The meow before the (lunch) roar
693 Brunswick St, New Farm
Just as eskimos have many words for snow and ice, I am developing a rich range of euphemisms for the act of vomiting.
Ever since the royal wedding, I have been puking with the tiresome regularity of a bulimic schoolgirl. In fact, I celebrated the ceremony by decorating some excellent british porcelain with recently-ingested cheap red wine. While the royals certainly churn my gut, they must share the blame with a litre of what I unwisely imagined to be posh goon.
Important learning of the night: There is no posh goon.
In between technicolour yawns this morning, The Mistress helped me stagger up the road to our local breakfast haunt. I’ve nursed a hangover at this fine establishment before, and the results have usually been positive. The staff are surely the coolest cafe folk I’ve ever dealt with, and recent memory told me that they did pretty decent breakfasts.
No dice. After my most recent lunch roar, I find myself wondering if the bilious taste in my mouth is perhaps a step up from some aspects of the Ponycat brekkie. This is surprising: look how beautiful this food is.
It would’ve been better if the marinated fetta atop my roasted roma tomatoes did not taste fishy. I actually double-checked the menu to see if any dish involved pilchards, cos this stuff smelt like pelican farts and I suspected that some kind of accidental cross-pollination of meals had occurred. Again, no dice. The Mistress is convinced that it was something to do with the bread, but I blame the mysterious cheese. I in future will regard all marinated feta with suspicion, lest I relive this morning’s man-fountain experience.
She ate something with Salmon, also good to look at but surprisingly banal on the tongue. The capers lacked zing, the fish felt greasy and the little gherkins messed with the balance of the mouthful.
The bread was superb, and along with friendly staff and decent coffee these little touches made the experience bearable. Perhaps last night’s binge has harmed my palate, or perhaps the chef was having an off day (who knows, he might’ve been at last night’s party?) but bearable is really the best rating I can give today’s breakfast. Here’s to better days for this charming spot.
Now, off to seek lunch and hope it does not result in a subsequent food volcano.