Magnolia Cafe

Magnolia Cafe

1224 W Wilson

Chicago, IL 60640

Brunch: Sundays, 10-3

I found this place somewhat by accident, trolling (trawling?) for good brekkies options online. It's way the hell up north on Wilson, and it's a much much classier place than you might expect to find on that street. By which I mean, it's expensive. A bit too expensive for me to enjoy on a regular basis (entrees are around $12). But if you're feeling fancy, you might wanna check it out. It seems to be as yet undiscovered by the breakfasting hordes of Chicago, because there's never been a wait when I've gone, which is a definite bonus. Plus, parking is relatively easy to find, and it's right off the red line.

The menu is gourmet (aka, expect to see wild mushrooms, goat cheese, arugula, and various smoked things) and features a good spread of breakfast fare, including 3 or 4 different benedict options (one of which involves steak), and a plethora of cocktails. There are also weekly specials lovingly described by the servers. Which has the unfortunate effect of making me feel like I'm not nearly classy enough for the place, but that's my own insecurity talking I suppose.

If you go, don't miss the Muffins with Lemon Curd appetizer. It's absolutely divine. The lemon curd is perfection, a silky syllabub of wonderfully tart goodness. The muffins are likewise fantastic, little bundles of crispy-on-the-outside-chewy-on-the-inside delight with a hint of cornmeal and big juicy blueberries. I thought I hated blueberries until I got up the nerve to revisit them at Magnolia. The combination of the slight sweetness of the muffins with the crisp tartness of the lemon curd and the juicy cool explosion of blueberry, wow. I admit to fastidiously scooping the remnants of the curd out of the dish with my finger and licking it clean. You can't take me anywhere.

Sean and I somewhat shamefacedly both ordered eggs benedict (oh Veiled Conceit, the legacy you have left us with).  The english muffin was wonderfully toasted, the poached eggs were spot on, the hollandaise was great but... the slices of ham are frickin' huge. The ham itself is really nice, but the slices are seriously 3/4 of an inch thick, which is just too much for me. But like I said, it's good ham. So it's not the end of the world. 

My only real gripe with the place is that their variant of potatoes is mashed. They're not bad as far as mashed potatoes go, though they're a bit heavy on the dairy for my taste (I understand that this is what a lot of people love in mashed potatoes, but it's just not my thing. The majestic potato does not need to be drowned in butter and cream to taste delicious.). But I just don't really wanna eat mashed potatoes for breakfast. 

Vinci

Vinci

1732 N Halsted St.

Chicago, IL

312-266-1199

One sunny Sunday morning my breakfast date cancelled. All the usual partners in crime and potential replacements were unavailable by some odd chance, so undaunted, I set off into the city alone in search of breakfast satisfaction. I was just gonna go back to Toast, but even the counter was full there. I considered a few other spots, but there was no parking anywhere near them. So I found myself driving south on Halsted, feeling somewhat daunted at this point, when I saw the words "Sunday Brunch". I grabbed a spot at the counter, ie the bar, and chatted with the bartender (whose name I can't for the life of me remember, which is breaking my heart. He's an awesome guy. He's been working there for 7 years. He's from Wooster, Vermont. He did the whole roadie-for-a-band thing for awhile.) as he squeezed gallons of fresh oj. It was a lovely time, but...

Vinci is the quintessential case of the upscale yuppy restaurant that decides to jump on the brunch wagon. From the minute you walk in you realize, there's no love for breakfast here. The interior is quite elegant, but seems stiff and formal in the morning light. It's just not that inviting, no matter how friendly the staff is. There was only one other guy sitting at the counter, and he was way down at the other end. A single tv that was rather strangely crammed into a corner was listlessly airing basketball. The restaurant wasn't empty but neither was it bustling with life - it mostly seemed like uptight rich people performing their luxury. Maybe that's unfair. Sitting at the counter though, I got to hear the staff's complaints, and man, their customers seemed like a pain. I know that servers generally bitch about clientele, but there seemed to be a higher ratio of d-baggery in this place than usual. So yeah, no so much on the atmosphere. I'll bet it'd be nice for dinner though! 

The menu is small but covers all the necessary bases, I guess. To their credit, despite being, in my opinion, imposters in the breakfast arena, someone has clearly put some thought into developing a somewhat unique menu, the Vinci version of things. I ordered the Eggs Benedictine, which involves toasted homemade focaccia, pancetta, poached eggs and fonduta - a kind of fontina fondue sauce. While waiting for that, I was treated to a bread basket with a selection of jams. Classy. The breads were the focaccia and some brioche, and the jams (marmelades?) were orange and rasberry. There was also some whipped butter. Quite tasty. More so, actually, then the entree itself. The eggs were poached to perfection, the fonduta was tasty, but overall, the whole thing was way too salty. I think the problem was actually with the breakfast potatoes, which were actually quite tasty. But somehow about 5 bites into the meal, I could no longer taste anything but salt. Hmmm.

