King Cake–Just in Time for Mardi Gras

The “King Cake,” like many traditions surrounding Mardi Gras, makes its first appearance after the Feast of the Epiphany at the end of the Feast of Christmas.  And for many New Orleanians, THE king cake is the one made by McKenzie’s Bakery.  Sadly, for those purists, McKenzie’s closed forever in the late 1990s.  But that doesn’t stop every Tom, Dick, and Harry from claiming THEY have the original McKenzie’s king cake recipe.

So as a public service to those for whom Mardi Gras sans McKenzie’s king cake is a tragic nightmare, I am printing below my sister, Sara’s, “original” recipe.  Enjoy and Happy Mardi Gras!

The traditional king cake, decked out in Mardi Gras colors of purple, green, and gold.

New Orleans King Cake

Cake:

2 Pkgs of Active Dry Yeast
1/2-Cup Warm Water
1-Cup of Heavy Cream
1-Cup Sugar
1-Cup Butter (not margarine) Melted
1-tsp Salt
1 Grated rind of Lemon
6 Eggs beaten (be careful not to over beat)
6-7 Tbs. Of Orange Juice
8-9 Cups of Sifted Flour
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Icing:

Confectioner’s Sugar and Water enough to make a paste.
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Colored Sugar:

Add 1 Cup of sugar to 3 separate plastic storage bags.
Add 3 drops of food coloring of desired color.

Knead until sugar is consistent color.

Add more Food coloring to darken color to desired shade
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Cooking Directions:

In Water combine yeast and water in small bowl, stirring until dissolved and set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the milk, sugar and butter stirring until dissolved.

Add the salt, grated rind, eggs, orange juice, and yeast mixture blend thoroughly.

Beat in 3 cups of flour to make a smooth batter. Knead in 5-6 cups of flour until smooth (It will be sticky).

Round into a ball and place and place in a warm buttered bowl, turning to coat top.

Cover loosely with plastic wrap and a towel and let rise until doubled.

Punch down the dough and divide in half.

Roll each piece into a rope and form into rings and pinch ends together.

Cover and let rise until doubled, about an hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Bake 40 minutes.

Remove from oven and move to cooling rack and paint with icing (just enough to help colored sugar to stick; do not coat King Cake with icing)

Immediately upon frosting add colored sugar and pat into the icing forming a thin crust on to of Cake.

Place plastic baby in the underside of cake when cooled.  (No plastic baby; no problem.  Do like the grade school cafeterias, afraid of choking hazards, and use a red bean instead.)

Rawr!

Foodiesaurus’ Uptown Crawl

Yesterday was a day like Foodisaurus hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. Yes, it was hot on this June day in Uptown New Orleans. Yes, it was humid. And yes, the resurfacing of Magazine Street made us long for a nice gravel drive. But the food and locales I discovered on my brief, two meal tour made all of that well worth it.

First, my dining companion and I visited Mid-City and the former J.P. McMahon Funeral Home on Canal Street, now known as Mystère Mansion. Only in New Orleans would people line up out of the door to get married at a slightly post-bellum home, next to a cemetery, across from a mausoleum, which had been most recently used as a mortuary and funeral home.

Rumored to be haunted, the building was stripped to the studs by a corporation which bought the building in 2004 in order to convert it to a day spa. Rebuilding was stopped after the company’s CEO died and the board abandoned the project. Then Katrina struck and the home sat vacant until 2007, when it was purchased and returned to its former glory as a premier events venue and kick-ass haunted house destination during the month of October.

In addition to two bars, a commercial kitchen for use of caterers, a “cake” room, reception room with dance floor and amps for a band or DJ, private theater/meeting room, and VIP guest room, the house also features a séance room (complete with “supernatural” special effects, if desired by client), and an underground “mortuary” which extends under Canal Street and is tricked out with all kinds of theme park quality scary stuff just for Halloween.

Hey, consider it a bonus if your wedding theme is “creepy.” But for other events, you’d never know the house was anything other than a beautifully-restored, traditional New Orleans manor. Fabulous!

Next stop, for lunch was a New Orleans classic—Five Happiness. It’s always nicer to visit a place with friends who have friends at the establishment, so maybe our service was a little more prompt than would ordinarily have been the case, I can’t say. But the food was prepared fresh to order and it showed in the flavor. I had the Twice Cooked Pork.

Mine was served with my choice of a wonderful example of hot and sour soup and shrimp fried brown rice, along with a large, crispy fried wonton (folded but with no discernable meat in the fold). We didn’t order appetizers or desserts, but there was so much on the plate, I was only able to finish the pork from the spicy-sweet (but not overly so) sauce, some of the included green bell peppers and onions, the small but plump shrimp from the rice, and the wonton.

Given that I avoid Chinese food like it’s a religious obligation, I was pleasantly surprised there is still an affordable place left in New Orleans that doesn’t think steamer trays, rapidly-aging “sushi,” and self-serve soft-serve ice cream is necessary for a classic Chinese experience.

After a brief shopping sojourn, we found it was seven o’clock and time for dinner. We decided a salad was in order. Regular readers of this blog may recall my abiding affection for salads at Coffee Rani in Covington, Louisiana. My friend suggested the Uptown location of same (she thought….) on Magazine Street.

As it turns out, though apparently related given the same essential menu, Café Rani clearly was not the same. First of all, there is no espresso machine. “Café” has no coffee. Hmmm. But it has a bar. Okay.

Unfortunately, there was also a weird “wet dog” smell my friend thought was like sewerage. And only two or three tables were occupied at what should have been the front end of the dinner “rush.” Not good. Now, I’ve watched enough Restaurant Impossible to know that sometimes bad smells may mean untold horrors.

Taking no chances, we abandoned ship and embarked on a search for the next place that led us quite serendipitously to possibly the best food I’ve ever eaten. In my life. Ever.

The Delachaise at 3442 St. Charles Avenue is housed in an odd, converted-rail-dining-car-looking building that, who knows, may very well have been one. We stopped because I seem to recall having eaten well in that location sometime in about 1995 or so and because there were diners on the patio facing St. Charles, braving the early evening mosquitoes to eat there. Good sign.

Inside, was a funky bar with a few tables and booths at which were seated casually-attired college students and professions and not a few couples who looked like they might get lucky. The walls were lined with chalk boards bearing handwritten notices of the day’s specials, which were, well, special. Among them the pate du jour. The boards also instructed us to order at the bar.

Along the way, we also found written menu. After some consultation with the Internet to translate the names of some ingredients, chose the Grilled Eggplant “Cannolis,” my second example of twice-cooked pork that day—the Cuban Twice-Cooked Pork—and a lovely Chianti by the glass.

I approached the bar and noticed a row of handwritten chalk boards adorned it as well, listing reasonably priced and very high quality liquor and mixed drinks. Our bartender allowed us to split the check but either payment upfront or a tab was required.

The wine came with a sidecar (bonus!) and the food was a work of art. Nonetheless, we dug right in.

The Eggplant Cannolis was group of three roulade about three inches long filled with ricotta, chevre, and herbs served on a bed of Muhammara with three olive oil drenched and perfectly crisped crostini. Muhammara, it turns out, is a spicy pepper dip originating from Syria. Although the base is apparently ground walnuts, it was reminiscent of smoked hummus, and along with the goat cheese, it elevated this dish to quite another level of awesomeness.

Given the quality and beauty of the first course, we tucked right into the pork entrée and were quickly rewarded.

The cubes of stewed pork were finished in the goose-fat fryer and the result was tender, crispy, slightly redolent of orange mojo, and unbelievably fabulous.

Accompanying the pork were steak fry-like strips of yucca, rendered crispy on the outside and flaky, tender, slightly fiberous and a little sweet by its trip through the goose-fat fryer. The food rested on a bed of top-notch aoili and occupied a good-sized platter. My dining companion and I shared the appetizer and the main but left satisfied.

Unpretentious, affordable, and with totally mind-blowing food—The Delachaise on St. Charles should be a regular stop on any trip through the Big Easy.

Rawr!

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Five Happiness on Carrollton—

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Café Rani on Magazine—

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The Delachaise on St. Charles—

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Coffee Rani on Lee Lane is my go-to coffee, salad, breakfast, brunch place on the North Shore

Wherever I am, I tend to work sans office. No office generally means I work from either my home office, my hotel, or a coffee shop. Luckily, when I travel to Covington, Louisiana, there are several coffee options that don’t involve a certain company from Seattle (not that there’s anything wrong with them). My favorite is Coffee Rani located on charming Lee Lane.

