Death is what I felt like this Sunday morning, and after hearing from a couple (now questionable) sources about their “good” experiences at Mr. Brownstone, I knew I had to check him out. Tall, dark, and handsome he is not, but I’m even sadder to say that as decent as the food is, not even that could salvage the service.
Walking into the restaurant, I’ll admit that a warm feeling of pleasant surprise washed over me as I was greeted by a comfortable and clean dining environment. From the bland banner displaying the name, “Mr. Brownstone” in bold letters at the store front, you would never be able to tell that the inside would be so cozy.
Exuding a down to earth homely vibe, yet still managing to cater to the black rimmed glasses and plaid wearing inhabitants of the neighbourhood to which it belongs, I had some mighty big dreams for Mr. Brownstone. Add to that the menu of inventive and tempting food items, things were looking up. However, after being seated and ignored for fifteen minutes with not even a glance in our direction, it’s safe to say that these bright-eyed hopes were beginning to wane.
We finally manage to catch our server’s attention and place our orders only to realize 35 minutes later, when our food still has not yet arrived, that we might actually die here.
“I think they might be trying to starve us out,” I hiss to BoyToy. And it is here that we must all contemplate the age old dilemma: At which point is it acceptable to just get up and walk out of a restaurant indignantly (yet so hungry you might just eat your dining companion)?
Is it when you have had to ask for a coffee refill twice to no avail?
Or perhaps, could it be when your single belgian waffle takes almost 40 minutes to arrive?
Having sunk way too much time into this to just leave and with my stomach eating itself, we decide to stick it out and risk death by hunger. Fortunately, before the Angel of Death comes beckoning to collect two more lost and starving souls, our food makes its way to our table where I immediately throw myself upon the contents of my plate like a depraved animal in the wild.
Belgian waffle, hash, scattering of fruit, and an additional side of sausage for me and the Mr. Brownstone breakfast of eggs, hash, toast, and sausage for BoyToy.
At decent prices with my waffle coming to $11 and the classic breakfast coming to only $8, our grub today is actually pretty decent, albeit basic.
The waffles are lightly dusted with confectionary sugar and sprinkled with raspberries. A good consistency without being neither too crispy nor too soggy, there’s not much to complain about.
The sausages are crispy on the outside though slightly bland on the inside and admittedly, on the smaller side. At these price points though, you get what you pay for.
Conflicted is how I would describe my feelings towards the hash. In the shape of miniature french fries and sprinkled in a unique mixture of salt and dill, they’re definitely different from any hash I’ve ever had.
A dill lover myself, these babies should have knocked it out of the park for me, but instead I left Mr. Brownstone’s with a bit of an odd sour taste in my mouth – though that may also just have been my stomach acid making its way back into my mouth in an effort to simulate food, thereby preventing starvation.
After a trying and taxing brunch ordeal today, would I return?
Despite such an arduous experience, I’ve started believing in second chances and female intuition tells me that (like with most men), I need to give Mr. Brownstone a second (or third, or fourth, and possibly fifth) chance. Let’s just say it’ll be a while.