9 p.m., Feb. 22
If you're doing it right, Sunday morning is really just an extension of Saturday night. The problem is it's too damned bright outside. This Sunday, the Rock 'n' Roll Marathon didn't help, a bad '70s music cover band blasted me from a hungover slumber at an obnoxious hour around dawn. I buried my head in the covers until I remembered I had plans to meet up with friends at Starlite for brunch. Bright, sunlit patios with screaming kids and clanking dishware are a shock to the system, it's a terrible way to come back to the land of the living. One must transition to daytime after a long night.
That's what I like about Starlite's brunch — it's a bar, so no kids. It's a bar, so unless you're insane and ask for the sunny back patio (better for happy hour, when one is transitioning from day to night and not the other way around), it's dark. Because it's bar, a little hair of the dog is encouraged, but they put a "breakfast" spin on it, so you don't feel too lushy. My friend Jane had heard about the Breakfast Manhattan, since renamed the Holly Golightly, as I've been raving about it since I discovered the drink a few months ago.
So we piled in, a party of six, and this is what we had, along with our, "Ease yourself into the day" cocktails.
This is my choice morning drink, it contains "high west western oat whiskey, sapling maple liqueur, cherry-vanilla bitters [made in-house], carpano antica vermouth, and bacon." Used to be a bacon swizzle, but it apparently got too irritating for them to keep 'em all twisted like that.
Old fashioned crullers, they're good for dunking in the coffee. And oh yeah, I double fist, caffeine & booze, works like epinephrine. My body is animated exclusively by uppers and downers.
Shawn got the benny, served on an english muffin. I refuse to capitalize the word "english" in this context.
Jane got the "one-eyed girl scout," which we all agree sounds like a terrible euphemism for something horrendous that only Alec Baldwin could make sound funny and not absolutely wrong.
It's grouper. I don't know what the hell David was thinking, ordering fish for breakfast. That's just weird, but he did clean his plate.
Kimberly got the "porkster," which David suggested should be called the "squealer." My favorite part about the description: "At least 3 kinds of pork, probably more."
Bill got the flat iron steak, because he's highfalutin like that.
Like I'm ever going to go to Starlite and NOT get the burger. My order is picky, though, rather than some fancy dijonaise, I say, "Bring me the white trash yellow, straight-up freakin' French's." 'Cause that's how I roll with my burger, even when it's for breakfast.
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