Frog & Firkin
They started low. Really low. I’m not ashamed to admit that I went into the Frog & Firkin with a breakfast bias the size of a Hoegarden. But hey, go in with low expectations and there’s a comfortable opportunity for improvement, right?
It began when Agent M and I arrived at 10:15 to be greeted only by Avril Lavigne delivering her pre-pubescent laments to an empty restaurant. After a few minutes, we received an over-the-shoulder “we don’t open ’till eleven” from a presumed staff member attempting artistry on a distant chalkboard. “Then lock your fucking front door” I muttered as we left dejectedly.
Determined to give this amphibian a fighting chance at Darwinian success, we resolved to enjoy a true Kits latte at Higher Grounds to kill some of that element that allows all things to evolve eventually – time. As an aside, if Higher Grounds served breakfast, I could drop anchor, stow my sword and musket, and give up my life of breakfast pillagery. The mix of frothy cream and even frothier ladies makes this lively galley a pirate’s paradise.
We quaffed our coffees and returned to settle in at the Frog’s generous patio, a definite asset on those balmy Vancouver summer mornings. To get there, we were forced to navigate the red faux-velour seats, dark wood and dim lighting offered by many an English pub in order to place in doubt and shadow the kidneys and cheddar that make up most of their meals. Thank god for the beer.
But this was breakfast.
Our server quickly countered our typically hormonal reaction to her curves with a decidedly gruff approach. Clearly we had disrupted her “easy” morning shift. Like Pyong chang on the morning of July 3rd, this place was dead.
Well, all the more opportunity for the kitchen’s extra-special attention to our meals…
M’s “Big Firkin Breakfast” – consisting of two eggs, along with bacon, sausage AND ham, fresh tomato, toast, hash browns and fresh fruit – arrived with a friend. At $7.50 this seemed like a steal, and M didn’t feel the need for any extras, especially not the small hair. But a quick surgical procedure had M‘s breakfast once again follicle free and he decided to start in on one of the “fresh tomatoes.” To me the fruit and veg just looked like garnishes, and I warned M that many a more-evolved haunt than the Frog had been known to recycle. Fearless as ever, M dove in despite my warnings, and gave me a disconcerted look after the first tomato bite: “did you hear that?” he asked. I had to admit that I had heard nothing but the roar of Saturday morning Broadway traffic punctuated by the gentle hum of nobody sitting around us, but the Agent assured me that the crunch of his tomato was deafening. Strike two. M then took a positively archaeological approach to his food, carefully turning over garnish after garnish – browned lettuce, bruised strawberry, uninteresting hash browns – almost fearful of disturbing some unknown presence. These may not seem like such major infractions, but how else is one to differentiate what amounts to bacon and eggs, but with garnishes and at least vaguely seasoned hash browns? The verdict: not M-pressed.
Frequent visitors to the Armada’s decks know my propensity toward the Benny. It has the potential to be, without a doubt, the perfect breakfast. Eggs, cooked to perfection, allowing that ever-anticipated yolky release. The requisite grain, keeper of the crunch and cradle to that silky-smooth stiffener of all arteries – butter. And yummy yellow sauce. Hot, flowing, dripping over my eggs – at once protective, but also inviting destruction by my waiting fork and knife; OH Benny!
My choice this morning was the $8.99 Florentine. Fresh tomato and spinach, crumbled feta and poached eggs on a toasted English muffin with hollandaise. My god, this combination promised to be a United Nations of flavour, or at least an EU. I was preparing a suitable phrase of praise in Esperanto when the unthinkable landed before me. I shot Agent M a worried glance and caught the look of wonder on his face. He had given up the inspection of his own plate’s contents for the spectacle of my “hollandaise”, perched atop my poached eggs like a gargoyle mocking me hideously for having ordered such an abomination. And flavour? You might think such an imposing presence would house and explosion of buttery goodness. If you can imagine an explosion of tepid mediocrity, you’d be much much closer.
I couldn’t really continue after that. M picked at his plate for a while, I penetrated my hollandaise unenthusiastically and we asked for the bill.
Eminently successful as an after work, sunny patio, cool-draught-of-beer experience, the Frog will always hold a place in our hearts. But struggle as it might to crawl from the primordial slime of pubdom, I fear it may never walk breakfast-erect.
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