Dragged through a bitter cold morning and I find the staff at White Brick Kitchen awake, bright-eyed, and bushy tailed; I immediately dislike and resent them for it, though this comes entirely from my lack of sleep and has nothing to do with them. I wait for the Silly Vogelfänger, who suggested breakfast. Neither of us knew what to expect, but I was a cup of coffee in by the time she arrived in a jumble of padded winter coat and deep ruby hair. The kitchen’s menu is slim offerings, less than a dozen different dishes in all. This immediately earns points in my eyes: doing few things well trumps endless inferior, bland or mediocre options. My benny entailed a pile of hickory sticks (I’m really liking these as a topping, their crunch is a diversion) over poached eggs perched atop thin peameal bacon on an open English muffin. And the sauce. I had read it was hollandaise, but it was not. Its flavour was clarifying, sweet, roasted, nutty and earthy in a way all too familiar and enticing a fashion.
And so the spectre of brown butter re-emerges into my life. I love brown butter. My addiction to brown butter has only been rivaled by certain games, people, and narcotics I’ve been advised not to name.
With brown butter mixing with the runny yolk, dripping down through the salty peameal bacon, clinging to spiced and seasoned fries, my meal continued with a placid, serene giddiness plastered on my face. I couldn’t say if any other food was good: mine featured brown butter, and for that I will always love, hate, extoll and curse White Brick Kitchen. Now I have to dig out my browning saucepan.
White Brick Kitchen
641 Bloor St W, Toronto, ON M6G 1K9