For all of the talking and writing and photographing of food we do, especially on the weekend, breakfasts and brunches are noticeably absent here on this blog. It’s odd because we both love breakfast food, but I think it comes down to motivation–we’d rather indulge in dinner rather than breakfast on the weekends, and often brunch ranks among the few meals that makes more sense to go out for rather than to stay in and cook.
It’s also likely due to the fact that things like orange juice and milk are expensive to buy when they are only consumed two days of the week at most–plus it always requires planning as schlepping to the market and back on a Saturday or Sunday morning before the first caffeine hits is an unbearably cruel thing for anyone to endure over the weekend.
Maybe it was this quote from No Reservations that put us over the edge subconciously:
Then there the People Who Brunch. The “B” Word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress it up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it’s still breakfast.
So maybe it makes us “bad” New Yorkers, but the lure of brunch isn’t a strong one in this household. Sure, we like to treat ourselves on a random weekend, or meet up with day-tripping visitors before their matinees, but generally it takes a bit of effort on our parts to scrounge up a proper brunch at our house on a weekend morning. When T and K came to visit a few weeks ago we knew there would be some silliness going on Saturday night (details to come), we figured we’d make something simple that morning and then hang out for a while, but the gauntlet was thrown when we had an abundance of leftovers and T requested–no lie–seven pounds of bacon.
That amount of pork we did not consume, but we did make an entire package of the stuff that we foraged from the store downstairs, along with an entire dozen eggs to make a fritatta that was to die for–and I don’t even like fritattas all that much. It was pretty simple: we used some leeks, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and basil along with the eggs, cooked them each as appropriate and then finished them under the broiler (if there is interest, I can persuade Michael to tell me his recipe).
The pizza was a slightly different beast. We had one ball of dough leftover from the day before, so we kneaded that out and used the rest of the glorious Mountain Moon goat cheese, the leftover sausage from the night before (slightly browned), some sliced Vidalia onions (gently sautéed) and some fresh basil sprinkled on top (both fresh and crisped in the oven). It was delicious and satisfying and oh-so decadent, and while a lovely reminder that brunch at home can be indulgent, it also recalls the workload required so early on a weekend morning. There’s a reason why Anthony Bourdain and his ilk loathe the brunch service, but when you can endure it with and then for friends, it truly is worth all that work and more.