I had heard Sarabeth’s, the Big Apple’s quintessential brunch joint, was notorious for its long lines, but we slipped right in.
Then again, it was slightly past 3 pm. Sarabeth’s hostess sat us down next to a group of tourists, hinting at the bakery’s acclaim. Needless to say, after a night of riding from Spanish Harlem to Williamsburg and back again for a party, my brain felt “barely there.” Lucky for me, the menu offered delights such as: Egg’s Benedict, honeyed jams, sausages, and hot porridges chock full of nuts and dried fruit.
Sarabeth’s purveyed savory, country-style foods—rather, the perfect foods for curing a hangover or satiating residual late-night hunger. Gone were the weekends of the insubstantial breakfasts of Continental Europe, with their meager coffee and pastry offerings. It was brunchtime.
In fact, the opening of Sarabeth’s coincided with the invention of brunch culture in NYC during the early 1980s. Though it’s probably a stretch, maybe one could even argue that brunch was the harbinger of urban weekend modernity, and Sarabeth’s definitely had a part in it.
NYC brunch always seemed more like a Jewish phenomenon to me, but at Sarabeth’s, I was taken by the “Englishness” of it—old country-style English, serving basic farm ingredients. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a true likeness of my favorite brunch food of lox and cream cheese on a bagel on the menu.
I scanned over the ingredients of each menu item, measuring which ones set off the sharpest hunger pangs: leeks, ham, chunks of potato, gruyère cheese.
“I’m getting the Farmer’s Omelet. What are you getting?” I asked my brunchmate, deciding immediately and without prior consultation.
“Can’t go wrong with the Classic Egg’s Benedict and a mimosa.”
“A mimosa? Doesn’t your head hurt enough already?”
“You know what they say. ‘Fight fire with fire.’”
I suppose that was Sarabeth’s mantra as well, for the menu offered a selection of bellinis, mimosas, bloody marys, and other cocktails. So it was settled then. But just in case we needed to fight fire with caffeine, we also ordered Oolong and Darjeeling, which was brought out to us in personal miniature teapots just before our meals.
I cut my fork into the plump, supple omelet, lifting the steaming, cheesy ham- filled morsel into my mouth—the potatoes perfectly balanced the sweetness of the ham, and the leeks freshened each bite. I had no qualms over stealing forkfuls of Canadian bacon from my friend’s delicious Egg’s Benedict and topping off half her mimosa. Rather than gossiping about the night before, all we could do was chew in silence.
When the waiter removed our empty plates, I sighed in dumb pleasure: “Should I move to a farm?”
It didn’t have to be that extreme. I could always come over to Sarabeth’s for brunch. We left with bellies so full and satisfied that all we wanted to do when we got home was curl up under the covers and sleep. I could each brunch all day.
