Overall I'm more than happy living
in the middle of no where. The days
fly by and I can't seem to get all that's
on my list off my list. Most of each
week we run from here to there and
then suddenly the weekend is upon
us. Oddly even though I no longer
punch the clock, weekends are still
weekends. Thus our attitude subtly
shifts and for those two days we both
crave something different. Last Sunday
Frank asked me where I wanted to
brunch. My response? "The Carlyle!"
It was only a year ago that we spent
each Sunday morning attending mass
at St Ignatius Loyola on the corner of
Park and 84th Street. Post services we
usually strolled down Madison Avenue
to one of our favorites for brunch. You
see, both Frank and I are old school.
Hence our preferences tend to be the
type of establishment that is... well...
established. In a city like Manhattan
often the best places to brunch are in
hotels. Not tourist joints but venerable
hostelries in the right part of uptown.
Older and wiser
The restaurant at the Carlyle is about
as old school as they come. Hence a
Sunday sojourn can verge on the edge
of slightly stuffy. Yet somehow, the
charm of the courteous staff plus their
old world service makes this boy feel
as comfortable as a breastfeeding babe.
Post a round of foie gras and at least a
bottle of French Chablis, who wouldn't
be happy? Add a silver chafing dish of
roast beef hash topped by a perfectly
poached egg and suddenly... what's old
is new again. Is it time for a nap?
The raw deal
Across the avenue sits the Mark.
An updated spin on tradition, the
crowd is younger, louder, and a
tad nouveau. Before we departed
Manhattan we tried to eat every
oyster available. Knowing that
soon the only fresh local oysters
available would be of the "Rocky
Mountain" variety, we slurped to
our hearts content! Now that said
briney gems are only a memory,
why wouldn't one get a hunch
to brunch back in civilization?!
Inn or out?
Sadly while all roads once led to
the east seventies - all that glitters
is now two thousand miles away.
Don't get me wrong, I love almost
everything about living in rural
central Montana. However our
options are more than limited -
especially when it comes to brunch.
Our local hotel dining room does
offer a Sunday buffet. Yet the idea
of dry scrambled eggs mixed with
dry roasted beef smothered with
brown canned gravy has no allure.
Island of desire
And so, one or the other of us ends
up making breakfast each Sunday.
Fortunately we're both more than
accomplished cooks. Plus we never
lack for farm fresh local eggs, hand
cut "side pork", thick slab bacon,
locally roasted coffee beans, whole
grain organic bread, and Irish butter.
While said repast requires that one
of us is willing to clean up, it's more
than lovely. Especially in our lovely
new and fully equipped kitchen.
East or west, home is best!