Philly, Day 2: Breakfast Pizza, a Most Awesome Brunch Sandwich from Morning Glory Diner
Note: This entry originally took place on November 8.
I know I just said that I don't understand the fervor behind brunch, but I think that's only when I'm in New York City where long wait times and high prices tend to go hand in hand with eggs Benedict.
In Philly, where it's a bit cheaper and the wait times are shorter (at least on a semi-rainy Saturday morning), I kind of get it now. At least if there's a "breakfast pizza" involved.
A Finer Diner
Alex, Dave (Alex's roommate), and I headed to Morning Glory Diner (the prices on the menu are out of date) due to a recommendation from one of Alex's friends. Although we had to wait a bit, there were plenty of seats outside to rest our bums on. You'll get a spot more quickly if you sit at the counter.
Which we did. Sitting at the counter is better anyway since you get to see the cooking action.
Like the Drippy Waffle.
MOUNTAIN OF AWESOME
Alex's monkey French toast ($9; I don't remember the prices of the other dishes, but here's a photo of part of the menu) consisted of French toast stuffed with banana and mango with caramel sauce and topped with whipped cream. Holy shit. What other reaction is there? We had already went, "Holy shit," when we saw the chef griddle the thick egg-soaked toasts and banana mix and lovingly plop on fresh whipped cream from a tub. And then it came to our table—a beautiful mound of sugary, carby, creamy, fruity goodness. Of course it was awesome.
Their biscuit was also exceptionally good. It wasn't anything like a typical light, flaky, Southern-style biscuit, but like a meltingly tender, buttery, moist crumb cake. As good as it was, the three of us had trouble finishing it since it was so huge.
And then there was the breakfast pizza. Strange name, since it's not at all like a pizza but more like a massive open-faced sandwich of crisp, toasted bread topped with a thick slice of potato, uber-soft caramelized onions, a scrambled egg patty, and gooey melted mozzarella. Sweet baby jesus. Excessive and delicious.
STARE INTO IT!
While the scrambled egg was perfectly fine, I feel like a sunny-side up egg—with its crispy edges and rich, oozing sac of failed embryo nutrients—would be even better.
I found the "pizza" a bit bland on its own, but ketchup perked it right up. Ketchup was served in bottles and came out runny like tomato sauce. I'd guess that they make it themselves.
With our powers combined, we tackled the beast, the only survivors being a few ragged strands of onion and a neglected slice of raw tomato. Once again, I felt the need to finish a dish even though I knew the consequences would be an uncomfortably bloaty belly and decreased monching ability for the rest of the day. When will I learn? Probably never.