I love eating breakfast out. I love eating breakfast in. (Why did the words to “Peas porridge hot/ peas porridge cold/ peas porridge in the pot/ nine days old” come to mind? Hmmm.) So I was bummed when my breakfast wasn’t so great yesterday.
Sarah and I met for breakfast yesterday at Tavern 17, which is attached to the Warwick on 17th and Locust in Philadelphia. I guess I should have known it wasn’t going to go great when we looked at the sign at the door with the misspelled “Tavrn17” written on it. The breakfast experience went downhill after that.
What Part of I’m Dyin’ Here Don’t You Understand?
When our waiter came over, Sarah said that she was parched and really could use a drink of water with a pink grapefruit chaser. Right away. I guess right away means 10 minutes. Seriously, she joked that she was going to get up and get her own. But she was only joking a little. The drinks finally came.
I ordered a decaf coffee. I guess decaf must mean “lukewarm” in some dialect that I just haven’t picked up yet. (I’m going to preface the rest of this by saying that I’m not a restaurant complainer. I’m not sure if I’ve ever sent a meal back. Nope, I don’t think so. I generally think that places are doing their best. This was not one of those times.) I splashed a little cream in my coffee, which brought the temperature down to about room temperature. That coffee had sat a long while. I didn’t know the coffee temp yet, so we ordered.
Lord, Give Me Patience, But Give It To Me Now
We waited. 15 minutes. 20 minutes. 30 minutes. Still no breakfast. I stared wistfully across the street at Little Pete’s, where they turned the tables over three times in that period. Finally, breakfast. A caprese omelet. Kinda. It was definitely cooked and fluffed eggs with some cold mozzarella and tomatoes on top. I have to say that the garnish looked nice. But…no rye toast.
Here we go again. The waiter disappeared before I could ask for my toast. Or coffee. (They charge $2.50 for a cup, btw.) When he came back I asked for my toast, “And some hot coffee.” I explained that the coffee he brought initially was lukewarm. The waiter apologized, then a few minutes later brought a cup over, set it down, and asked, “Is that warm enough for you?” I put my hands on the cup. And held them there. And held them there. I explained to our young waiter that if I can hold my hands on the cup then it’s not hot enough. He went to get the chef.
So, now instead of a nice breakfast where I can relax and have a nice conversation with Sarah, I’m talking to half the staff at Tavern 17. I explain to the chef about the coffee. He apologizes and says they’ll make me a new pot. Great.
Funny, I Like Staind, but I’m Not Into Puddles of Mud
You know the rest of the story. About 5 minutes later here comes our waiter. He’s carrying a new cup. Sets it down and says, “That should do.” I poured cream into the cup and it was like a black hole. No color change. I poured more cream. Nothing. I poured the rest of the cream. Black. I took a sip. You know what they did? They took the grounds or some remnants of the bottom of a pot, poured them into my cup, and probably heated it in a microwave. No kidding. What I got was mud. And I’m not talking about strong coffee — I love that. I’m talking about mud.
The Only Tavern I’ll Ever Eat at Again is Tavern on the Green
See, I have a rule about hassling people who can spit in your food. I just don’t do it. But I have to tell you, I won’t be looking wistfully at Little Pete’s anymore. I’ll be in there eating my breakfast, because I’ll never eat in Tavern 17 again.
Price for the breakfast for two, minus tip: $37. No kidding. Thirty-seven bucks. I could eat 10 breakfasts at Little Pete’s for that. And will.
(Funny side story: There was a bank of people waiting for toast and checks. They sat a couple next to us who, after 20 minutes without anyone even asking them what they’d like to drink –don’t order the coffee — they got up and left. Guess where they went? Little Pete’s.)
