Tommy’s

When the lovely and talented Skittles recommended that The Armada hit up Tommy’s, a long-time favourite of hers for breakfast, my immediate reaction was, “What!? You want us to eat breakfast at a high school-dropout bar in Maple Ridge that once held a contest that awarded one lucky girl with low self-esteem $3000 towards a boob-job?!” ( I wish I was making this up) She quickly reassured me that in fact her invitation was to Tommy’s in North Van, a cosy, rustic eatery lacking even the slightest affiliation to the nightly orgy of venereal disease exchange taking place in the Lower Mainland’s armpit. Breathing individual sighs of relief, your Armada agents boarded their various vessels and weighed anchor for a long, scenic voyage to the verdant North Shore.

At least half of our journey was spent in complete shadow as a colossal Hummer H2 directly in front of us succeeded in blocking out the better part of the sun. After a good 20 minutes in its ecliptic wake, we finally overtook it and who should be sitting in the front seat, hunched over the wheel like the grim spectre of Death but none other than grizzled local hockey hero, Todd Bertuzzi. Being the huge Canucks fan that he is, I know it took every ounce of restraint for Lang to prevent himself from whipping out The Dang and having sex with himself in the backseat. As a long-suffering Blues devotee, I pleaded with M to run the evil bastard off the road or at least allow me to whip a flaming Molotov Cocktail at his ostentatious vehicle but, alas, I was repudiated and must choke back my tears for yet another painful year.

We eventually arrived at our point of destination, although if any of us had blinked we’d have driven right by as Tommy’s is externally fairly nondescript. The inside was a whole different story as the rather bland brick exterior disguised a vibrant, neighbourly atmosphere, exuding almost a Starbucks-like ambiance minus all the Frappucino-guzzling caffeine monkeys associated with Seattle’s ubiquitous, overbearing coffee monopoly. The adobe walls were decked with tasteful, vividly coloured offerings from local artists and the bar was wrapped in shimmering, corrugated metal. Milk crates full of toys were on hand to placate the Nickelodeon set or the more simple-minded of your dining companions. 

Coffee retrieval at Tommy’s is left up to the patron, which, in a way, is kind of nice because you never have to wait to refill your perpetually drained mug. In another, more egregiously lazy way, it’s a pain in the ass ’cause once Daddy’s down, he’s down for the day. Under normal circumstances, a mere cup of joe wouldn’t qualify as incentive enough to endure the five-yard walk across the restaurant but Skittles’ insistence that I sample the delightful “organic” blend persuaded me to go in for a closer inspection.

I often scoff sheepishly when the word “organic” is attached to some sort of food product as, when I was doing my biology degree, organic simply meant carbon-based. Somehow, somewhere along the line, some hippie entrepreneur decreed that labelling something “organic” made it way healthier and therefore, one hundred times more awesome. I hate to be the one to break it to you people, but there’s no such thing as “inorganic” coffee. Perhaps, on Star Trek, there exists some sort of silicon-based coffee that you fear-mongering, pesticide-haters might enjoy but I really wouldn’t know about that. My free time is far too occupied with fighting ninjas and making love to Spanish Countessas to be nerding out with sixties sci-fi. At any rate, the coffee was fine. Damn fine.

In keeping with the restaurant’s underlying mountain-bike theme, I did a full-on face-plant into what the menu calls the “uLtImoe frEnChy ToAsT.” Yeah, I don’t get it either but honestly, I stopped caring after the first bite. Actually, I was so captivated by the gloriously sticky blend of crème anglaise, warm apple compote, cinnamonny raisins and sweet, sweet powdered sugar that I forgot a lot of things. Breathing, for one. Luckily, my trusty autonomic nervous system bailed me out once again. Thanks, hypothalamus! At most restaurants, the ease with which French Toast is prepared tends to lull the chef into a false sense of security and overconfidence, resulting in a substandard, routine meal. The cooks at Tommy’s completely bucked this trend and succeeded in injecting new life and vigor into what, at many brunch joints, has become a tedious exercise in mastication.