Honestly, why do uptight fancy restaurant insist on doing brunch? Of course one expects the same high quality dining experience, but goddamn it, breakfast is a joyous occasion, not a formal affair. If you can't let your hair down a bit, don't go there. Or maybe I'm just the wrong target audience. Soulless restaurants have their place too, I suppose. Sorry Vinci! You're just not my bag, baby!

The Bongo Room

The Bongo Room

1470 N Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, IL

1152 S Wabash Ave, Chicago, IL

The wait for the Bongo Room tends to be crazy long on weekends, but stop by during the week and it's half-empty and a very pleasant place for breakfast. And actually, I think the food is better on weekdays too - when the kitchen gets slammed, they seem to take it out on the potatoes. Like plenty of other breakfast hot-spots, The Bongo Room suffers from being somewhat over-hyped and a touch on the pricey side, but unlike Orange, the food is actually quite good, and sometimes it's even amazing. The problem with a menu that changes seasonally is that I may never get to taste the absolutely transcendent lemon flapjacks with rasberry coulis and lemon creme that I ate there last summer. Those were some of the tastiest pancakes I've ever had in my life, and I have to say, nothing at the Bongo Room has ever reached those heights since. Their pancake combinations are inspired and interesting (currently on offer: rasberry-oreo flapjacks, strawberry-banana hotcakes, lemon-ricotta pancakes, berry and banana cheesecake flapacks, and white chocolate and caramel covered pretzel pancakes), but none has really called to me in the same way. 

Today I went with the breakfast sandwich, eggs done however you'd like (I went with over medium) on a croissant with Muenster cheese and bacon. The croissant was just the right blend of flaky and chewy, the bacon was perfectly crisped and the eggs, I thought, were just right. Jen, who ordered the vegetarian variant with her eggs done the same way thought that they were a bit too hard, but she may have a different mental gradient when it comes to eggs. The potatoes were great, tender on the inside, crispy on the outside, and well seasoned with an array of herbs - I think rosemary was involved? Yum.

While my initial adoration of the Bongo Room faded when the lemon flapjacks vanished, I still like the place, and am happy to stop by on a weekday for a leisurely meal. I definitely wanna get back there to try the breakfast burrito, which sounds great, even though burritos generally intimidate me (they're so big!) and seem like way too much for breakfast. While I think that the place is somewhat over-rated, I'm kind of happy that most people uncritically accept it as best and keep it packed on the weekends, thus freeing up space at superior establishments for me. 

Toast

Holy craptown y'all, this place is amazing. 

Toast

746 W Webster Ave, Chicago, IL

Sean and I were on the prowl for some brekkies late on a Saturday and stumbled upon this place pretty much by accident, having ruled out places that had lines going out the door. But when we got inside, a very nice man told us the wait was 45 minutes. Sean grumbled a lot and wanted to leave, but I persuaded him not to, and told the nice man we'd be happy to take a seat at the counter if that would speed things along. Sidenote - I don't generally give my name at restaurants, because I hate dealing with pronunciation issues, nor have I patented a fake restaurant name yet (despite being told by a very drunk man at the Hideout Block Party last summer that one simply MUST have a fake name for restaurants), so I got to be inordinately amused by the fact that the guy assumed that I was Sean. I'm Sean! heh heh. woo-boy. Anyways.

The wait turned out to only be about 15 minutes, and we were given some very nice coffee in the meantime. I got a kick out of the music. It's not everyday you hear Melissa Etheridge followed by old school hiphop. What fun! The decorations were whimsical and the interior was sunny and pleasant. 

We settled in at the counter and opened the menu, and my god. Normally one has a hard time deciding between a few things, perhaps, but this time, I found myself contemplating just how much food I could possibly cram into myself. Could I actually order everything in the first column? I settled on the eggs benedict, Sean went for the omelet Lorraine. By some strange twist of fate, omelet lorraine sounded like apple crepe to Jill, the lovely woman who took our order. If you happen to be into yelp.com, you may have read some very vicious things about Jill. They're lies. She's a peach. She was chatting it up with everyone at the counter, and she's awesome. Upon realizing the error in the order, she immediately put out the call for the omelet and told us to enjoy the crepe on the house. We offered some to our fellow counter-sitters, but they declined, citing satiation. 

The apple crepe was lovely, apples and gruyere wrapped in a well-made crepe and garnished with apple slices and powdered sugar. It's the kind of thing I would probably never have ordered on my own, but it was quite tasty. 

But my god. My eggs benedict. Toast does its eggs benedict with prosciutto and a truffle hollandaise sauce. The eggs were cooked to perfection and served on top of marvelously crisped english muffins. The prosciutto worked beautifully and the hollandaise was, quite simply, to die for. The home fries on the side were fantastic. It was damn near a religious experience.

Then, lickety split, Sean's omelet arrived - bacon, gruyere and chives, finely chopped so as to have each of the flavors represented in every bite. Delicious. Absolutely delicious.

The food was divine, the camraderie amongst those sitting at the counter was lovely, and all in all, it was a wonderful experience. I can't wait to go back and eat everything else on the menu. 

(Blogger isn't uploading pictures for some reason, so you'll have to wait to see Jill's smiling face, the sunny interior, and the inordinately attractive man who sat next to us at the counter.)