I had only been there once, and I still rue not ordering the flight of pancakes when I had the chance. Those things consistently look amazing, and the square, portioned plates that they are served on are just too sexy. So when Kasia, Harold and I strolled into this restaurant around the corner from Printer’s Row, I was totally pumped.
The next hour bore witness to the slow, tragic deflation of my naïve hopes.
The day’s flight of pancakes was Candy Land themed. That meant tons of peanut brittle, cherry syrup, chocolate chips, and even crushed up lollipop garnish. I took one look at the description and knew that that dish would leave me one gumdrop shy of a diabetic coma, so I dealt with my grief and turned to the omelets. The list was short, topped with a disclaimer about how all the omelet recipes had been meticulously crafted, and the suggestion that you seek out a build-your-own omelet, should that be your desire, at some other place with either “Golden” or “Nugget” in the name.
Now, I happen to be of the opinion that if you are going to dish out that kind of pretention, you have to push the product to back it. In this respect, Orange was an epic fail. My pesto eggs were cold, bland, and barely even tasted of basil. They were not made with love. They tried to pass off a molded wad of starchy goo as “home fries,” and, I shit you not, the “multigrain toast” that I ordered was pre-sliced Pepperidge Farm. Shenanigans.
The real warning lights went off early, though, when Kasia, who has very particular dairy issues, asked to swap out the cheese in her omelet, and was met by a face of mild panic on the waitress. She looked like she was as eager to ask the cooks to make a substitution as I am to confess my flossing habits to my dentist. That tells me that the kitchen is being run by an egomaniacal dick wad who I should know better than to trust with something as emotional as my breakfast.
So, the following weekend, as our breakfast adventures took us up north to Roscoe Village, Kasia and I discovered a second Orange location on N Roscoe, we both let out audible cries of distaste as we drove past. My housemate Sean took us to this fateful block to eat at Tinajon, a tiny little Guatemalan restaurant that boasts a hearty breakfast menu, and home to Sean’s summer stint as a bus boy in 2003. We shoveled past the droves of customers waiting to pack themselves into trendier breakfast joints, and grabbed a table in sunny dining room of this overlooked little gem.
There are no huge surprises on this menu, no crazy food experiments or gluttonous combinations that make the menu pop, but every single thing we ordered was great. And I mean great. From the homemade salsa, to the refried beans and rice, every thing was spot on and done just right. I ordered the yucca con ajo as an appetizer, and it was spectacular. The garlic spicing was perfectly balanced, and wasn’t so heavy that it destroyed your palate for later. For my meal, I had huevos con pollo, which turned out to be a simple egg scramble with shredded chicken, tomatoes, and hot peppers, and spices. It was a simple dish but done so well. I was impressed. An egg scramble impressed me. Not many restaurants can make me say that. Damn, even the rice was fantastic. I swear, they put coconut fat in it. Yum.
Also, lest ye be afeared that a place like Tinajon will venture too far from the usual breakfast fare for a regular Saturday morning, I have to mention that this place held its own by being one of the very few honest to goodness restaurants that will refill your coffee and refill it often. Five or six times maybe. And they brew it with cinnamon. You have no idea what you are missing.
Leaving Tinajon, it was almost tragic to see the crowds of people waiting with their screaming children to over pay for bland, pretentious cooking at Orange across the street. My breakfast was so good that it left my body humming. I shook my head at the Orange patrons, watching them putter around the hostess like penguins on an iceberg. There is nothing inside for them to order, no place for them to go, that isn’t cold, wet, and ultimately not quite as good as the standing around they were doing before hand. Do yourself a favor, guys, and cross the street. Cross the street as fast as you can. Orange doesn’t love you. Get your dvd’s back from his house and break it off. Your new lover, Tinajon, will bring the passion back to your mornings.
…I do still think about that flight of pancakes sometimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment