Broder Café, Portland, OR.
Hello, my beautifully insatiable children of the sometimes dark and cruelly flavorless world. Greetings, my precious gorgers who are so often deprived of divine flavor and salacious evenings spent in gluttony, so often cursed to dwell on the parsimonious musings of flavorless minds. Take heart, for your Charon has returned to guide your beautiful wandering souls across the murky waters that stand between you and inimitable food-induced delight.
Today, we come to the hallowed doors of one of Portland’s most hallowed brunch destinations. Nordic fare of unparalleled quality, brunch at Broder is more than a meal; it is a journey of transcendental importance. My beloved, partake with me in my revelries, my meal of utter consequence, my metamorphic morning.
“Lost Eggs”
Baked in a frothy bedding of cream, two poached eggs lay between spinach leaves and sliced ham in the bliss of holy matrimony. From beneath a crispy covering of parmesan cheese, the yolks broke softly, slowly blending to white amid hues of cream. The light snap of crisped parmesan resounded as I sank my fork carefully, oh so carefully, into the sea of white that lay beneath. What returned to my mouth was unlike anything that I had ever experienced as a mere man. Bewildered and in awe, I tore through the skillet as if it were my final meal, pausing only for an occasional rapturous moan. Creamy, cheesy, and with the faintest hint of delightful, toe-curling bitterness from the spinach: Broder’s Lost Eggs were magnificent.
Served with jams made of lemon curd and lingonberry, the Danish pancakes were decadent. Moist, covered in powdered sugar, and oh-so-very circular, the Danish pancakes were a charming departure from my creamy entree. Light and airy, they functioned as an impeccable tapestry upon which the fresh lingonberry jam could make its mark.
I would include my assessment of the lemon curd jam, but, if we all dig down deep within ourselves, we know that lemon curd jam is of no more importance than the final groomsman in a wedding: merely present to balance the photograph. If you disagree with my assessment of lemon curd, write your own blog.
“Swedish Hash with Trout”
My mother ordered Broder’s Swedish Hash with Trout, which, in actuality, meant that she ordered me half of another entree. The eggs perched daringly atop small diced potatoes, which were interwoven with small onions and peppers. Betwixt and between potato and onion lay the trout. Decadent, moist, and engorged with flavor, the trout steamed lightly under the morning sunshine that glinted through the front windows. With each stolen bite, the purity of my soul slipped from me. My debauchery ever before my eyes and evidenced by my growing gut, I plunged deeper and deeper into that skillet of unbridled gluttony. At one point, I was forced to fend off the hungry advances of my mother’s righteous fork. I bobbed and weaved, striking cautiously but effectively with my pronged utensil. A haunted look clouded her eye, as the pure young man she bore unto this world slowly slipped from her, morphing before her eyes into an irrepressible Gourmand, drunk on the pleasure of a morning spent in gluttonous ecstasy. If that is my lot in life from now until the end of time, so be it.
Last, but certainly not least, we have the drink of the day. If you know anything of my emergent morning alcoholism, then you are aware of my deep proclivity for mimosas. Less tart than cranberries but boasting a similar flavor, the lingonberry served as a delightful compliment to my morning booze. Effervescent and refined, it bore me up with it into a cloud on high, from which I observed all that lay beneath. Of most interest to me in the land that lay below was a writhing gargoyle, hell-bent on consuming the food laid before it and its mother. Before I could come down to intervene, I found myself within the gargoyle, devouring all that lay before me, including this zesty treat.
In conclusion, my beautiful ones, go to Broder. Will it be a two-hour wait? Yes. Will you wonder why the coffee tastes faintly of dish soap and stained jeans? It depends on how you wash your jeans. Will you watch the cat who lives in an apartment above Broder for at least an hour as it tries to catch birds in a tree? Definitely. But of most importance, will your gorgeously gluttonous souls find refuge at the table? My sweet ones, yes they will. Yes, they will.
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