The closest thing San Franciscans have to uniform religion is Weekend Brunch. We are, without a doubt, a city who brunches. Lines are an hour and a half at Zazie and Outerlands, a price people willingly pay time after time.
It only makes sense that San Francisco, the city who spends Sunday morning bowing to the Breakfast gods, would get a food truck devoted to just that. Enter: The Brunch Box, our first brunch truck by Chairman Bao alums Eric Rud, Caroline Hummer, and Guillermo Perez (remember that place?), complete with a sweet ass wrap-design by The Well Armed.
Ricotta pancake soufflé and sour batard French toast with Bourbon-poached peaches aside, I had to get the beer-braised pork belly hash with dijon hollandaise.
Considering they’re cooking eggs à la minute on a truck, I worried they wouldn’t be up to par. Luckily, both eggs were perfectly poached, oozing yellow yolk all over the potatoes, in nooks and crannies. Chard wilted in sherry vinegar brightens up the otherwise heavy meal.
Breakfast is arguably the best meal of the day. But it takes care and execution to be pulled off. Just why do you think it’s often a requirement on cooking shows to be able to scramble the perfect egg? Because it requires skill. You can check your over-scrambled, rubbery eggs at the door. Give me soft, give me fluffy, and if its a little under that’s better than browned. When it comes to poached or fried, there is nothing sadder than a set yolk.
To me, breakfast embodies nurture, care, and relaxation with family and friends. Maybe because it signifies the come of the weekend, or maybe because it was the only meal my mother really cooked for me as a child. Either way, breakfast strikes up fond memories of pancakes, scrambles, sourdough toast, Pops’ Belgian waffles, and my favorite: Mama’s French toast. That was the meal we ate together- at the table, surrounded by love and syrup.
Today, I make breakfast as a way to convey that feeling of comfort and nurture. While you sleep, I will get up and make you food. I’ll gently scramble your eggs, I’ll batter and I’ll butter and you’ll wake to the warm smell of spiced French toast. This is how I show love.
Those feelings of comfort are always present for me with breakfast, one of the main reasons why I worship the Church of Brunch. Another reason- to laugh over the hilarity and debauchery of the night before and soak up regrets with buttery toast and runny yolks- that is if you made it home in time to come with us, you dog, you. And let’s be honest, there’s plenty of hilarity and debauchery to go around in our fine town. So brunch away, my friends. Brunch away.