Be still my beating heart...no, can't. I'm panicking on the inside. It's a woozy feeling, brought on by day old alcohol working it's way out of my system; the warm butterflies because I've just realized I'm madly in love with the waiter who is moving about the dining room and not, *tragically*, waiting on us; and the dish that has just been set down in front of the woman at the table to my left. Dear god, I want what she's having-- I don't even know what it is, but I know I didn't order it. Panicking, panicking, panicking. I'm at 2223 and I'm in love in more ways than I can count.
The woman informs me it's the roasted mushroom bread pudding, and the waitress recommended it. That's interesting, I loathe bread pudding; it's too bready, almost always. But I'd seen it on the menu and for some reason blushed a little bit. It promised mushrooms, it promised goat cheese, green salad, all things I adore. Something had come over me, so I psyched myself out, and went with the safe order of an egg white omelette with gruyere and sundried tomato pesto and an herbed scone. But staring at the plate on the next table it hit me--I didn't want that omelette anymore and quite honestly felt like I might die if I didn't get the bread pudding. Panicking, panicking, panicking. My supportive friends, with whom complicated ordering is habit, informed me it was okay to ask the waitress to make the change. I was slowly having a meltdown, we'd already been waiting for our food for a little while. It seemed unlikely the kitchen wasn't working on it. But we asked anyway. Our waitress, the clear industry leader in brunch service, took care of it for me, and bless her heart, only a few moments later I was sitting in front of my own hot plate of mushroom bread pudding. Crisis averted. Heart beat subsiding. That was almost a complete disaster.
Our breakfast entrees arrived after we'd cleared the frosting off a small plate containing one mammoth warm pecan cinnamon roll. This cinnamon roll was absolute heaven. Light dough glazed with gooey caramelized sugar and candied pecans, delicate frosting...good lord. I don't eat cinnamon rolls very often and this made me want to start but only if they are this good every single time. And that's simply impossible. One reason to return to 2223, warm gooey cinnamon rolls, noted. Of five of us at the table, three people ordered the smoked salmon benedict. It was by some transcendental force that I didn't order it too. Herbed scones formed the foundation for two perfectly poached eggs cloaked by a mound of shimmering ribbons of smoked salmon and a lovely dress of hollandaise (not too creamy, not too lemony. I'm not the biggest hollandaise fan, but these people clearly get it.) A light green salad with radishes and shaved fennel graced the plate's outer edge. It was a heartwarming dish in every sense.
And back to the bread pudding. My one complaint is that, in spite of my late ordering, the plate may have sat under cool green salad and the heat lamp one racing heartbeat too long. The melted cheese on top of my bowl-molded bread pudding had hardened ever so slightly. It wasn't a ruiner, but a mild hash mark against them. Otherwise, everything was perfect. The salad was lightly dressed and arrived blanketing the bread pudding, which was not bready in the slightest, though it had an impressively crisp topside. The middle was light and fluffy, strongly egg-based, warm, and overall very sensitive to my needs. My heart beat finally slowed. The food coma set in. I stared, glassy eyed, at the waiter who was not giving me the time of day. I was in love with the food, in love with that man, and most of all in love with the waitress who pulled it all together.
Beware 2223, I will be back to see you soon. Perhaps with a ring in hand.
1 comment:
Will the ring be for the waiter or the pudding?
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