This morning I was on the prowl for a breakfast sandwich and briefly considered the egg and cheese biscuit I could economically procure with my $0.99 Dunkin Donuts coupon. Another option was a personalized breakfast sandwich from a local deli for a very affordable $2.99, coffee included. But as the saying goes, there are breakfast sandwiches and there are breakfast sandwiches, and having absented myself of one for some time, my inclinations leaned toward the latter. That, in addition to its proximity, wireless, and faded brick walls, was how I wound up at Darwin’s (see previous post). Thankfully, thankfully, my sandwich was achingly good — eggs over medium, with perky, intensely bright yolks, crunchy grassy asparagus, fresh tomato, and savory brie oozing between toasted sourdough. The bread crust shattered on contact, its chewy innards yielding to such a heady flavor that I put down my book and succumbed to its absolute godliness. And this was a good book. Someone recently told me that good art is painful, and I would argue that the experience of eating really great food can be painful too. It makes you wince, if not physically then in other ways.
The original subject for today’s post was not the breakfast sandwich I just described but something less delicious, less delicious because sadly it never existed. Before my pursuit of a breakfast sandwich I woke up itching to make banana and granola pancakes with cranberry compote. To be honest, the thought started the night before, as I was storing away a fresh batch of granola. I had some bananas in the freezer, milk and fresh cranberries in the fridge – the stars seemed aligned. The only thing missing, but the limiting ingredient, was someone to share my pancakes with. I wanted someone to share my pancakes with, in both senses of the word. My breakfast sandwich was outstanding but it didn’t entirely erase the image in my head of what could have been.
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