Dear Mr Spoon,
Firstly please forgive me for not doing my research and finding your actual name, however, I’m very busy writing blogs, consulting and generally trying to be constructive to our beautiful hospitality industry. I’m hoping you won’t take offence at me calling you Mr Spoon, feel free to call me Oliver or even Sir, whatever you’re more comfortable with.
I’d imagine you have received numerous letters of complaints since opening from various crapulent, whining, vomit inducing, self-proclaimed experts. No doubt complaints range from the usual; the music was a decibel to loud, what a din, to the obscure; I ate in your restaurant and was startled to see that the egg was in fact not from a devoutly organic, scientology following chicken. These surely suck the very marrows from both you and your staff that are so eager to please, putting your egos and self-confidence aside by placing passion into your food, only to be sucker-punched by an armchair expert on a power trip on Urbanspoon.
As a result I wanted to put my thoughts of this morning’s breakfast into the public forum
and say what I’d imagine in this technology-centred culture is a rare thanks.
Your cafe itself is very welcoming, rustic charm with the Melbourne twist that we all so very much love. We were greeted, not with welcome arms like George Clooney if he’d have survived the Perfect Storm (a horrible movie by the way, 2 hours of my life that I’ll never get back), but by pleasant friendliness with an air of efficiency. The menu itself, not a picture book, not parachuted from the second story or flown in by doves riding unicorn backs, but again, an old-fashioned piece of paper. I was torn on what to order, always a good sign as generally I narrow down very easily. You had me worried for a moment, dukkah eggs, chorizo and kipfler hash or a smoked bacon omelette, so I had a quiet pep talk to myself, “Oliver don’t f*ck this up, Sunday is a highlight of the week, don’t ruin your whole day by ordering badly, leaving this pivotal decision to rot and chew away at your soul for the rest of your waking hours.”
Don’t you worry Mr Spoon, my pre-match team talk worked, I ordered dukkah crusted eggs, a sexy little dish made up of avocado smashed over fresh, crispy sourdough, spinach which had been lovingly wilted to within the cusp of giving up on it’s spinachy world, and pesto and dukkah circling the main event…. 2 perfectly poached and fried eggs with a dukkah crust. Thanks Mr Spoon, just thanks. On a day when I said goodbye to a best friend at the airport, I needed you to step up to the plate and you did just that. If I’m going to be honest with you, if I’d cut into those eggs to reveal a solid yolk, you’d have had a real scene in your restaurant, you’d have seen a grown man cry and tantrum. As it is, they were perfection, absolute liquid gold and when I teamed them with your pesto I could have kissed you (thanks for not being around as my girlfriend sat opposite may have frowned upon that).
My missus had the smashed avocado with halloumi and a side of hash brown, which too was the shizz. The highlight, naturally, was being able to say my joke (what did the cheese say to the mirror? Hellooo mi! she’s not heard that before…), but very closely followed by the crispy hash brown, delicious (armchair chef’s hat on, how about some rosemary in those bad boys?).
So thanks Mr Spoon (I really hope that after all we’ve been through we’ll be on first name terms soon) for what was a fantastic breakfast, a highlight of the weekend and for not reducing me to an emotional wreck in public. Keep up the excellent work and we’ll see you soon for the chorizo and kipfler hash and the smoked bacon omelette.