What started out as a botched morning turned into the best one of the week. I was planning to meet a friend for breakfast at Joseph Leonard, but she called at the last minute unable to get out of bed (sounded sick, but I hope her real reasons were more scintillating). I needed to be out of my apartment anyway since it was getting cleaned, so I took myself to breakfast. Question was, where to go? It seemed like the perfect West Village morning—chilly, gray, but with a kind of poetic dankness, the sort of morning you might find in a lookalike London neighborhood. No surprise so many Brits live on those twisty, brownstoned streets.
So I ventured west, toward the Cafe Gitane at The Jane hotel, all the way at the Hudson River end of Jane Street. I’d been meaning to check it out since it opened last summer, but when I walked in—and instantly established that it’s calmer, more spacious, less overrun than the Gitane on Mott—I suddenly didn’t feel like staying. The Mott branch has a stack of magazines and newspapers at the ready; this one didn’t, and I’d forgotten to grab a magazine on my way out this morning. I walked on. Morandi? Almost went in, but wasn’t feeling it today. Joseph Leonard? I’ll go back with my friend when she’s less, um, bedridden. Then I found myself standing right in front of La Bonbonniere, where I hadn’t been in more than a decade, and it quickly hit me: This is exactly where I wanted to be. Yes, I was happy to stroll the pretty West Village blocks, happy to size up its endless cozy restaurants for breakfast potential, but what I really craved today, it turned out, was a preciousness factor of zero.
La Bonbonniere is possibly the most misleadingly titled restaurant in New York. The name suggests prissiness and delicacy, but inside it’s exactly the opposite: a run-down old diner with aging newspaper scraps on the walls, friendly but slightly unhinged-looking waiters, and a menu that would have been equally at home in 1974. Ethan Hawke and other West Village celebs are off-and-on regulars here, but that’s probably because no one cares. That said, the staff does take excellent care of diners, in an offhand, just-old-fashioned-customer-service-ma’am way. Coffee refills nonstop. No rush, no hi-I’m-a-model b.s. Just a place to sit, unfold a newspaper, and fill up on greasy-spoon food.
So what about the food? From the breakfast menu of a couple dozen (mostly old-school) omelette and pancake and egg variations, I chose the “cheddar-chili” omelette that was scrawled in handwriting at the top of the typed menu. I wondered for a second if I should make sure they mean chili peppers, not chili as in chili dogs, but I decided that would sound silly. Guess what: Yes. It’s chili. As in chili-dog chili. Right inside the omelette, mixed in with the gooey cheese and the avocado. (I’d asked for avocado in the omelette too because I was charmed that the menu says “we carry avocado, $1.75 extra.” “We carry.” So 70s, or 50s even.) Anyway, I love chili, but in truth, I didn’t love the chili in my omelette. The beef and beans turn the omelette into more of a heavy, lumberjack breakfast—which is fine, but it’s not the spicy fluffy egg dish I craved. Nonetheless, I fell for La Bonbonniere all over again. I love that it still exists, in the West Village no less. I love the little things here: The toast, for instance, comes already buttered, and with tiny plastic tubs of Kraft grape jelly. Happy flashback.
Eating here got my wayward day back on track (she says, as she sits here writing an overly long blog entry while procrastinating on a magazine deadline). As I left, the sun was starting to bust through the clouds. Oh, one more thing: The coffee isn’t that great, but they keep right on refilling it. And that’s awesome.