Another food writer and I were reviewing a breakfast place for his publication. The food was … food. It has gotten to the point that if I don't make it, or if I don't know who made it, I don't care about that food. If I don't know who grew it, it doesn't interest me. Perhaps the locavore in me has taken hold of my senses. That, a longing for the sun, or intense anxiety over how to make a locavore version of zuppa de pesce for Christmas dinner.
Now this place, Cup and Top in Florence, had coffee from Dean's Beans, a company run by a guy from Orange who imports and distributes coffee beans from all over the world (I know Dean and his beans may be politically correct, but they are too far out of my peripheral vision for me to appreciate), eggs from Diemand Farm in Wendell (nice people, nice chickens) and bread from Bread Euphoria (nice people, some of their bread has local wheat in it). A sign on the wall above the cream and stuff for coffee said "Ask Us About our Coffee Grounds for Mulch!" Many locavore points for a place that uses more area providers than most restaurants, but on this very cold winter morning, something was amiss.
I ordered two eggs scrambled, hoping for a taste of a farm I had visited, and asked for jelly without even noting its provenance. The other writer, Don, got a New York bagel sandwich consisting of Nova lox, red onion, a schmear of cream cheese (the word refers to a "smear" of cream cheese but the "ch" is added because that's how they said it on Second Avenue) and some tomato. The menu noted that the bagel was from Gus and Paul's, a popular bakery in Springfield. Don informed me that Nova is salmon, or lox, that doesn't have as much salt as "deli" lox.
We sat near a window in the sun. Someone from the kitchen hollered our names. We went to the counter to get the food, which looked pretty good. My toast with butter was fine, the eggs decent—well scrambled, but tasted nothing like the farm I remembered; they were just eggs.
And then came the home fries. Don's review was about breakfast places, so we had been discussing diners at length, particularly the smoking grills with short-order cooks laboring over them—guys with stubble on their chins, a couple of days' worth. We agreed that you can't expect to make decent home fries without a big stainless grill—the kind that has eggs and meats and potatoes in various stages of doneness all over it. Of course, we weren't in a diner, but that didn't stop us.
We ate, but the home fries weren't quite right. I gave them to Don. They were reddish and had rounded edges and were on the lukewarm side. It was all I could do to stop the sound of a grill being scraped from ringing in my ears, I yearned for it so.? "At least they have some color," he said, referring to the paprika sprinkled on them. They needed some heat. I looked behind me to the counter and a young girl who was being trained waved to us. I brought the potatoes back to the counter and asked the girl to heat them up a bit—would it be a microwave? She took the plate and went off to inquire how to handle the request.
The potatoes came back warm but with no crispy exterior. We then mourned the lack of the hot, greasy grill with a guy pushing on it all morning, keeping those home fries in play until they grew as crispy as his morning stubble.
Don continued to chew his bagel sandwich and reflect on each bite, shrugging now and then as New Yorkers sometimes do when they eat. It was clear that something in the Nova was speaking to him. He offered me a bite and it was perfect. The bagel was not toasted and was cooked properly—boiled and then baked—in the authentic way. The fish was not too salty, the red onion nice and tangy, and the schmear of cream cheese not too much. It was just like I remembered.
The problem with Don and me is that we share a deep nostalgia for something we will never find on our restaurant trips in New England. We miss New York. Everything we eat, everything we discuss, everything we remember is from a New Yorker's perspective. So our standards are either very high or very low.
"Have you had the Sabrettes, the street dog?" I might say to him during a conversation about hot dogs. We never knew each other in New York, so this is an unshared world we are now sharing.
"Love the Sabrette," he would say. "The water so filthy in those carts."
"Yes," I say. "And the dog is flaccid, but what do you expect for a dollar?"
"Couple of dollars," he would say, and conclude, "And they were grey."
I would reply dreamily, "Yes," and stare out on a winter morning where a New England woman ploughs the sidewalk with a baby stroller. We sigh and chew our food. Nice work if you can get it.
Cup and Top is wonderful, offers vegan muffins and has a nice play area for kids. It is a favorite among moms and people composing novels and does a strong neighborhood business. The baked goods are often praised. The interior is bright, with windows facing the street, which is decidedly not Broadway or even Second Avenue, but what a beautiful place to live!
