Apparently, the word “foodie” has become a bit controversial. I've heard people complain that it glorifies rank amateurs. But controversial? I truly had no idea. I assumed it simply implied a whimsical love of food. Yes, it has a saccharine ring to it, and is a bit unimaginative, but so what? Humans love to categorize, and they love to eat, so something along these lines was bound to emerge eventually. This week, however, I have been schooled. According to urbandictionary.com (an unimpeachable source), “Foodie” is “a dumbed-down term used by corporate marketing forces to infantilize and increase consumerism in an increasingly simple-minded American magazine reading audience.” The definition goes on to state: “The addition of the long "e" sound on the end of a common word is used to create the sensation of being part of a group in isolationist urban society, while also feminizing the term to subconsciously foster submission to ever-present market sources.” So, um, “foodie” is a tool of the patriarchy?
In other corners, “foodies” are declared to be harbingers of doom. Their obsession with odd meats, their idolatry of chefs, and their willingness to travel great distances for unusual fare are deemed equivalent to late Roman excess. That’s right folks – while Rome is burning, these heathens will be eating. And speaking of religion (or lack thereof), need I even mention the infamous list of transgressions which places Gluttony almost at the top?
Now that my eyes have been opened to the depravity that is “foodie-ism”, I will certainly never insult a dear friend by applying such a slur to his good name. So let’s just say that I have recently enjoyed some good meals with friends who, while not professional members of the food industry, embrace its offerings with an appropriate level of enthusiasm, and in a manner which pisses nobody off. Let’s start with the intercontinental brunch.
Some of you may be familiar with my good friend Daniel. He played a starring role in my Berlin dispatches this past fall. This kind soul is both an amazing cook and an amazing diner. While Ryan and I were in Berlin we were privileged to attend a dinner party he held featuring pumpkin potage, lamb, and lemon arugula risotto (this is serious stuff here, people. Dinner-party risotto is not for the faint of heart). Daniel also introduced us to some wonderful restaurants (Themroc, Kimchee Princess, Terrorist Döner Kebab....Oh the deliciousness!) Basically, Daniel facilitated some of our best culinary experiences in Germany. So when he wrote to tell us that he was coming to NYC, and particularly wanted to share a meal with us so that he could make an appearance on this blog, I was both excited and a little intimidated (did I mention that he’s a professional, published writer as well? Yeah, there’s no pressure here).
The parameters were as follows: a midday Sunday meal on the Upper East Side, as he would be coming from the Guggenheim. This naturally suggests brunch, right? But herein lies the dilemma – Brunch in Berlin is epic. There would be absolutely no way to compare to it, let alone top it. And to make matters worse, our chosen location, while definitely not a culinary wasteland, is not exactly known for its adventurous dining. I decided the only answer was to stick to a well-worn playbook: Sarabeth’s East.
Sarabeth’s not only has a reputation for outstanding brunch, it also has just enough variety to satisfy any particular culinary quirk. Yes, there would be a wait, but a wait for Sunday brunch is ubiquitous in NYC. And I'd like to think it was worth it. First of all, how can you argue with a place that serves homemade jam? And your choice of muffin, croissant, biscuit or bread with every egg dish? Of course, what really sold me was their Sweet Breakfast. Surprised? Don't be. Its a total misnomer. The Sweet Breakfast menu delivered the one of the best savory brunches I've ever had. I submit for your approval: The Crisp Potato Waffle with Chicken Apple Breakfast Sausage, Chunky Apple Sauce and Sour Cream. This also comes with warm organic maple syrup from Doefler's Farm. I don't know who Doefler is, and I only had a bit of his syrup, but it was damn good. But oh, the waffles. They mix the potato in with the batter, and it comes out light, fluffy, and – what can I say? - crisp. The sausage was just hearty enough for a sophisticated Sunday meal, as opposed to the greasy excess of a hangover brunch. The whole place had the vibe of a New England cafe. Oh, and lest I forget – the home fries! Daniel ordered a round for the table, and I heartily embraced his decision. You know how some home fries are just nasty, caky globs of useless carbs? These were the kind of home fries that all potatoes hope to grow up to be. Each morsel was perfectly browned, with a creamy interior. Add to that the sauteed onions and red and green peppers, and you've come pretty close to ultimate brunch satisfaction.
Ryan, Daniel and I followed up our multiple potato portions with a lovely jaunt through Central Park. There was just a bit of a chill in the air, making it perfect for a brisk walk. The park was austere, yet beautiful, and the company was superior. I can't deny it – I fell in love with Berlin. But a wonderful Sunday like this makes me realize that settling for New York City wouldn't be too bad.
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