Brunch at 5 Corners Kitchen

After our amazing wolf experience, we were ravenous. And all the talk of meat (and discovery of various bones cleaned dry of marrow) had left us wanting to indulge, carnivore-style.

So we went to Marblehead for brunch.

Okay, more specifically, we headed to 5 Corners Kitchen, where Trevor does genius things with sausage and bacon (and, frankly, everything else he touches).

We'd had dinner at 5 Corners Kitchen when it first opened, and had been looking for a reason to return.

When we arrived, Trevor was handing out samples of housemade sausage with lentils and mustard to passers-by. It was only a taste, but it was enough to remind me how good this place is.

First, brunchy drinks: mimosa for me, bloody Mary for The Boy. His celery garnish was noticeably fresher and crunchier than the supermarket variety.

And then, before we could order, Trevor appeared with plates of smoked salmon topped with boiled egg, capers, crème fraiche and red onion.



I was going to order something good and meaty — and then I noticed the brioche french toast. So that was me sorted.



The toast was like bread pudding, rich and eggy. The blueberries were warm and fragrant and summery.

The Boy stayed true to meat, and ordered the classic breakfast: sausage, eggs, homefries, toast.



Oh, the sausage. Like nothing else.



And an unexpected side of crisp, delicate bacon. Homemade, of course.



And then, another surprise. A densely fruited tarte tatin with crème fraiche and caramel, flecked with fresh thyme.

"I know you want to hold on to summer," said Trevor, "but here's something to lead you into fall."



If there was ever a way to make the transition, this was it.

When to go to Craigie on Main

We love Craigie on Main, but dining there usually requires planning. I mean yes, you could make a spontaneous decision to turn up in Central Square one evening, but you'd better be ready either to make intimate, elbowy new friends at the bar or wait an hour for a table.

And then today, we had a revelation: brunch.

(I know; some of you are all like, Well duh! And I'm like, okay, I get it.)

Brunch at Craigie means the same attention to detail, creativity, freshness and richness — oh, and cocktails — and a much better chance of being able to walk in the door and get a table.

(At this point I should add a disclaimer: we did go the Sunday before Thanksgiving. Occupancy at other times may vary. Call ahead.)

So what did we have?

First, a doughnut. There, I said it. Fresh warm doughnut, glazed with sugar, on a pool of confiture de lait (aka dulce de leche). As an appetizer.



And to make it totally healthy, a nice side of macerated fruit salad with yogurt.



It was hard to choose an entree; organic white grits with baconed-up greens and rock shrimp? Buttermilk pancakes with huckleberries? Omelette with house-made merguez and feta?

Okay, it really wasn't that difficult. There were two immediate winners.

The Boy went for the house-brined corned beef and tongue hash, which was deep and rich and fantastic.



And I had the house-made "dimanche" sausage with buttermilk biscuit and a poached egg.



Lordy, just uploading the photos makes my mouth water. The sausage had a satisfying, addictive pâté-like texture, and the flavor was subtle and complex, with lovely dark hints (possibly liver).

Whoever makes the sausage at Craigie is a god among men.

The biscuit was fluffy, with a slightly crisp crust, perfect for soaking up egg yolk.



Sadly, we were too full for dessert. I was also intrigued by the side dishes, especially the coriander and cashew granola and the grilled pork belly. (Yes, pork belly as a side dish. Would you ever go back to bacon after that?)

But now we know we have much better odds of getting a table at Craigie on Main on a Sunday afternoon, I suspect I'll get to check them out soon.

Brunch at Marliave: almost completely healthy

Recently we realized that while weeks of torrential rain suggested the world was stuck in spring, time was nonetheless creeping inexorably toward the end of summer. And with that realization came the awareness that we'd done very little al fresco dining.

So one suspiciously cloudless Sunday, we went into Boston for brunch at Marliave.

We ate at Marliave when it first reopened last year; this was the first time we'd been able to sit out on the patio.

A less optimistic diner might say the patio is marred for being down a narrow side-street with a view of trash cans and the back of the Omni Parker hotel. But its location also means you get the rare experience of sitting outside a restaurant in downtown Boston in relative peace: no traffic, no pedestrians.



Marliave has a nice cocktail menu, with simple ingredients used wisely. Here's the Waterloo (Bombay Sapphire, champagne, lemon, sugar):



But don't worry; cocktails aside, we had a very healthy lunch. The Boy went for prosciutto-wrapped figs stuffed with blue cheese (with salad! See, salad!).



And I got the deconstructed Niçoise, which was small but perfectly formed, every ingredient joyfully at the peak of its flavor:



So, see? Healthy. Salad.

Okay, so we had dessert. The Boy had the Boston Cream Pie (light and airy, yet rich and decadent).



And I tried scoops of the ginger and lavender ice cream. They were good, but for my preference not explosive enough; I was hoping for pepper in the former and bright floral in the latter. Still, pretty.



And that was it. A reasonably healthy brunch. Vegetables, etc.

