Why is Miles Davis' Autumn Leaves so good? Because it's got such a good season for inspiration. Jagged spikes of red, chilling breezes that transition to cool if you thank autumn for the apple cider it's brought you, and foods that inspire you to keep watching football or meander through crunchy leaves instead of pitifully letting winter defeat you. On a crisp day that started like fall and quickly swiveled to summer, Christine and I dressed up for brunch and a garden party.
At the White House.
On a brisk Sunday morning (somehow we both managed to get somewhere before noon), we headed to Eola for one explicit culinary purpose, photographed, perhaps vulgarly, a few paragraphs below.
Knowing what food challenges we were on the horizon, we each instinctively thought of bloody marys. In color and subtle heartiness, no other drink seems to match autumn as well. After enduring the indignity of being told "the restaurant didn't have them and they were out of season anyway," we girded ourselves for the frigid chill of winter.
I got a kir royale, a French cocktail of champagne and blackcurrant liqueur. Christine ordered a cocktail I forgot to photograph and as sturdy pot of coffee. Then we began strategizing; we knew we had to make smart choices.
We began with the biscuits and jelly. They were perfectly and lovingly crafted and didn't need a lick of butter. Weird.
The biscuits were also a wait to prepare ourselves for the only reason Eola itself was open for its monthly brunch: its bacon flight. From a list of 12 bacons--including jowly face bacon--Christine and I ordered three. I have no idea what we got but at least one of them was a Berkshire and each varied in saltiness, fattiness, smokiness, and meatiness.
Thick pork is an intimidating thing; as such, puns about squealing in delight or pigging out would be misplaced. We congratulated ourselves on about four bites each and retreated to more traditional plates. Christine had corned beef and hash with eggs and I had eggs benedict.
And the more-breakfast-than-brunch-dish, grits.
After staring up the nose of our waiter (can that be a reverse metaphor?), enduring the charmingly silly inquiries of our platinum-haired busboy, crisscossing the anti-GMO protestors and enlightened Occupy DC protestors very proud of themselves for going to see Cornel West, and savoring the attire of those who appeared more fit to fix their transmission than visit the White House, we silded up to the bar at Elephant and Castle. Seemed in season to me.
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