A morning social media scan revealed the gay to be up extraordinarily early one sunny Friday morning – so a breakfast date was arranged. This was a first. Our morning habits are rarely synced. His text message insisted that blueberries and granola were to be on the menu. My preferred breakfast hangout of choice, Mannings Bakery on Thomas Street, wasn’t going to cut the mustard with its doorstep toast and variations on the full Irish. The Fumbally might have worked, but he is not a fan of their coffee and The Bald Barista, with perhaps the best coffee in Dublin, would be full of sweaty backpackers. Plus they didn’t have blueberries on the menu.
But then I remembered that Pichet restaurant had been tweeting pictures of their breakfast menu of late, and I was sure I’d seen berries of some description in the mix. I did a quick search but couldn’t find their breakfast menu on-line, so I decided to take a chance they would have something suitable.
I do love the city centre before 8am, just as it’s getting ready for the day. We parked easily and wandered down to Trinity Street where we entered an empty Pichet and were greeted by a young waiter and younger waitress who looked like they were on work experience. I asked if we could sit anywhere and we were told to order, pay and the food would be dropped down. I asked for a menu. Result! Berries and granola. Only the gay didn’t feel like berries any more. It’s tough being a FOG (friend of the gay) sometimes.
I ordered the Mini Pichet Breakfast and a latte and he had the Eggs Benedict and a flat white. We helped ourselves to water – with a choice of iced, lemon or mint from communal jugs on the counter. Unfortunately the mint jug was leaking which left me with a big wet stain over my left nipple.
We took a seat by the window and judged the flustered-looking passers by until our food arrived. The young (but pleasant) waiter brought our order in two mini creuset-style pans. The gay was not impressed: “Almost as bad as getting food on a slate. What’s wrong with using a plate?” His eggs looked like they had whipped custard on top. I could sense he was regretting not getting the berries.
My Mini Pichet had poached eggs, roasted tomato, sausage and bacon. I didn’t have a problem with eating from the pan, but wasn’t a big fan of the greasy residue at the bottom. The poached eggs tasted as if they had been boiled in a pot of vinegar, not a pot of water with one tea spoon of vinegar. The massive slice of sourdough toast allowed me to make multiple mini-breakfast open sandwiches and saved what was otherwise a bland enough dish. We felt the Avonmore butter patties were too ‘caf’ for a high end restaurant like Pichet.
Once the hollandaise was scraped off the gay’s eggs, he found them edible. A text message from him an hour after breakfast read: “Why didn’t you make me get the berries. Feel like going back to bed and rubbing my flabs”. I think our first breakfast date may just well be our last. The meal came to €25, including tip.
Pichet, 14-15 Trinity Street, Dublin 2, (01) 677 1060, www.pichetrestaurant.ie
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