Brunch -- Cafe Charbon

Finding a good spot for Sunday brunch in NYC can be a challenge. You wake up hungry and hung over, and the last thing on earth you want to do is waste precious time perusing Citysearch for an auspicious find, only to discover it packed to the gills. You could pout outside of whatever hipper-than-thou brunch spot you picked with the rest of the starved, or you could mosy downtown to the lovely and spacious Cafe Charbon.
When considering brunch, remember not to be deterred by the disappointments. Sunday brunch is the get-out-of-jail-free card of meals. Its great, because you can pretend like you haven't wasted your whole day (even if you woke up at 1 p.m.) by eating breakfast food in the mid-afternoon. Note that at brunch, the earliest drinking of the week is permitted and encouraged, thanks to mimosas and bloody-marys. Sunday brunch is the last hurrah of the weekend, so you are encouraged to indulge whatever cholesterol level raising, alcoholic tendencies you might harbor. At the same time, the veneer of Sunday Brunch is decidedly upstanding. People who brunch are hedonists by nature, but they have been able to get out of bed, if late, and therefore they will be okay. Its the righteous's gift to himself for surviving the weekend.
Thus, with the enthusiasm of a zealot, I brunch every Sunday.
This Sunday, my party first tried Clinton St. Baking Co., on Houston and Clinton. I've heard that Clinton St. offers that incomparable combination of "cheap and good," which some of us spend our lives in search of. Unfortunately, the wait was a whole hour-- one hour out of the question for brunch. We wandered further downtown, and landed at Cafe Charbon, on 170 Orchard St.

We had a bit of trouble finding the proper entrance. The exterior is adorably French, advertising oeufs and buerre. I wanted to get inside to catch a better view of the whimsical interior, but the main doorway was blocked off by a table. Being as there were hardly more than a dozen people seated, this extra table seemed nonsensical, as we had to shove around other empty tables to get through the door. When we got inside, I was pleased to find things get even cuter. The walls are lined with French grocery products, from laundry detergent to kids' toys, and none of it appears to have moved since the fifties. I'm sure this isn't true, and maybe if I were French I'd find Charbon's decor as nauseating as any American mock malt shop's ( a la Ruby's Diner), but I'm not French. Cafe Charbon is categorically adorable.
Right away we were given orange juice, which tasted fresh and just sweet enough. I ordered an immaculate Egg's Florentine. The amount of succulent Lemon Hollondaise sauce was perfectly proportionate to the spinach and poached eggs. The English muffin was soft enough not to interfere with the perfect bite, but crispy enough to deliver the heavy toppings without a mess. My plate came with a small salad in a vinaigrette and some fried potatoes, which were amply and deliciously spiced. I also tried a bite of the croque monsieur, which was satisfying, but which came, sadly, on a rather desolate plate. My date was duly allowed to share my potatoes.
The service at Charbon was quick, but completely apathetic. Our waiter seemed to begrudge us interrupting his own mid-morning hangover cure. Still, I look forward to returning to Cafe Charbon, though not for Brunch next week. I'll be busy surveying another spot, so that someday in my mid-fifties, after many many Sundays, after I've tried every brunch in Manhattan, I can settle in as a regular at some divine spot. For now, Charbon will rest on the top of my list.