I have eaten here at least three times since arriving a week or so ago and each time have been gratified by the quality of the food and the large, pleasant sunny environment that doesn’t leave you reeking of java. And the coffee’s pretty good too—although, the staff usually doesn’t know how to make an Americano. But no worries! Just order a cappuccino, instead, which they do very well.

The first time I ate lunch, I tried the Magazine featuring chopped egg, bacon, almonds, cabbage, cheddar-provo and topped with a lovely chicken salad, tomatoes, and cucumbers with blue cheese. Awesome and awesomely filling! The egg was fluffy and well-cooked, the bacon not overly-salty or underly-meaty, and all-in-all the salad was very, very filling.

Even so, after several more hours of work, I found room for the red velvet brownie. The very tempting pastries here are not made in-house. But the cashier was kind enough to steer me toward the items delivered that day when I asked her for a recommendation. The brownie is a combination of red velvet cake batter and brownie batter, topped with cream cheese icing, and it is large, moist, and good. Very good.

The next time I was there, I had the Soprano. This also-very-filling salad is described as pesto grilled chicken, tomatoes, marinated artichoke hearts, marinated mushrooms, olive salad, feta, creamy parmesan topped with a cheese tweel. What was served, however, was even better than described with two variations: I detected no pesto on the chicken (boring and hardly ever done properly anyway), but the tweel turned out to be cheese and pesto grilled black-brown.

That tweel is right up there with the most surprisingly good things I’ve eaten. A moment more on the grill, however, and I fear the basil would have burned and the effect ruined. As it was, however, the browned pesto brought just the right amount of crunch and tang to the apparently-tapas-inspired-salad party. In my mind, A+ for creativity/lucky mistake and execution/happy accident.

Today, I arrived early for lunch and found they were still serving breakfast. One bacon, egg, and cheddar-provo croissant and single cappuccino fairly dry, please. On top of the very good coffee with a nice solid foam was served a massive breakfast sandwich. (There’s no skimping on the portions here, for sure.)

There must have been three fluffy scrambled eggs in there as the whole sandwich was at least four or five inches in diameter and the egg layer was folded. The bacon was mercifully not overcooked and neither were the eggs. Although the cheese was shredded and unmelted bits were observable through the croissant hole, the heat of the sandwich rendered the part under the top half nice and gooey. I even enjoyed the red grape and sliced orange garnish.

In the final analysis, although the service at Coffee Rani can be young and inexperienced at times, the kitchen is really very good, the portions are fresh, large, and filling (as they don’t skimp on protein or fat), and the coffee and pastry are pretty nice too. That pistachio cake is calling my name.

Rawr!
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Martin Wine Cellar–Still Awesome After All These Years

If you’re like me, every so often you enjoy a spot of wine. Or three. So a few years ago, when I last lived in the Greater New Orleans area, a favorite hangout of mine was Martin Wine Cellar.

Not only does Martin Wine Cellar offer a dazzling array of wine and liquor with knowledgeable staff to go along with it, they also are one of the best places I’ve found in the GNO for salads, sandwiches, and deli items. The sandwiches, in particular, are innovative, exceptionally fresh, and combine ingredients in a way more reminiscent of Hippy lunch counters than a New Orleans deli. And it is good.

On a recent return to my old haunt, I found it much the same as I remembered only possibly better.  I enjoyed a walk down memory lane with the Californian, which is oven roasted, turkey, havarti cheese, avocado, sprouts, cucumbers, tomato, Creole mustard and mayo on wheat or pita. I opted for wheat with a side of Zapp’s Cajun Crawtaters because you only live once and life without Crawtaters isn’t worth living.

Back in the day, when I worked down the street, my lunch alternated between this favorite and my all-time most favoritest sammich in da whole wide world—the Eric (may be a fictitious name) featuring rare roast beef, Creole mustard, and pate. Mmmmm. But as Martin took this delicacy off of the menu many years ago and because I’m sure I remember its actual name, I doubted anyone remembered how to make it and so allowed the aforementioned Crawtaters to soothe my broken heart instead.

