I am less embarrassed by my mother than I ever was. It must be around that time of my life. And of all the things she does that are impressive, this weekend kind of took the cake.
I just moved to Harlem, and despite, or perhaps because of, my Mom's own personal aversion to germs, I was granted a free floor scrub and shower scouring, as well as various hardware installations and a week of groceries and beer. I tell you once my Mother gets going I can't intervene; I have tried. So n return for her efforts I conceded her only request – that I attend my first Catholic mass in ten years, and afterwards, of course, accompany her to breakfast.
We brunched at Le Monde on the UWS because it was close to the church and I was getting tired of the usual Morningside breakfast fare: Nussbaum, which I never go to; Tom’s Restaurant, which is touristy and unappetizing and packed with college students; and that other place, I don’t know the name, but which is on the corner of 115th and Broadway and has delicious French toast. I normally would have picked that one, but I had never been to Le Monde, and it was still early, and one should always try what one doesn’t know about, so we went, and at 9:40 we were the second patrons in the entire place, so I got excited thinking we’d actually eat soon and be on our way back to the park in time for a gander at the farmer’s market.
But as the waitress poured coffee and chatted to us, I looked cautiously over my mother's shoulder and spotted danger. The mother/father/daughter trio beyond us, the only other people in the place, were looking around with hungry eyes. “Just so you know,” the waitress said, “they are making fresh hollandaise, so that’s why your breakfast will take a little longer. It’ll be fresh, but it’ll be a little bit.” She had a voice like Kathy Griffith’s.
“That’s ok,” we said to her, because that is what you say, and she went away and we went back to guzzling coffee and fidgeting with various table items.
Ten more minutes passed and nothing. Ten more. Halfway through our third cups of coffee we had a game of speculation going good as well as a hypersensitive bout of the giggles. “The cook never showed up,” Mom said, setting the jittering coffee cup back down on her saucer. “He isn’t here.” “This better be worth it.” I stared jealously over my shoulder at the plates of bagels and lox being consumed by four blonde tweens and their mother at an outdoor table, my stomach growling. “We should have ordered something non-hollandaise,” I said, watching the team sleepily gathering their bags and heading off to do whatever mothers and daughters looking that happy and healthy and sated do on Sunday mornings after they've been properly nourished.
When the eggs Florentine did arrive, it was all over for me. All of it. It was like getting a much-needed haircut on the house, or like taking the wrong exit and having a fit only to find out you are exactly where you needed to be in the first place. The eggs were huge and puffy and beautifully poached, their whites soft and whipped back, as if dropped like batter from a spoon. The yolks, when gently cut into with the side of a fork, ran out perfectly over the spinach and English muffin, which was buttered and toasted and still maintaining soft whiteness. The hash browns hadn’t a speck of grease, but were just crispy and seasoned with something aromatic but not overbearing. I saved half of the meal to eat for dinner tonight, after my mother left me. “After this Florentine is gone,” I said to her as we gathered our things to leave, “I am back to being my own Mom.” And now I am. And somehow I’m certain I’ll never eat Eggs Florentine that good again.
