Hell’s Kitchen

Hola, hash brown whores, welcome once again to Vancouver’s only site that’s got the cojones to give you the real deal on the day’s most important meal. No punches are pulled, no expenses are spared and no asses are unpinched as we continue our voyage to bring you ever-closer to your breakfast Shangri-la. This week’s adventure brought us once again into the breakfast hot-zone of Kitsilano to inspect a relative newcomer to the brunch scene: Hell’s Kitchen. Nestled between two breakfast titans, Joe’s Grill and the absurdly popular Sophie’s Cosmic Café, Hell’s Kitchen would need to impress in order to pry away loyalists from these two juggernauts of gastric delight. All right, baby, give us what you got.

First impressions of the atmosphere were all positive as we found ourselves enveloped in a thick soup of red velveteen. The tiles were terra cotta, the couches were plush, and the overall subdued vibe was further enhanced by the mellow trip-hop swelling from the speakers above. My dilapidated heart momentarily skipped a beat as our weekly serving concubine approached and presented a situation entirely novel to me: a waitress I actually knew. What is one to do in such a case? Am I bound by friendship or by my strict, journalistic oath, sworn on my sacred autographed Stone Philips 8×10, to report the facts objectively? Fear not, faithful readers, as the answer came swiftly while I reflected on having long ago filed for chapter eleven moral bankruptcy proceedings.

I’ve always liked this girl, she’s got a fairly cynical attitude and a nice rack to boot so talent-wise, the place stacks up, so to speak. However, as hard as it may be to believe, a good breakfast experience actually requires good breakfast so I’ll dispense with the pleasantries and kick the ballistics. The paltry menu consists of a mere fifteen (including three rather similar skillets and three bennys) items so you’re not exactly overwhelmed with decisions but said menu is rife with many a noun not often encountered at what is considered to be a low-brow meal. Words like chipotle, mole, andouille, sambal, shallot, and compote piqued our interest as we perused and pondered our poison.

Now, I’m not exactly a breakfast virgin here folks. My proverbial cherry was popped long ago over a styrofoam-contained, syrupy shortstack at McDonalds and, like most grade nine Surrey girls, I went though an experimental phase where I’d try just about anything in order to get off. Sometimes I was rewarded with otherworldly orgasmic pleasure, other times, heinously violated a la Ned Beatty in Deliverance. The bottom line is that I’ve been around the block and I’ve tasted things that would make Genghis Kahn retch. I’ve also been on the other side of the fence and I’ve come to learn that there are few things that register higher on the deliciousness Richter than Chevre cheese. Consequently, as soon as I noticed that the succotash skillet was available with this goat-yielded dairy delicacy I got hotter than R. Kelly at a Girl Guide convention.

Succotash itself, for all of its prominence in Warner Brothers cartoons, is a bit of a mystery to most. It’s supposed to be a Narragansett dish of corn and lima beans cooked together with tomatoes but mine seemed to resemble a plate of undercooked hash browns covered with various peppers, onions, mushrooms, scrambled eggs and the afore-mentioned goat’s cheese. My mild disappointment dissipated quickly as a little goat’s cheese goes a long way towards disguising an otherwise underwhelming dish and alot of goat’s cheese could turn Karl Malone’s post-game underwear into fois gras. Needless to say, this mother was smothered and I savoured every last oily bite.

Lang Dang also plunged into the succotash, opting for jack, cheddar and mushrooms as his toppings. The Dang seemed sated but was somewhat miffed at the diminutive portion size (I thought it was ample) and the lack of choice on the eggs (scrambled) although I imagine a simple request to the accommodating wait staff could have produced the desired over-easies. For $9.95 it’s the least they could do.

The waffles offered up a bit of a twist coming complete with revolutionary mango syrup and vanilla whip cream for $8.95. Agent M scarfed them back like he’d been living in a filthy Thai prison for the last decade with nothing but locusts and his own fingernails for sustenance. Whoa, buddy, save some for the dust mites! The only pitfall on this one was that Agent M was still hungry upon completion and had to order up a few slices of multi-grain toast to quench his carbohydrate jones.

The Duck dove headfirst into his $8.95 BC benny that gave it’s best effort to distinguish itself from the ranks of the routine Eggs Benedict found on every breakfast menu around the city. Despite being served up on a sturdy English crumpet foundation (as opposed to the standard-fare muffin) and topped with smoked salmon, shallot marmalade(!?) and caper-chive hollandaise, Ducky came up quacking that the dish was “too fishy.”

“Too fishy? Dude, you do realize that there are capers and fish on it, don’t you?”

“Really? Man, I didn’t even read the menu, I guess that would explain it.” (Audible sigh) I guess so, Duck. Folks, you don’t know how hard it is to work with these people. That aside, the straight dope on this one from the man who has, throughout his life, consumed enough hollandaise to fill a Mr Turtle is that it was not his best benny. Hey, good enough for me but keep in mind that this is coming from a guy with simple tastes who would probably describe mozzarella cheese as “electrifying”

Our international contingency of Ignacio, The Playin’ Chilean and Ikohiro, The Eighth Samurai, elected for the house made granola and breakfast tostada, respectively. Ignacio was pleased with the taste but the meal was drier than a Davie street hooker after a twelve hour shift. The tostada (at $6.95 one of the cheapest things on the menu) was greeted with exuberant enthusiasm by our Japanese colleague until he sampled the black bean mole which resulted in the most pronounced look of utter disgust since I saw Kathy Bates’ naked bulbous ass in “About Schmidt”. I wouldn’t take this as a reflection on the quality of the beans, they just apparently don’t get a hell of a lot of them in Japan. Being the team player I am, I graciously offered to assist Ikohiro polish off the mole and I must say that the joy I got out of eating them was only surpassed by the juvenile giddiness I experienced upon expelling their various noxious gasses later that evening.

No breakfast review is fully complete without an evaluation of the pancakes so the lovely Christine opted to be our guinea pig for the “blue strawberry” compote and vanilla whip-coated ‘cakes while tacking on a side of turkey sausages for good measure. As far as we could discern, the mysterious “blue strawberry” consisted solely of blueberries but apart from this minor misnomer and a reported “slight chewiness”, these puppies received a hearty thumbs up.

Well, that’s the story, Morning Glory but before I sign off on this one, I’d be remiss not to mention an interesting variation offered up by Hell’s Kitchen in the form of live jazz music every Sunday morning starting at 10 a.m. Shop around, kids, I guarantee you Sophie’s will be offering up live music approximately the same time they make Pluto Nash 2. So there you have it, if you don’t mind paying a little extra and having to ask to get your coffee refilled, Hell’s Kitchen presents the diner with some innovative twists and tastes in a tightly competitive and often repetitive breakfast market. Enjoy, and don’t forget to tell ’em Dirty Johnny sent ya!

Location

(Isn’t that clever?)

Crew

The Sick & Dirty

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