Biscuit Adulation
“They don’t need butter,”
Sharon Lorraine's short-shorn salt and pepper hair framed her face. “I’ll bring you some
if you want it, but you don’t need it.”
I smiled, adamant about
trying it as the Next Door’s head
chef declared I should, but equally weary of biscuits leaving me parched and
desperate for milk or water to quench the thirst dry bread induces. Less
problematic but also not satisfying, I anticipated a biscuit conduit. Warm and
soft, sometimes biscuits are simply an excuse to melt butter into a pool and
mix in syrup. I sometimes bake up frozen biscuits for dessert for that purpose.
Neither of these proved the
case.
These biscuits…these
biscuits were the point. They were the only point. I grasped a bumpy biscuit
and broke a golden piece off. It was still warm from the oven and the scent
wafting from it was buttery and inviting. My first bite was naked. I wanted to
taste exactly what I was working with. What I was working with was the perfect
biscuit.
Sharon was right, no need
for butter. Really there is no need for anything; but the berry jam
(strawberry, blackberry, raspberry, and others) is made in-house and sat
vibrantly in a little dish on the plate. I had to at least taste. A dab on the
corner of my biscuit and I was immediately pleased. It was sweet but not
syrupy. The temperaments of the various berries were balanced. The tart
smoothed out by the sweet. A few berries
remained recognizably intact.
“This isn’t just jam,”
Duran remarked. “My mom and Aunt Bertha made great jam when I was growing up,
but by the time it was pressure cooked and then stored for six months it was
all the same consistency. This,” he held up a corner of biscuit with the red
jam glistening, “this is fresh, like it was made this morning. Pieces of fruit are
still recognizable.” He smiled for a moment and then popped the piece in his
mouth.
Ms. Lorraine, a friend of my
brunch partner Duran, brought the partial order -two biscuits instead of the
usual three- as a sampling courtesy.
“It’s a good thing she
didn’t bring out three,” Duran smiled broadly at me.
“We’d just have to split the
third one,” I offered.
“Nope.” he grinned deviously, “I’d have to
stab you.”
We laughed. But the
biscuits are that kind of good.
 |
| The Cure |
Everything came out hot. A
small and easily overlooked detail but chicken and waffles release heat at
drastically different rates. I’ve had my fair share of soggy tepid waffles next
to steaming chicken. But these waffles came out a satisfying malty brown with
deep grooves to catch fresh blueberries and strawberries and the pat of butter
and drips of syrup I added. The chicken skin was crispy and the inside juicy.
The eggs were soft scrambled and together the trio made a sweet/salty treat.
Generally, my rule is to
order differently than my food buddy, and to split the difference. It allows me
to work my way through menus. But Sunday Duran and I both settled on “The Cure”
meandering
conversation about the Dunn verdict, coming out, friendship, and, well,
biscuits.
Next time I’ll have to try
the blue corn pancakes with salsa verde and house chicken sausage or maybe the
carne adovado with grits and a sunny side up egg, not to mention the $12
bottomless mimosas. I’m kicking myself a little that I didn’t follow my usual ordering
rule, but my clean plate proved the disappointment by what I didn’t try was definitively
made up by what I did.
As we prepared to walk the
few blocks down to the Berkeley Flea Market I made a beeline to Ms. Lorraine to
confirm what she already knew.
“You are right,” I smiled
effusively, “they don’t need butter!”
She followed us to the door
and handed us a menu, “Come back and see us for dinner,” she smiled hospitably.
I scanned the menu as we walked out: cider brined grilled pork chop with ginger
vanilla sweet potatoes and collards, Thai coconut curry fish stew (with a vegan
option if you need it), and swiss chard enchiladas.
I’ll be back.
Comfort food for friends
3290 Adeline St., Berkeley,
CA
Dinner Thursday-Sunday 5pm –
9pm
Breakfast/brunch Saturdays
and Sundays 8:30am – 2pm
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