Egg

It was Friday afternoon and I was in the middle of a Su Doku (or "So Duko" as EyeHawk, I mean Hawkeye calls it) duel with Hawkeye. He beat me twice during his stay and I was not going to let him win again. When my phone rang and I saw "Unknown" come up, I ignored it, as I usually do when "Unknown" calls. After I beat Hawkeye by two measly boxes, I checked my voicemail and was pleasantly surprised to hear my uncle's voice on the other end, inviting us to breakfast the next morning. What an unexpected treat!

I called him right back, and apologized for not answering. Uncle B informed me he and his friend were going to breakfast in Brooklyn at Egg. His friend's cousin (or nephew, I can't recall) is the chef and they were eager to go and introduce us. Not only that, but Uncle B told me New York Magazine would be shooting that morning, so who knows, maybe we'd end up as a restaurant centerfold.

Hawkeye and I hopped in a cab from the fabulous apartment we rented for the week (that's enough for another post) and I had a strange sense of deja vu. Our cab driver had no idea how to reach our desired destination. We may as well have said, "Kansas, please." Luckily he called one of his trusty colleagues who stayed in his ear giving directions. Nothing beats having a taxi with a personal GPS system.

We arrived at the correct street address, but I wasn't 100 percent certain we'd found our spot. The sign outside read "Sparky's all-American Food," not "Egg." This seemed odd. Perhaps it was a decoy, so the out-of-the-loopers would keep on walking. When I figured it must be the place, we poked our heads in and I spotted my Uncle. He later explained to me the spot has two personalities. In the mornings, it's the breakfast-serving Egg. In the evenings, it's taken over by a different team feeding all-natural hamburger and hot dogs to the masses. In other words, a goldmine.

When we safely arrived at Egg, Uncle B and his friend were seated at the table waiting for us. After hugs and introductions, we sat and let our eyes wander. Egg is simple in name and decor. The naked walls were a cloudy gray, and it felt like someone was supposed to paint them but never got around to it. The tables were covered in brown paper and there were some crayons lying around, which you were encouraged to use at your artistic discretion. The cold pavement at our feet gave the dining room an industrialistic feel. The tables resembled drafting tables, as if we were eating in an artist's studio. After breakfast, I learned this wasn't far from the truth.

A server came over to us as soon as we sat down and quietly asked if we'd like something to drink. This was the first of her many visits to the table as she took great care of us the rest of the morning. We both ordered coffee and I smiled when it came in a small French press. Nothing beats individual drink makers, whether it's for coffee, tea, or martinis. Uncle B instructed me to go gradual with the pushing, so not to use all the ground coffee in one pour. Uncle B then pointed to a few slices of cinnamon-baked apple slices on the table. In my typical "Oh, just a small bite" fashion I cut one in half, but that wasn't enough. I then cut it in quarters, but didn't stop there. After continuing to slice and dice, I ate not one but three slices.

I looked at the menu and my jaw dropped. An omelet for seven bucks? Pancakes for six? This place was too good to be true. Not only were the prices incredible, but by the end of our decision-making process, we had talked about the promise of each item. How were we supposed to decide between all these great things? My days as a "garbage disposal" and full-time college athlete paid off, and I came up with a plan to pile as much food on the table as possible. We agreed to order different dishes before we ordered a round of pancakes to split between the four of us. Yes, I said round like I was ordering shots of tequila. Not good.

I chose the Grafton cheddar omelet, with broiled tomatoes, shaved ham, and hash browns. My omelet was the lightest and fluffiest thing I'd ever tasted. And it wasn't overcooked. I like omelets with a little bit of wetness to them. It was perfect. I am not even a huge cheddar eater, but I will now be investing in the Grafton cheddar company. I tasted, I exclaimed how good it was, then tasted again, and went through this pattern until my plate was clean. I couldn't stop saying how great it was. Every couple of bites I would fork in some of the spicy soft tomatoes, while pretending to focus on the conversation around me. I went in for some of the shaved ham and it tasted like a lighter version of bacon-thin and crispy minus the fat. I could get used to this. When I thought it couldn't get any better, I put my fork into the hash brown ball and steam came out. That's one way to make potatoes stay warm on a breakfast plate. Fry 'em in a ball! The concept was just as good as the taste.

Hawkeye chose the biscuits and gravy, or homemade buttermilk biscuits in gravy with pork sausage. I tried a small bite of the concoction and would have gone for another if I wasn't completely and utterly in love with my dish. I wasn't willing to commit dining adultery. Uncle B ordered the country ham biscuit, or Kentucky ham served on a biscuit with homemade fig jam, Grafton cheddar, and a side of grits. I think it was a little much for him, but not for me. I tried the combination of sweet and salty and loved it. I even snuck a bite of plain biscuit and wish I stole the remains of the dough for a week's worth of breakfast. It sure beat the Mc-Scones I get by my office. The biscuit was buttery and compact - not too airy - which I really liked.

Uncle B's friend ordered eggs and bacon, and the piece de resistance: pancakes with Vermont maple syrup. Our pancake plate turned into a lazy Susan. We tugged and dipped and sliced and all enjoyed the soft and buttery pancakes. I am usually a fan of dry pancakes (hold the syrup, please), but had to go for the mini-container of Vermont maple syrup. I'm glad I did.

Somewhere in this breakfast bonanza I forgot to mention the New York Magazine photographers. They were in and out of people's faces and plates like the paparazzi. It was amazing how comfortable everyone was pigging out for the cameras, except me. All my cool goes out the window with the slightest flinch of a camera. Just ask Hawkeye. Every time the camera came within an arm's length of me, I sat up straight, took a sip of coffee, looked for the smallest bite of omelet, and pretended with every ounce of my being not to look at the lens. The photographers never spoke a word, and nobody asked them to either. If I hadn't been in the know, I would have asked what they were shooting for. And there you have it-the difference between me and real New Yorkers. Real New Yorkers can't be bothered by such trivialities as a camera disrupting a favorite pastime. My curiosity (or nosiness, depending on how you look at it) always gets the best of me. You can see the picture they chose in last week's NYM issue. I had to look well and hard at the picture before I realized it wasn't our table. But that's no surprise. No shutter speed could have clicked fast enough to catch our plates filled with breakfast treats.

On a personal note, I switched jobs and starting February 1, I will be on a Monday through Friday schedule. Hooray for me! I haven't had weekends off in two and a half years, and one of the weekend pleasures I've missed most has been breakfast with friends. I told my roommate she better save the first Saturday in February for me. I know where we're headed.

*cash only*
135 North 5th St, between Bedford Avenue and Berry Street
Brooklyn
(888) 843-8399