My niece enjoyed the chicken tenders and fries from the kids menu. She is a particularly slender 9-year-old, so there was some debate about whether we should select the three or five unit basket. Arguing she had “nothing” for breakfast, I was convinced to go five-piece. She later relayed that the definition of “nothing” does not include a “small” bowl of cereal. So I enjoyed at least one of the delicious, meaty portions of real, tender white chicken breast myself along with what seemed to be house cut french fries. The other we took home with the fries.

After lunch we strolled aisle after aisle of domestic and imported wine, selecting a bordeaux with good reviews for my later enjoyment and a bottle of “Who Dat?” cab for my brother-in-law, a big Saint’s fan. All-in-all a great day enjoying an old favorite that has, if anything, improved with age.

Bon Appetite!

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Grandma Genevieve’s Strawberry Shortcake

During my brief sojourn to the Motherland a few weeks ago, I happened upon a truck advertising authentic Ponchatoula strawberries. While I have no quarrel with strawberries from Alabama in principle, I’ve never tasted any as sweet and with such well-balanced acid as those from the Mississippi River’s alluvial plain. Naturally, I bought half a flat (about 6 pints) first and planned what I would do with them later.

Then it finally occurred to me to do something I’d wanted to for more than 17 years—obtain and manufacture my Grandmother’s very rustic strawberry shortcake recipe. I’ve never tasted anything like it anywhere, and for me, it is the preeminent version of the Spring classic. Everything else is, in my opinion, just the ruination of perfectly wonderful strawberries.

Determined to share the love while attempting to reconstruct our heritage in produce, I commandeered my nieces for some of the less hazardous preparation tasks. And so we began by rinsing and removing the tops from the excellently sweet and ripe (though unfortunately small) late season berries.

At the same time, I began preparing three refrigerated pie crusts according to the directions. The first time I used preprepared crusts, I went for the ubiquitous Pillsbury but thought it had too distinctive a “Pillsbury” aftertaste.  Recently, I made it again and used this kind, which was much better:

Now admittedly this was a concession. The real recipe provides the following instructions, however, for the purist: Combine 2 cups all-purpose flour, 1 tsp salt, 1/2 cup Crisco or lard, and one egg with enough water to form a soft dough. Make three balls, roll each out and bake flat until light brown tile. (I would recommend a 400-degree oven for 9 to 11 minutes.) Cool.

Either way, you will note the crust is rolled out to a circle with a diameter of about 14 inches. Cosmetic perfection is optional as all but one of these crusts will be totally covered with mashed strawberries.  Also, do NOT prick the crust before baking.  I have found bubbles are not only okay but are preferred.

While the three crusts are baking, you will want to begin work on the strawberry filling. To accomplish this component, my Grandmother used to laboriously mash the rinsed and topped berries with a fork in a bowl, one small quantity at a time. 

When my very brilliant nine-year-old niece, Ellie, tried that method, however, she sprayed strawberry juice all over the place and the front of her shirt and it took for-ev-er. I wasn’t any better at it. But because she had so much time to think, Ellie actually suggested an improvement to the method that produced a superior mash, eliminated mess, saved time, and was a heck of a lot more fun—we bagged ’em in a gallon sized Ziploc freezer back and whacked ’em with a rolling pin.

The only danger appeared to be bursting the sealed bag like a balloon as the berries were smashed. Therefore, from time-to-time, we “burped” the bag to keep air to a minimum. Mission accomplished. Thank you, Ellie!

To the strawberry mash, we added 1/4 cup of granulated sugar. If the strawberries are already sweet enough, however, it seems this step may be omitted. But we kept with tradition in this instance and it didn’t seem to hurt the taste any.

By now, surely, the pie crusts have been removed from the oven and are cooling, so it must be time for the (sort of) pastry cream. Grandma’s recipe for the pastry cream omits the flour typically used and calls for using evaporated milk and water. I dumped that bit and came up with the following: Beat in a small saucepan 4 egg yolks until lemon colored. To the egg yolks, whisk in 1-3/4 cups heavy whipping cream, 3/4 cup half-and-half, 2 tsp vanilla, and 2 cups of sugar and cook over medium-high heat until the mixture begins to form foamy bubbles and coats the back of a spoon. Do NOT boil!

To assemble, get a big heavy bowl, preferably one made of glazed stoneware. Place the first crust on the bottom of the bowl.

If the crust is too large for the bowl, just gently break it into large pieces and evenly distribute them. Top with a little less than half of the strawberry mixture. Follow the strawberries with a second crust. Again, piecing it together is fine, if the crust is too large. Distribute the rest of the strawberry mixture over this crust and top with the third crust.

