Neighbourhoods West End Dirty Johnny 2004-01-01

Milestones – English Bay

“Once more they would replenish themselves, cheat death again. The power of their source: The Cholesterol”

That’s right, children, when neither hide nor hair was heard from our heroes for many a sleepless night, the worst was feared. While out of the spotlight, they battled jealousy, chlamydia, male-pattern baldness, same-sex marriage (and divorce) and a legal battle not seen since the days of OJ, Johnny Cochrane and the famed “Dream Team.” In the end, it was the purity of the breakfasting concomitant with the sheer majesty and power of discombobulating and humiliating unsuspecting talent-deprived, rumpy wait-staff that brought them out of semi-retirement. No, folks, the Beatles didn’t reunite, there never was a “Weekend at Bernie’s 3”, but by God, the Breakfast Armada has returned from their lengthy abeyance to reclaim the title! Time to get back on the attack…

We have never been kind to chain restaurants. A quick perusal of the site will corroborate the previous statement and possibly shed some light on our intransigent prejudice. The barbarous decimation of White Spot resulted in a complete marketing overhaul, the firing of geriatric Gordie Howe as spokesman and mandatory “extreme makeovers” to any server deemed a “7.5” or less. Over at Denny’s, only our astronomically high tolerance for hog-fat (forged through a few lean years where Doctor Brown and I, strapped for cash, lived solely on Hormel rendering plant “undesirables”) permitted us to escape without the assistance of paramedics.

However on this day, the joyous rebirth of the Armada, we decided to cast aside our historic biases and give one of Vancouver’s most well-known and oft-patronized chains the benefit of the doubt. After an insulting 25-minute wait, (I guess they must have missed our expose on “Access Hollywood”) we settled our tautly sculpted abs into Milestones’ incommodious (I was mere inches from a load-bearing support beam!) seating arrangements and diverted our eyes from the teen queen hostess to the beckoning menu.

My fancy was soon tickled and by the Stacked French Toast, a recovering starchaholic’s worst nightmare. Here’s the low-down: three heaving slices of French bread, slathered in carmelized apples, honey ham, maple syrup, creamery cheese and the thing-de-resistance, crunchy pecans, all for the acceptable price of $9.29. “Why Mister Johnny, I do believe you’ve gone and soiled your undergarments again.” I’m telling you, it’s getting tougher and tougher to look my dry-cleaner in the face. Sploogy-shorts aside, I hadn’t enjoyed anything French this much since I spent a weekend in Paris. But by now, you’ve probably all downloaded the tape from Kazaa. Anyway, I wolfed down the majority before taking a 30 second dip in English bay for the annual polar bear swim. (see sexy attached photo.) It was a lark but not a recommended undertaking for anyone who happens to be partial to having their testicles remain external organs.

Special Agent M‘s one good eye was also firmly fixated on the Stacked Toast until it dawned on him that by instead opting for the $7.99 Blackberry Honey French Toast, he’d be able to satiate his raging maple syrup withdrawal symptoms and have enough change left over to purchase a bottle of Aqua Velva for a post-breakfast chaser. Lamentably, M’s parsimony resulted in a dejected diner as the red, microwave-thawed “black” berries were much like Hilary Duff; tart, tiny and not quite ripe enough to eat. The promised cream cheese was scarce, at best, and after watching me wantonly devour my stupendous spread, it became fairly evident that he was jealous of Johnny’s stack. I have a feeling he was also envious of my French toast but that was harder to gauge. (Free comedy lesson #1: dick jokes = crowd -pleasing, sophisticated and timeless humour)

Duck-boy, still rather lachrymose following repeated dismissals by “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” producers of his proposal to add a “Breakfast Consultant” to the cast (the official word: “too gay”), was hoping to have his spirits lifted by the $9.99 Salmon Benny special. While he did effeminately complain that the grainy mustard “lacked drama”, this was more than mitigated by the benny’s explosive yolky release and the meal served as an adequate nepenthe for the Duck‘s shattered dreams of stardom.

Moving right along, we come to the sombre story of young Snowbiscuit. In all of her dozens of voyages with the Armada, she had yet to order one even borderline mediocre meal. From beetle larvae to forgotten orders to little curly hairs, she always managed to somehow keep the ironman streak of crappy breakfasts going for one more pathetic weekend. That is, until today. Only a dish with the chops of Milestones’ vaunted Chicken & Roasted Corn Hash could break the Ripken Junior-like roll she was on. And broken it was, for once the mighty forces of the sweet corn, saucy chicken, hollandaise and hash browns were unleashed upon her quivering taste buds, there was little she could to but succumb to their succulent savagery. The battle was over quickly and left a blissful memory in her GI tract that only a future high colonic could hope to erase. Best damn thing on the menu.

And so, once again, we come to the end of another pointless review, this time, pleasantly surprised. Surpassing mass-produced, pedestrian white-guy fare, the food exceeded expectations and if it weren’t for the ridiculous wait, I’d probably have given the joint a four. The majority of the ladies on staff were tight little packages and certainly earned my slack-jawed leers. Be forewarned that parking spots in the west end are about as rare as a good Sean Connery flick (oh, fuck you, LXG sucked my ass hair dry. He’s the Scottish Burt Reynolds) so you’d be better off leaving your Festiva at home and coming in on foot. Other than that, you have my blessing.

And on the seventh day, after downing a trough full of hollandaise, they rested, and all was well….