The Breslin, Chelsea

While we waited for our coffee – itself a wait for our unnecessary Breslin wait – in the Stumptown Coffee inside the Ace Hotel, J texted me “This is so douchey.” Was he referring to the taxidermy display in the lobby, or was he thinking that waiting on The Breslin three times in one season is overkill?  If you haven’t already noticed, we’re not big on waits at Eats Meats West.  But alas, we had guests in town, and it was determined that brunch was a reasonable means to give The Breslin another shot.  Ostensibly, we went because the English Breakfast had been voted best in the city by NY Mag, plus they seemed to like the three-cheese sandwich.  To back up a bit, the fake short supply of tables was in full effect, though to be fair we were seated faster than our quoted 30 minutes.  Right away there were some stumbles.

 

They were out of pains au chocolat (at noon), and they weren’t able to make a scotch egg (it’s dinner only).  Oh cause I’m sure they don’t have sausage sitting around.  The English breakfast doesn’t come with toast, but you can it for $3!  Thanks?  Finally,

when asked what the “selection of pastries” entailed (we assumed a combo of the

pastries listed individually) we were told that it consisted of “whatever we have in the back.”  Literally.  D asked for milk to go with her tea, and it took two more requests before she got it.  These are simple requests, people!  The fried peanut banana and bourbon vanilla sandwich is less of a sandwich and more of a sphere of fried dough (the scotch egg dough, perhaps) with some peanut butter and a tiny bit of honey.  It was just not sweet enough on the inside, and the batter could stand to be a little less savory.  The first bite was good, though, but after a while I hit a particularly boozy and raw flour patch.  It left an unsettling aftertaste.  For shame.  It was at this point that our sharing plates arrived, but the sandwich was all but gone.  I just kept thinking, “is this even a sandwich?”  It could best be described as an oversized mildly sweet corn dog with no meat or stick.  At long last: the aforementioned triple-cheese sandwich [with ham and a poached egg].  Yes, it was crispy, salty, and cheesy.  And yes it was $18.  I was prepared for the price, yet even on this our third trip, I was not prepared for the bloat factor.  The Breslin a heart-healthy establishment is not.  J also ordered the cheesewich but omitted the egg, which for some reason included mustard and house pickles.  Why would the inclusion of a fried egg make the sandwich any more or less pairable with mustard and pickles?  It’s weird either way.  By the end we were all so full that it was legitimately sad…and we’re foodies!  I mean I’m just saying there was cheese on the outside of the bread.

Verdict: We need a break.

The Breslin, Chelsea

Ah, The Breslin.  So many free tables, yet still a wait.  Why?  On a rainy cold Tuesday even.  Perhaps our presence swung the balance away from the fratty Northface guys who seemed to be in great abundance, so we had to wait.  Or perhaps it’s standard practice to feature table after empty table, yet comment on how “unusual” it is that we got a table “this quickly.”  Yah thanks, snarky waitress.  Also, you’re a waitress!  We were seated in the upstairs section, which is cool – I guess.  Except for that drippy pipe.  At least there’s another bar, and you’ve somewhat of a view.  On our way upstairs we walked past a very large table, feasting on what looked to be a whole pig.  I must have missed that on the menu.  Instead we dined on the mussel soup with curry butter toast,

the onion and bone marrow soup with parmesan

toast (they like toast points, apparently),

a Caesar salad,

a pear salad, and a burger.

Oh yes, and the Kingdom Come, pictured here

(whiskey, orange,

tea,

lemon, and

an egg white).  A little light, you jest

?  Yah, perhaps not the best

choices for this sort of joint, but on the other hand a salad if done well can be a good indicator for the restaurant as a whole.  The Caesar salad, was in fact, great – thanks in no small part to the

anchovies.  This time around, our burger was well-done, and I have to say that it wasn’t a bad decision on J’s part.  I found it a little more palatable.  OK, so I finished it for him.  I was having a big girl day.  In any case, this may seem like a negative retelling of what was admittedly a great meal (the mussel soup is divine), but it isn’t.  At Eats Meats West, we just wish fewer restaurants lived up to their hype.  Take it down a notch, The Breslin.

The Breslin, Chelsea

What does a scrunchie + a bumpit = ?
If you weren't imagining a breaded and deep-fried strip of braised lamb dipped in malt vinegar, then you were a lot like me – that is, before my recent visit to The Breslin.  Nestled inside the new Ace Hotel, the Breslin is yet another venture from April Bloomfield of Spotted Pig fame.  I have tasted the shear meatitude, and I'm never going back.  Cuz I mean, this place seriously puts the M-E-A-T in Eats Meats West.  From the scotch egg to the smoked pork belly to the aforementioned scrumpet, the savory centers of our brains were overloading.  I indulged in only a single pint of the house cask ale, yet on the subway right home it felt like I had Norovirus or something.  My tummy was a grumbling!  Too much meat, if there is such a thing.  The portions are small but so ridiculously juicy and filling.  J bit into his burger, for example, and it literally splooged all over the table.  Though the waitress was unquestionably the best I've had in a while from any restaurant, there was one mildly hilarious serving snafu: a cod brandade was delivered to the table and announced as "Caesar salad," which it most definitely did not resemble. And did they think we would have ordered such a thing?!?  Plus, sitting next to us was this hilariously picky group of older Asian women, who may or may not have been famous.  It was hard to tell because they didn’t look familiar, yet numerous restaurant officials kept coming up to them, each more eager to please than the last.  The women would politely demand things like lowering the music volume, getting extra plates, and wrapping things up to take home.  Of course, these are all traditionally acceptable complaints to have while dining, but there's a difference between simply having a gripe versus verbalizing it in the most restrained/articulated English-is-my-second-language-but-I'm-throwing-it-in-your-face way.  Priceless.