Because I wanted mine to look nice and because it didn’t fit, I trimmed the edge of the crust with kitchen shears until it sat level in the bowl on top of the fruit.

Then I poured about half of the pastry cream over the top of the layers, letting it run down the inside of the bowl to touch the layers below. The remainder of the cream was reserved for serving. I then allowed the bowl to sit for about an hour before serving to soften the crusts just a little.

To serve, I cut down through the layers of the “cake” and spooned it into individual bowls. The remaining pastry cream was ladled over each.

The result was pure love. It was just as I remembered it tasting and everyone who has tried it since has commented on the fabulous contrasts between the sweet berries and the savory crust, and between the crunchy pie crusts and the silky cream. Nice.

So if you’ve got a mess of fresh strawberries available to you this Memorial Day weekend, why not try this gloriously easy and amazingly delicious pastry?

Bon Appetite!

Rule, Brittania! The English Tea Room in Covington, Louisiana, brings the Motherland within reach

Every so often I return to visit the Motherland—Covington, Louisiana. Because I haven’t lived there in more than twenty years, I am often surprised by the dramatic ways in which this formerly sleepy old town has changed; first, becoming a bedroom community of New Orleans and then, after Katrina, when the city decided to spend all day there too.

On one particular trip a few years ago, I came upon something odd while taking an old familiar detour one block off of East Boston Street; something that changed my visits home thenceforth. A bit of Britain in Southeast Louisiana, it was the English Tea Room.

From the classic black limousine to the classic red phone booth to the two-out-of-five flags raised out front being the Union Jack, the first thing you realize is the proprietors of this establishment are hard-core Anglophiles. The interior of this converted Arts and Crafts bungalow is similarly welcoming with several small rooms and porches radiating from around the central kitchen and counter.

Looking more like your Grandma’s parlor than a restaurant, it is filled with chintz-covered tables and simply dripping with mismatched floral china and teaspoons, flower buds, and more tiny Union Jacks. So what keeps this shrine to shabby chic just on this side of grotesque? A very subtle undercurrent of irreverence permeates the place. Just the very tip of a tongue-in-cheek. You see, this is England with a twist.

For example, the establishment maintains a supply of men’s Bowlers, ladies’ hats suitable for Ascot, and feather boas for those who left theirs at home. The funny hats are optional, however. There is also a large cardboard cut-out of the Queen in full formal dress for those wish to obtain photographic evidence that they were once a seriously underdressed security threat at a British state function.

Sadly, Martin, the third in a line of authentic British ex-patriot managers, had been repatriated by the time I returned for my most recent visit, so my server was one of the actual (disappointingly American) owners. I arrived at two o’clock, thereby neatly avoiding both the lunch and tea crowd.

After choosing a table on one of the lace-enclosed sun porches, I ordered a Petite Windsor tea tray and a pot of Versailles Lavender Earl Grey from a list of, like, a hundred excellent and unique teas. The Earl Grey was served in its own three-cup pot and was divine with just a small lump of raw sugar.

Accompanying the tea pot was a three-tiered tray, the bottom plate of which contained four finger sandwiches—ham, cheddar and onion, cucumber, and egg salad. On the center plate were three tiny quiches, including two, warm bacon and cheese, and one, cool spinach and water chestnut. And on top were the desserts which consisted of warm scones (plain and chocolate chip), a mini-cake covered in fondant, a chocolate-covered strawberry, and three small bowls and demitasse spoons—one with lemon cured, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. (The full-sized Windsor tea is roughly double the size of this one.)

I ate everything. Well, the edible stuff, anyway. And the food was really good, even if the post-Martin service was just a tad slow.

On a side note, it may seem strange to outsiders that my favorite English tea house is in Louisiana, but the North Shore region, including Covington, originally was part of a British colony founded in 1763. The oldest families in the area are predominantly English, Irish, and Scottish, as a result.

In fact, St. Tammany and seven adjacent parishes were not even part of the Louisiana purchase and had very little in common with either the Spaniards who captured it from Britain twenty years later or nearby French-speaking New Orleans, which is roughly 30 miles to its South across Lake Pontchartrain.