Agent M‘s cast iron stomach cordially invited the $7.95 Cajun Egg Scram in for an overnight stay. Consisting of eggs, chorizo, jalapeños, green onions, tomato and cheddar, the Cajun Scram proved itself to be a gracious houseguest, leaving behind ulcers and searing hot gasses in lieu of thank-you cards. “Those are some frickin’ spicy eggs!” coughed an exuberant M as he washed his scram down with a swig of hash browns and a side of 100% pure beef sausage. His beaming smile confirmed his satisfaction but I was perplexed by the dish’s moniker. If you’re going for authentic Cajun, I’m thinking Cayenne peppers with Andouille sausages would be far more appropriate. Last time I checked, jalapeños and chorizo did not originate in Louisiana. All completely anal points aside, this fiery treat knocked M’s socks off, resulting in a prolonged Maalox moment upon his return home.

Marcus Naslund’s girlfriend, or as he’s more commonly known, Lang Dang, chose today to add a little Irish to his morning. No, he didn’t get rip-snorting drunk, plant a car bomb outside Heathrow and pee on a bus stop but instead ordered the Dubliner, Tommy’s own version of a classic Irish breakfast. $7.95 bought Lang two eggs, bacon, sausages, sliced tomatoes, mushrooms, toast and pan-fries. Nothing particularly fancy about this one but it did its job exceptionally well, prompting Lang Dang to laud it as “Exactly what I wanted from a two-egg meal. The addition of the tomatoes and mushrooms sets it apart from standard ‘classics’ and quantity was definitely not an issue.” 

The Armada’s all-star line-up became decidedly more stacked this Saturday with the addition of former “exotic entertainer” Skittles to our panel. She had nothing but the highest of praise for her $7.45 Mediterranean Scram, citing a minor deficiency in tzatziki as its only drawback. Another highlight for our buxom blonde beauty was the generosity of the apple juice serving she was allotted. Honestly, the way she droned on about it, you’d think it had been squeezed from the teet of some magical Unicorn or perhaps that delightfully capricious dog from Frasier. At any rate, I will admit that it was nice to see her branch out and sample something other than Mars bars and peanut butter cups for caloric intake. In fact, if this morning was any indication, all signs point to her making another attempt to consume more non nougat-based food products in the near future. 

Last and certainly least, the King and Queen (I’ll let the readers draw their own conclusion as to who wears the Tiara) of Bennyland ordered up a couple of…wait for it….Eggs Bennies!!! Ducky shelled out $7.95 for the guacamole and bacon-laden Franciscan while The Video Store Girl bellied up to a half order of the spinach and tomato-heavy Palermo. The Duck felt the cool, rich guac juxtaposed the heat of the runny yolk very nicely and the hint of spice in the hollandaise sealed the deal. The VSG was, amazingly, complaint-free and also extolled the virtues of the smooth, sexy sauce as well as the ideal portion size of her meal. Four thumbs up from our happy couple.

So despite the Homeriffic odyssey to get there and the talent being a touch on the jailbait tip, Tommy’s impressed from the get-go. The bright, jovial atmosphere and friendly clientele provoked a warm, splendorous glow in my emotion-generating organs (i.e. the gonads) while the nitrate-free bacon option made me laugh a hearty Ed McMahon belly laugh. (How, after reading this, one could still request the ‘nitrate-heavy’ bacon is something I doubt even the world’s smartest man, Vin Diesel, could answer). This place was all it was cracked up to be and it’s safe to say that, as soon as I get my bike out of its ongoing “under repair” state, I’ll be hitting up Tommy’s in a big way for some fuel prior to breaking my collar bone on the North Shore’s suicidal freeride trails. I think you should too. Sayonara, thrill-seekers.

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The Sick & Dirty

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