A Bootful of Brunch

Karma and I made brunch and walking plans on Friday. And by “plans” I mean we both understood that at some point on Sunday we’d meet for brunch and then go for a walk – or vice versa. Where and when and all of the fine details other people include in their definition of a plan have never been particularly important to us. The general rule is that whoever wakes up first sends a text and whenever the other person wakes up, she responds. 

We have a few regular places, ones we agree on and ones we don’t. Hopscotch is a shared favorite, Coffee Mill and Bakery is a Karma staple that I find nothing wrong with but equally nothing particularly right with. Then there are places we’ve experienced together and have refused to return to…Brown Sugar comes to mind. 

Sunday morning we opted to try a new spot for us, at least for brunch. I’d been to Boot and Shoe Service once before for dinner. Pretty popular and an awkward entrance (the door bottlenecks into a narrow aisle beside the open kitchen) lend to its crowded feel both when it is legitimately packed (as it was when I went for dinner) and when it is nowhere near capacity (like this morning).

“I like Hopscotch better,” Karma commented with a raised eyebrow.

“You haven’t even eaten yet,” retorted, unfazed – this was our usual banter.

“I can just tell.”                                        

                                                                  

Off the cuff nothing was satisfying her. Not the drip coffee that took 5-7 minutes to drip (I’m sure a draw for all the coffee aficionados in the Bay Area), the use of horseradish in the hash (Karma loves a good hash but loathes horseradish), and the small note at the bottom of the menu informing patrons that dishes could not be altered (prevented her from ordering the hash without the horseradish).

Karma’s interest was piqued when our waitress suggested zeppole – a fried donut hole of sorts – with persimmon compote. They came to the table hot and perfectly fried. A deep brown and lighted sugared, inside they flashed a yeasty manila colored. The persimmon compote was subtle, not too sweet, a nice addition; but the zeppole are strong enough to stand on their own if persimmons don’t call to your palate.

Usually Karma and I employ tandem ordering. Lovers of food we seldom want to be held to any one dish and so, on any given venture we peruse the menu separately and then together in attempt to see where our palates overlap. Dinner is almost always a plethora of dishes directed to the center of the table and we simply eat – much to the confusion of waiters at some places because we also don’t request or require separate plates for the sharing. We are decidedly unafraid of cooties.

Breakfast is more of a crapshoot in the sharing department as this morning’s ordering showcased. We each ordered the strip steak with duck fat potatoes and a poached egg. We debated on the frittata but neither of us felt strongly enough to push the point and Karma’s couldn’t reconcile herself to horseradish laden hash and so we munched on our zeppole, Karma sipped on her slow-drip coffee, and we waited for our steaks.

No one asked me how I wanted my steak. Looking back, I assume it is part of that “we will feed you and you will like it” comment on the menu. They fix the food as it is intended. Luckily, it was intended medium. It as nicely seasoned with simple salt and little else, highlighting the natural flavors of the meat and the strip of fat along its side. 

 

Poached egg was a little stiffer than I’m accustomed; it didn’t melt into a golden pool when I cut it; it remained isolated from both the steak and the potatoes, their mingling by way of my intent rather than design.

The true glory of the meal, however, was the potatoes. They were…perfect. I expected the usual diced potatoes sprinkled with a bit of duck fat in name and not flavor – as so many places do with truffle oil. Instead, each bite felt full-bodied and rich with duck fat. The potatoes, sliced and then seemingly pan-fried together (I’m guessing) into less individual pieces and more into a sort of spoonful of potato mash complete with bits of dark brown deep fried bits that added a textured contrast.

I wanted more potatoes even as I know that I had the perfect amount. 

The final detail of our brunch was my lemonade. 

I am a pain in the hind-region when it comes to lemonade. I don’t drink canned lemonade or anything less than a drink made form squeezed lemons and sugar. So simple in its inception and execution I can’t bring myself to futz with anything other than the real thing. My friends know that the first thing I’ll ask if lemonade is on the menu is if it is freshly squeezed. And even then, there are places where the ingredients are there but the product is still dismal.

I feel the same way about messing up lemonade that I do about mucking up French fries. Things with so few ingredients are not allowed to be bad.

I ordered my fresh-squeezed lemonade with little ice and waited to see what would come my way. It was a satisfying, albeit a little small, glass of lemonade. There was a tartness to counter the sweet 

and flavor was not compromised in the pursuit of profit (i.e. watering the whole thing down to stretch it).

 It was delicious. The lemonade, the zeppole, my meal as a whole. 

“That is a dinner check,” Karma quipped when the check came. She was right, it was more than I’d like to pay for breakfast, even it if is parading as lunch. 

“We did have steak,” I reminded her. “And dessert.”

But she was right.

Depending on the company, I’d return to Boot and Shoe Service for brunch. The waitress was helpful and pleasant without being intrusive; the food was quality, and the serving size adequate. If nothing else, I’d return for another helping of potato perfection (or something pretty close to it).