Saturday, September 6, 2014

Café du Soleil

"When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody." ~ William Schwenk ("Schwenk"?!) Gilbert, The Gondoliers; or, The King of Barataria (1889)

(No official web-site.)

Place: Café du Soleil
Location: 200 Fillmore Street (on the corner of  Waller Street)
Hours:  Monday-Saturday open at 7:00am; Sunday open at 8:00am
Meal: Tortilla[1] Español with salad; an Orange Morning Bun (for a breakfastary dessert); and a cuppa Equator Coffees & Teas French Roast

(Are any explanations really necessary for today's EweToobular juxtaselections?)

Sometimes a good breakfast can be found at a simple little coffeehouse. (One of these days I plan on doing a series on coffeehouses in just the Richmond neighborhood.) This morning (ou matin) I ate at Café du Soleil in the Lower Haight. I had passed by the place many times before and had never even went in for a cuppa, so I figured it was about time to check them out. It turned out to be un joli petit café de quartier. I am particularly pleased that an actual café français used un accent aigu in their spelling of "café" for a change. (Unfortunately, I am sorry to say, Dave Porter, that there was not any Édith Piaf nor Nina Simone playing on the house stereo this morning.)

For a small corner café, they actually have a decent amount of seating: thirteen tables for two people; one large communal table for eight people; eight stools at the counter-bar; en outre, there are nine two-seater tables on the Waller Street-side sidewalk. Even though they refer to the first meal of the day on their menu as "Brunch", I arrived there just a little after 8:00am and it was just a normal crepuscular breakfastary meal for me as the Sun had still to really wake-up itself, because of which, I decided to eat inside.

Strange Breakfast at Epiphany's Interlude

A friend on defacedbook sent me a cartoon this week and suggested that I may want to contact a good lawyer (one such as the steamed J. Cheever Loophole, or perhaps even the law firms of Flywheel, Shyster, and Flywheel or Dewey, Cheetham & Howe). However, as original as I would like to think the name of my stupid li'l 'blog-thingy was (well, it was "original" to me when I first thought it up years ago), when I first started this, I did a quick Intro-Net search for any uses of "Breakfast at Epiphany's" and actually found a few other references (there is even another 'blog on this same 'blog-spot; however, that one seems to have been defunct for several years now, and it was some kinda stupid religioso 'blog and had nothing to do with breakfast or even "Brunch").

Like most coffeehouses, you order and pay first at the front counter, get a number (mine happened to be "Numéro Dix" this morning), and then they bring out the food to you. There were really only two other choices on the Matin/"Le Brunch" menu: Homemade Granola (with yoghurt or milk & fresh fruit ~ yawn!) or Fantastic French Toast (with fruit and maple syrup ~ this would have been my other option, fantastic or not, Reed Richards).

This was a decent enough tortilla/omelette/frittata/egg pie dish, just nothing to knock your chaussettes off. The tortilla/omelette/frittata/egg pie can also be made with bacon, smoked salmon, or avocado added. I am not sure, but there may have even been a soupçon of cinnamon in the mixture. I was not sure what the orangey-reddish sauce on top was either; possibly just a French Dressing (which, of course, Mr. Vincent Vega, is just called "Le Dressing" in Paris). 

The salad was just a huge pile of greens (you know the standard "Spring Mix" stuff with different types of lettuces and spinach and such) and a few slices of tomato. I probably should have gotten a side order of Homemade Parmesan Potato Chips (not sure if they are available that early, though), as they sounded pretty good and I could have eaten a soupçon more food, too.

Because I was still a wee bit 'ungry-like, the Orange Morning Bun was an afterthought which I decided on getting with a refilla of Coffee. Sorry, there is no photo of the pastry, as I had already scarfed half of it down before I thought of taking one. It was very good; sort of a cinnamon bun with a nice orange filling (not really a marmalade) in between the layers/swirls. What's not to like? Orange + cinnamon + more Coffee = very tasty! (I just love the New Math.)

They also sell bags of Equator Coffees & Teas, both French Roast and Organic Jaguar Espresso (don't worry, any of you PETA nut-jobs, I asked, and they said that this is only made with 100% Organic Panthera Onca), at the front counter (I never like buying my Coffee in alleyways, anyway). I think they forgot to initially charged me for my Coffee, so I felt it absolutely necessary to be honest with them… and pay for a refilla when it came to it.

I didn't bother to ask what Café du Soleil offered in the way of condimentary supplementation, peut-être seulement Tabascot® Marque Sauce au Poivron (rouge). Il n'a vraiment pas d'importance, I used some of my own Big Papi En Fuego Hot Sauce Off The Wall Triple Hot (Thanks, Kerry! And that finally kills the last of any of my Big Papi hot sauces.) on half of the tortilla/omelette/frittata/egg pie (and salad junk) and some Dave’s Gourmet® Ginger Peach Hot Sauce (Thanks, Jim! And there is probably just another use or two left in that bottle, too; so, I am getting to the point where I only have twelve or thirteen hot sauces left in my refrigerator.) on the other half. 

Breakfast this morning was just like a little corner of Paris… just without any snotty attitude from all the smelly, obnoxious Parigots.

Glen Bacon Scale Rating: Tortilla Español ~ 6.3; Orange Morning Bun ~ 6.5

1. Stupid, useless cunning linguist (and pseudo-epicureanistic) pointer of the day:

"Tortilla" in Spanish actually means "a small cake" (from the diminutive of "torta"). It has nothing whatsoever to do with burritos or tacos. Hence (please pay particular note, any of my sisters-in-law that may be planning on vacationing in Spain or may have already done so), a "tortilla de patatas" is really more of an egg-potato quiche/omelette/frittata dish.

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