What? Hiding something? Me?

Oh, okay. There may have been an appetizer. The rarebit.

It may have involved a small amount of cheese and just a sprinkle of bacon.



There may have been a need for thick slices of toast to mop it up.



(Quick, over here! Salad!)

A decadent winter afternoon

Tim and Peter mark 15 years of togetherness in April, but have decided, in a fit of brilliance, to spread the celebration out over the next few months. Genius.

For December, that meant a weekend at the Copley Plaza, and they invited us to share their rented luxury, starting with lunch in the Oak Room.

We'd been given a table for 2pm--which turned out to be the same time the kitchen closed--but the staff were very apologetic and kept things running long enough for us to eat. The food was pretty good all round, though Peter made the winning choices. First, fluffy, fist-sized crab cakes on a fresh red-pepper coulis:



And then eggs Benedict topped with caviar, with insanely light roast potatoes:



We were the only people in the room, apart from a table of four black-clad dowagers in fur-covered hats. The walls were paneled in oak (natch), carved with leaves and acorns, decorated with stag heads; the ceiling had plaster cherubs and half-clad reclining women.

And then the waiter brought an extra plate of Boston cream pie.



I like this place.

Other ways the Copley Plaza does customer service well:

Lobby dog!
Catie the black lab hangs out in the hotel's lobby, and is available for walks and snorgling. Sadly, she wasn't around on Saturday (I guess she needs a day off from being fussed over). Still, the concept suggests a friendly, unpretentious, comfortable atmosphere.

Fairmont Fit
Available throughout the Plaza's corporate chain, this program delivers workout gear to your room, to save you traveling with sneakers and yoga mats. Of course, I have no personal interest in, you know, exercise, but it's a nice example of identifying a user need and filling it.

Gold Floor
The hotel's fourth floor, whence we retired after lunch. It feels like a private club; guests staying on that floor have access to large sitting rooms with leather wing chairs and books and board games, and a kitchen regularly replenished with wine, champagne, egg nog, cheeses and fruits and sausage rolls and pretzels and olives and roasted artichokes.

We liked it. A lot.



Just when it seemed things couldn't get any better, halfway through an intense game of Scrabble, the waiter/concierge guy came round with oversized chocolate-chip cookies. Yay!

There were only two downsides to the afternoon: the fact that the piped-in music consisted of exactly one song (something by Enya that just kept going and going and going), and the fact that we had to leave, eventually, and go back out into the freezing night.

What’s better than breakfast? Two breakfasts!

Any day that features two breakfasts is a good day. Breakfast one was really not much more than the literal origin of the word: a paper cup of bitter coffee, plus toast and yogurt, from the “continental” “breakfast” “buffet” in the hotel. Enough to prevent me from punching someone, but not really sufficient to hold me over until lunch.

So, it being Sunday, brunch was in order. We skimmed OpenTable and chose Jarnac in the Meatpacking District.

A subway ride and a short walk through sunny streets later, we arrived, the first customers of the day. We got a seat next to the open window, where we could feel the sun on our arms and watch the locals walking dogs and toddlers.

I always like an honest waiter. So when I asked ours whether the orange juice was fresh, and he paused and said, “Well, not really,” I knew it was going to be okay.

“Is it like Tropicana?” I asked.

“It is exactly Tropicana,” he replied with a grin.

“Well, fruit juice is important,” I said, “so I’ll have a mimosa.” The Boy, feeling a need for vegetables, ordered a Bloody Mary, which came with a citrus garnish and a generous, potent dash of horseradish.

The menu featured the usual selection of brunchy items—a don’t-feel-guilty-it’s-Sunday steak dish, an elaborate omelette, some kind of lavish French toast.

We ordered the two items we hadn’t seen on a brunch menu before: pork tamales with mole sauce, and mushrooms on brioche toast with a duck egg.

Both were exactly what brunch dishes should be: hearty, filling, a little rich, a little excessive. Interesting enough to revive tastebuds still dulled from Saturday night, but not so exotic as to shock them into sudden, terrified consciousness.

The proportion of dough to filling in tamales (or pasteles) is of utmost importance; too much masa and you get a thick mouthful of corn with little meat payoff. These were nicely balanced, filled with tender shredded pork and drizzled with a dark, sweet-spicy mole. On the side were two poached eggs, and I learned that tamale dipped in warm egg yolk is a wonderful thing.



The Boy’s mushrooms were, well, mushrooms—I’m not yet completely over my fungus aversion, so I can’t wax lyrical about them—but the toast, and the egg, and oh yes, the truffled cheese that covered the whole dish—were rich and buttery and delicious.

We probably could have stayed in the window seat all day, watching passers-by and enjoying the sun, but it was time for more walkies.

When we left, there was only one other couple in the restaurant. Two blocks further down the street, wannabe brunchers crowded the sidewalk, waiting for tables at another French brasserie, this once packed and bustling.

And I wanted to say to them, “Why are you standing here? There are duck eggs and truffled cheese three minutes’ away!”