Eggshop

When it comes to breakfast, I've been in an egg sort of mood lately.  Some might call it a rut, I guess, but I do mix it up from time to time.  It's just that most mornings, I crave a protein fix and a runny yolk.  So when S suggested on Sunday that we meet for brunch at a little spot called Eggshop, I was more than game.  The streets of Soho were pleasantly empty as I made my way there, but all the people that I hadn't seen on the streets seemed to be packed into the tiny restuarant.  I took this to be a good sign.

If you go, be prepared for the fact that there isn't much maneuvering room between the tables and you will probably get to know and bump into your neighbors at least once, but it's a cheery and bright little place so just go with it and let that tough New York exterior melt a bit.  

After squeezing into our table, S and I perused the menu, which included nearly every kind of egg sandwich imaginable.

We tried to order a round of breakfast cocktails, but upon being told that they don't serve alcohol before noon, we settled for tea and coffee as we waited for our eggs.....

which soon arrived in all their glory.  S chose the Pepper Boy:  soft scramble, jamon serrano, caramelized onion aioli, gruyere and green pepper on a round panini roll.

I went for the Avo & Egg, with avocado smash (two of my very favorite words in the entire English language), heirloom tomato, cilantro, sea salt, and a perfectly poached egg on multi-grain toast.

The boys at the neighboring table ooed and awed at the beautiful presentation on our plates, and we smiled and greedily dug in.

It's hard for me to imagine a more perfect flavor combination than that poached egg on top of those tomatoes and the avocado smash.  I'm afraid that, from now on, the eggs that I make at home will always pale in comparison.

The plates might not have looked that big, but S and I were both stuffed by the time that we finished.  Which was good, because she was off to do some hiking and needed her strength and I was off to.....drink some cappuccino and read the New York Times.  Sundays can be so taxing.

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