Green Eggs Café
If Green Eggs Café has a call to arms, I guess you’d call it brunch. Dubbing themselves a brunch style restaurant, Green Eggs touches upon the rather large elephant in the room, they don’t serve booze. However, booze with brunch is an intrinsic American right and necessary fundamental element. Polite day time boozing is the cornerstone that brunch is built upon. Therefore brunch style is the only inherently honest way to describe this wannabe brunch spot. In which case, I’d guess you could say Green Eggs Café is a lunkfast restaurant but that sounds stupid. So I’ll say they do breakfast & lunch and they do it pretty freakin’ well. http://greeneggscafe.com/
Peace & Lunch
It’s Saturday, I’m at Green Eggs Café in Philadelphia and they’re busy. The noise of clattering silverware on plates and the din of conversation is deafening. Even with the sidewalk seating there is a wait, and I’m the last thing any restaurant wants to see on a busy day like this, a lone diner. I gave my name at the front and went outside to wait. In short order, I was led to a table, opened a menu, ordered coffee Americano, a fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, and began to peruse the menu.
The coffee is strong, and served with old school sugar cubes, rarely seen outside of funeral parlors. The grapefruit juice is refreshing. If more places served actual fresh squeezed fruit juices, I’m sure I’d drink a lot more of it. The menu is varied, but not a vast novel, like many diners, a variety of breakfast and lunch staples. I’ve seen enough. Huevos Rancheros are on the specials menu, and I’d love to see Green Eggs Philadelphian translation of the Mexican staple. Did I mention there’s a bottle of Cholula on the table? This makes me happy.
15 noisy minutes later the expedient server places Green Eggs variation of Huevos Rancheros in front of me. They eschewed the typical chili oil in favor of a Tex-Mex rendition placing black beans, corn, tomatoes and cheese on top of the crispy tortilla chips. On top of the bean mixture are textbook, perfectly cooked, over medium eggs, bathing in not one but two salsas ala huevos divorciado. Salsa one, is a brilliant red, with muted chipotle earthy notes, acidic, sweet and spicy, but not so spicy that a dollop of Cholula got an invite. Salsa two, is green as pesto, sweet, mildly piquant, the acidic tang of tomatillos flirts with spicy but muted enough that Cholula again gets an invite.
Look, I’m sort of a salsa whore I’ve stuffed more of that stuff in my mouth than even I care to remember. Weeks spent in Mexico shoving salsa in my fricken’ pie whole 3 times a day, I’ve had good salsa, bad salsa, craft salsa, corporate salsa, fast food salsa, slow food salsa, homemade salsa, but these are probably the best salsas I’ve ever had. Perfectly matched, optimally spicy, roasted and tasty, those salsas make me want to write a fuckin’ sonnet. I don’t even know what the hell a sonnet is, but those ethereal salsas, have made me want to write one anyway.
When I consider their divine salsas sent
Ere half the meals in this day worldwide
and the flair for in which they hide
contained within longing for a salsa I’ve wept
served here by a baker with a present
my narration true, lest I’ve injured your pride
stoic, day labor, delicious, yet, not fried
the question to ask, this taste you’ve lent
is it mine? The flavor a murmur of a reply
this flavor of a salsa so piquantly divine
abide the mild yolk, yellow a blessed state
the cloak kingly, a jester, the court of lie
royalty now rojas y verde bold so can be I
the answer is in the beholder a noble fate
That’s good poetry; you know how I can tell? Because you can’t tell what the hell I’m talking about, as far as I’ve learned, that’s the mark. Now I can say some douchebaggy art guy thing like I titled it Rojas the silent scream, it’s about the Immigrant struggle in inner city Bangladesh and the neo political corporate structure that preys on their own citizens for profit resulting in a crab mentality within the populace. What the hell, I thought he was talking about salsa? Exactly bitches, good fuckin’ poetry.
Meanwhile back at mi huevos
Congratulations to those who made it through my tangent, you didn’t get bored enough to leave and exercise your God given right to photo bomb vegan twitter feeds with pictures of bacon, for this I thank you. Anyway… mi huevos: when I broke the yolk to the egg, the yolk and salsas combined with the beans and cheese. Not unlike a southwestern version of a Korean Bibimbap as the chips soften, the dish is reborn, something more than just the sum of all its parts. Oh yeah and for the value minded, I ate that thing for 30-40 minutes & barely felt like I dented it.
Sadly, this delicious take on huevos won’t be available every day, as Green Eggs specials menu changes. Happily that tasty bottle of Cholula will still be there. I don’t know if happiness is a bottle of hot sauce on every table, but it sure can’t hurt. I feel another sonnet coming on.
Coming soon: our food adventures continue in Philly, we find donuts… Donuts are good and I promise there will not be another sonnet.