The phrase begins with ‘Let him arise‘ – not only the literal act of ascending the steps of the bimah, but a spiritual rising too. There is honour in saying these blessings. Each week it is bestowed on those either in mourning, commemorating a loved one, or celebrating a simcha.

Here, the remaining words depict my name in Hebrew – Aharon (Aaron); Akiva (my middle name, after my great grandpa Kivy, who once walked from Belarus to Poland, before smuggling himself onto a ship for Scotland); Ben Yehonatan (son of Jonathan – as per the Jewish naming vernacular).

My first call-up would have been for my barmitzvah, and I remember that excited if terrifying walk from my seat, exchanging exuberant handshakes with all those I pass, then climbing up the bimah steps, glancing around at my proud family – my father, grandpa and uncles below; my mother, sister and aunties above – as I ready myself to recite from the Torah scrolls, feeling everyone’s eyes upon me. 

*

“Aaron!.. Aaron!.. Your toast is ready!..“

The voice projects like a town-cryer’s. There is a kind of melody and rhythm to the call: it rises above the clamour of chatter and clanging of cutlery, the sizzling of oil and tearing of receipts. As people are called to the counter, their names ring out like a refrain through a song. A song of chips, beans and protein.

As you step up, the voice becomes softer and more genial. Phrases end with ‘love’ and ‘thank you’. A dish is pressed into your hands, and you are asked whether you’d like brown sauce or ketchup. I always opt for both. The squirts are distinctly generous.

The plate is heaving. Two bulbous yolks, sunken within their pearlescent sockets, stare out through a heap of baked beans and a towering stack of hand-cut chips. As you manoeuvre back to the table, there is a glorious sense of anticipation, which only heightens once you sit down, take a sip of tea, and ponder on the best way to tackle this, as though a surveyor trying to navigate some unmapped topography. Meanwhile the host continues to call out names, orders and directives, time and again, and will do so long after you leave:

Ladies, two teas. Milk, sugar? These are your toast, love. 

Two eggs, one hash brown, one black pudding. Any sauce? Ketchup, on both?

Any sugar in the tea, love?

To the two lads who sat down before ordering, I’m not going to shame you, you know who you are. No sitting down before ordering!

Gentleman waiting toast… Toast is ready.

Ladies, toast ready!

Set beans. Hash browns. Black pudding. Any sauce?

Two toast, fellows.

One brown, one red, good choice!

*

After the Shabbat service, there is the customary kiddush where the congregation make their way to the communal hall for blessings over challah and wine. Laid over a table are neat rows of thimble-sized plastic cups, lined up according to whether they contain splashes of grape juice, kiddish wine or Bells whisky – battalions of burgundy, rose and gold.

As a child, the whisky surprises me: spirits don’t really feature in Judaism, or my home life, except during our regular family viewing of 80’s American soap operas – Dallas and Dynasty – where oil barons in cowboy hats swill from crystal tumblers, even whilst at work. I don’t really understand what it’s doing in synagogue.

Once prayers are recited, libations drunk and bread consumed, it is then time for a few snacks. This would invariably consist of traditional kichels – a spartan biscuit of eggs, flour and sugar – and slices of plain sponge and ginger cake. If there is a simcha, the celebrating family may treat the congregation to a fancier spread: fried gefilte fish, pickled cucumbers and chopped herring spread thickly over bagels. It makes a fine lunch.

*

I try to draw out my meal for as long as possible. I like the food. I like the atmosphere. I wish to linger.

I look at the queue that bisects the room, mindful that some of those standing will likely be marking out my spot. I feel a pang of guilt. But nevertheless I defiantly leave a few chips to the side, and pick one up only when I feel I have to, languorously dipping it in the remnants of whatever sauce is left.

And then a final sip of tea, rich and dark. It is now stone cold, and I know it is time to leave.

*

For an unbeatable, insightful take on London’s caffs – from greasy spoons to old-school Italian sandwich bars – check out Isaac Rangaswami’s Instagram page (caffs_not_cafés) and articles for Eater London. It was in Eater where I first heard about the Regency Cafe, not to mention many other great food spots across the city. Really sad to hear of its sudden closure this week, not least as it was such an outstanding publication, with its knowledgeable guides that spotlighted London’s diverse food cultures, whilst also delving into wider issues affecting the city and its communities. Excellent writing too. Such a loss for the city – it will be missed…

In the meantime, a big thank you to Adrienne Katz Kennedy for reviewing a draft of this piece. And finally, for more on Jewish food rituals, feel free to read my blog-post, Bitter Herbs, as well as my article on the Birchas Hamazon food blessings that recently featured in Vittles magazine.

Regency Cafe

The queue

The menu

Regency Cafe

The kitchen

Regency Cafe

The decor

Regency Cafe

The starters

Regency Cafe

The breakfast

Regency Cafe

The breakfast (close up)

Regency Cafe

The farewell