Gilbert and George's Eastenders

"Even if you go to Simpsons in the Strand, it's not as delicious as Clyde's," says George. "He did stews and pies and tongue and breast of lamb."

"Oxtail," says Gilbert. "He was a crazy cook. He started every night at 12 o'clock, until two in the afternoon. Six in the morning, you could have the best breakfast. Ham, or even roast beef." "Steamed syrup pudding," says George, "spotted dick!"

On Sundays, they breakfast at one of the few remaining Italian cafes, Franks.

"Frank came over in 1961," says Gilbert. "We were chatting the other Sunday," says George. "He was telling us the whole history. They come from a small village near Naples. They are very proud because it is the birthplace of Sophia Loren. The mother and father and two fantastic looking sons run the place."

"They look exactly like they saw the films of Pasolini," says Gilbert. "Beautiful faces."

"Sundays are very nice," says George, "because you see all the Riney road men. We know them all from digging up the street. They used to eat in the Market Café."

As we progress along Brick Lane, Gilbert notes that in 1968 there were only two Indian restaurants. In those days, they patronised the Clifton. "At the time there were only Indian people, and us, and policemen going there," says Gilbert.

"The policemen got a free table," says George. "I agonised over whether I should report them or not."

We turn down Hanbury Street, which houses one of their current favourites, the Meraz. "It's extremely good food," notes George. "Unlike standard curry. Totally different. The teenage waiters, if you miss a week, they stop you in the street and say, with complete seriousness, 'Why don't you eat with us any more?'"

"It's very good," says Gilbert, "because George gets the Muslim hug, three times." "It's an honour," says George. "All the fathers remember us," says Gilbert.

"They came alone, the Bangladeshis," says George. "They were all in little bedsits, so they had to eat out. That was the generation you could have sex with. The next generation you couldn't."

On the other side of the street is Gale Furs, where Gilbert is having a new hat fashioned to his own design. It is a cold morning, and he is wearing his old one, which makes him look like a drowsy beaver. As we walk past, the furrier appears with a pelt.

"He used to work in number 8, from a boy of 15," Gilbert tells me when he has gone. "It was the last furrier in Fournier Street." Gilbert and George bought the house 10 years ago, for £260,000.

Living by Brick Lane has ensured that graffiti often occurs in Gilbert and George's pictures. They have more than 10,000 photographs of graffiti tags, going back 15 years.

"Every sect has its sign - the star of David or the candlestick, or the cross - and every tagger has his own tag like that," says George. "But they do stop after a while. There are no adult taggers."

"I think it's like being a supermodel, don't you?" says Gilbert. "On drugs. They want the signature to be famous."

George says graffiti artist Banksy once photographed Gilbert and George in Brick Lane. "But then he must have realised that it didn't serve his purpose so well to do sprays of other artists. London, especially the East End, is extraordinary now.

"They say there's upwards of 20,000 artists. The biggest concentration in the world. We're stopped all the time by people saying could we direct them to this gallery or that gallery. We don't even know where they are. There are dozens of galleries in every backstreet."

"In some way tagging is degrading the street," says Gilbert, "and that's why it's becoming famous. We don't want a clean city." "Tagging is very important," says George. "Every newspaper and every politician says 'We don't like taggers'. That's absurd."

"At least we supported the hoodies before David Cameron," says Gilbert. "It was called a pixie hood when I was a child," says George. "Little waterproof ones with two strings. It goes back to the crusades and the earliest monks."

In Taj Stores, Gilbert gapes at the exotic vegetables, while George pauses to fondle an implement used in the dissection of coconuts. "Aren't they thrilling?" he purrs. "Best to keep it out of the bedroom."

We return to the house, and they reminisce a little. When they first came to Spitalfields, the city gents had rolled umbrellas, bowler hats and fresh carnations.

"They had very worn pinstripe suits that would have to last years. Shiny elbows. They'd have half a pint of bitter then on to the train and back for dinner to some distant suburb. It was quite miserable. We used to watch them coming out of the Underground in the morning to go to the offices. They all looked very stressed.

"Now they're all springing up the elevator, with a bag to go to the gym first, or to go to the gents and have a joint. They're such a cheerful lot."

"We always said if you put all the suits that ever existed into a computer, a normal suit will come out - that's ours," says Gilbert. "The super-average one."

They still think of themselves as outsiders, but Gilbert and George have never been more fashionable. Super-average is another way of saying their favourite word: extraordinary.

Gilbert & George: Major Exhibition Tate Modern, runs from 15 February until 7 May.