Cafe Mondo, 42 Peckham Rd, London SE5 8PX
They grow up so fast
Having been born at 40, for me, growing up was largely characterised by the same frustration felt when catching your belt loop on a door handle. The paralysis that comes with having all that vim and vigour utterly neutered by having to rely on parents or older siblings for lifts, booze or occasional access to parties way above your pay grade.
Typically, ageing in a way that remains ‘young-at-heart’ often comes wrapped in a bunting of red flags, but very occasionally, results in something glorious.
Appealing to me in the same way which inspired my terminal crush on Max Halley, Mondo’s ability to conjure sandwiches with wit and irreverence matched only by the diligent consideration and skill underpinning them, had me like a moth to a bulb.
Owners Jack Macrae and Viggo Blegvad quickly separated themselves from hordes of chancers attempting to get in on this bizarre gold rush.
Later moving from The White Horse in Peckham to The Grovehouse Tavern in Camberwell, where they continue their residency today, November 2024 finally saw them graduate to their very own bricks-and-mortar as Cafe Mondo, just down the road, following a wildly successful Kickstarter in which The Editor immediately invested. We’ve watched Mondo’s trajectory like proud surrogate parents, with each year ostensibly bringing them more creative and financial control.
Although initially cutting their teeth making hoagies suited to the inconceivably overweight, car-borne detectives produced by 70s and 80s America, Mondo hasn’t forgotten its roots. With its retro interior of woodgrain wainscoting and long, kitchen-facing countertop, Cafe Mondo has evolved into the sort of place these detectives willingly alight their patrol car to pump perps for information between constant refills of filter coffee. But, as ever, Cafe Mondo is so much more than meets the eye.
The night we arrive, this long-fermented anticipation causes the air to fizz with the palpable splicing of joy and relief that the dream is now reality. Macrae and Blegvad move with the unhackled poise of hospitality veterans, bolstered with a unique swagger that only comes from cherished ownership.
A sandwich shop by day, the menu champions the classic muffuletta — ‘The Cold Cut Dreamboat’ whilst the counter groans with inspired sarnies, like fish fingers with gribiche and mushy peas. However, the evening menu morphs into a new yet familiar beast, but is no less an extension of the core Mondo values of being a serious giggle.
The ‘Teenie Weenie MSG Martini’ is a frosty little glass with an olive rolling lazily at the bottom; it’s inspired — the full thwack of umami increasing as the chill recedes. The margarita slushie cut from a similar ‘it’s fun and nice, we like it, so that’s what matters’ cloth.
With the ‘beef fat crostini with anchovies’ understandably sold out, we go for the unmade bed of fennel-flecked Finocchiona, strewn with giardiniera delivering an open-palm slap, the sting cross-fading into a burn of chilli.
Rather than the vaguely cylindrical mesh of split ends of traditional latkes, Mondo opts for a briquette, somewhere between the ubiquitous pavé and a hashbrown, sweet with slips of onion. The brown sauce is a textbook foil to the burnished fats and carbs; a sombre ooze of molasses thickened with tomato purée and possibly tamarind.
A tarpaulin of seared taleggio splayed into crispy lace at the edges over toast, gleams with hot honey; an MRI slide of Scotch Bonnet, the wax seal of a letter containing word of deep fruitiness and lingering smoulder. Much of the evening menu’s bread comes toasted, likely giving one last defibrillation to the day’s staling supply before the bin.
Throughout my childhood, I’d forever undermine my Mum’s efforts to feed us with whole foods by fawning over ready meals and takeaways, with McDonald’s becoming taboo. “We can make cheeseburgers at home!” she’d fire back, knowing full well that the lab-created alchemy afforded to McDonald’s rendered it impossible. I therefore have a treasured place in my enlarged heart for those who can imitate this chemistry more or less from scratch.
In light of this, the standout is the ‘Patty Melt’. Roughly hewn slices of grilled bread packed with a coarse, caramelised jumble of beef mince, all welded together with an ooze of Big Mac-esque sauce, Swiss and the blessed American cheese. “We’ve got cheeseburgers at home, baby”, it purrs, rasping into an assuringly dirty laugh.
Modestly billed as ‘peri clams’ is a take on surf & turf that verges on adorable. Plump little keto sweets, shells stuck with alliums two ways: a fine, translucent dice of shallots and slivers of chive, vanishing into a sumptuous broth, cosy with chicken stock, uplit with a little heat. Slices of thoroughly grilled bread stand by to be plunged in for the sop.
The McDopplegangbang continues with the ‘deep fried treacle tart’, which resembles the famous apple pies that typically played a solely functional role when being delivered — their nuclear core temperature keeping things hot in transit until safe enough to eat the next day. Eliciting a deep nasal inhale only otherwise brought about by a deep tissue massage, it once again evokes both memories of McDonald’s whilst utterly outperforming nostalgia in one vital way: the use of real-life butter and a fat slope of cream.
Cafe Mondo is the fruit of pursuing a vision with diamond hands without betraying principles and customer loyalty in the name of expansion, of which many fall foul. Everything continues to feel crowd-funded — a feat which speaks to the public affection Mondo, as a brand, has managed to garner and incubate since its inception.
Watching them move from residencies to owning their own place in just under the time it took to half-arse a uni degree is as heartwarming and eye-misting as it is a wake-up call. We’ve witnessed the shift from adolescence into adulthood in a way that’s rare, emerging with vibrancy intact, undulled by the ravages of age, still with their trademark ‘smile, a wink and double gunfingers’ affability. They grow up so fast.