Finally, in 1810, the “Florida Parishes” staged a successful rebellion against its weak Spanish government and formed an independent republic. Seventy-three days later, representatives of the Republic of West Florida negotiated its annexation by the U.S., which included it in the Louisiana Territory it had purchased seven years before. (The Republics of California and Texas were the only other independent republics annexed by the U.S. to form the fifty states.)

So you see, we shouldn’t consider it is strange for there to be such a staunch bastion of the Commonwealth of Nations to be found in South Louisiana—only that it hasn’t been there always.

Bon Appetite!

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Another Broken Egg Cafe—Probably Worth It.

Today was day two of my tornado-related-power-outage-canned-food-diet. Because power will still be out at my abode for another whole day, I decided to travel North toward Birmingham to the suburban hamlet of Mountain Brook, Alabama.

Mountain Brook is the sort of place where nothing really too bad ever happens so I figured hot breakfast would go on there as usual. I was not disappointed. Just from looking at the folks at Another Broken Egg Café, in fact, you’d never have known there was total devastation not five miles away.

By way of background, Another Broken Egg Café is a chain of breakfast joints that hails from near my hometown in Louisiana. As it really only got rolling in 1996, the year I first moved to Birmingham, I never ate at one until it followed me here, opening this location in 2010. Today was my second visit to the Mountain Brook location.

I arrived at about 10:45 a.m. today and stood alone in the entry waiting to be seated. The place was not busy as it was a little late for breakfast and a bit early for lunch. Nonetheless, I was ignored by the first person to appear at the hostess stand. After few minutes, I was somewhat promptly given a table near the distant wall next to one of the waiter’s stands by an individual who seemed to greet me more out of pity than any actual interest in facilitating my meal. But hey, I was really hungry.

A waiter approached me almost instantly inquiring about my drink order. I asked about tea. He suggested unsweet. I asked about their hot tea selection. He mentioned Earl Grey, green, and spiced. I asked what brand tea we were talking. Demonstrating his complete disinterest in answering any questions that would require a trip somewhere else, he said, “I have no idea.” I ordered water.

The water was sullenly placed on the table a few seconds later as the taciturn waiter passed the table by. That was the last interest he expressed in my order for an inordinately long time—not even acknowledging my stares and subtle wave.

So operating on the theory that perhaps this waiter-of-few-words was not my actual waiter and definitely not to be dissuaded, I grabbed the attention of a second fellow who seemed to have tables in the vicinity. After a moment’s consternation, this hijacked waiter deigned to take my order and did so very pleasantly.

I ordered the Lakeshore Scramble—a mélange of scrambled eggs, baked bacon, onions, mushrooms, and ham smothered in melted Monterey Jack and cheddar, substituting fruit for the country potatoes, and served with a “crispy” English muffin.

There now, little waitstaff. That wasn’t so hard.

The food arrived after a short interval. And it was immediately clear the kitchen was not a stingy as the service.

The eggs were served in a large gratin with a generous side of blemish-free fruit and an English muffin that may be been a tad overbilled as “crispy.” In fact, the breakfast was far too much to finish, and you know I tried as it was delicious! The quality of the ingredients really shone through, and the cook’s execution was flawless (except the partially toasted muffin—but honestly, does toasting really improve an English muffin?). Even the whipped butter was fabulous (and I’m a big fan of butter, so I should know.)

In writing this review, I found myself in a bit of a quandary, however. You see, once when Foodiesaurus was a little girl, she had a little surgery to remove her appendix. It was back in the stone ages, so you understand this was no outpatient procedure!

During the week of recovery spent in the hospital, Foodiesaurus was given nothing to eat but green Jello. (She loathes Jello to this day.) Then one fabulous day, our favorite food-obsessed dinosaur in seven-year-old form was finally given her first solid food—a hospital hamburger and fries. I don’t know what Foodie would have thought of that burger under normal circumstances, but I can assure you, as things stood in that moment, that was the best hamburger she had ever eaten or will likely ever eat again.

Accordingly, I am forced to wonder if the food at Another Broken Egg was really as good as I thought or if it was just a heck of a lot better than canned tuna and pistachios. For now, I will consider the food at this place several notches above other chain breakfast joints, (I’m looking at you IHOP!) but with service that is every bit as snotty as any five-star New York eatery.

Wear your big diamond (or maybe your little one, I can’t tell), and enjoy!

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