Every once in a while I falter from this belief. It usually starts with a holiday, in the most recent case Mother’s Day that leads me down the stray path to putting my faith in a restaurant’s morning plate. I start with visions of champagne and silken, runny poached eggs, exotic fresh ingredients and brioche breads, chunks of briny seafood and sweet, ripe jams and typically find myself slave to whatever the chef of the day decides to highlight instead.
This time the Cute Gardener and I strolled to the Three Square Café on Abbot Kinney, a place that I have been dying to revisit ever since catching sight of Maggie Gyllenhaal there one day spearing the most interesting looking avocado fries from her plate. Baby of the Los Angeles chef Hans Rockenwagner, it is known for certain things like the pretzel bun hamburger and a bountiful selection of fresh baked breads and pastries that are made next door at his adjacent bakery.
On Sunday morning it resembled a glorified version of a bustling café, packed to the gills with people blissed out on all the baskets of bread.
The Austrian-tinged “sausage and eggs” plate was a huge meal featuring a flavorful link, a nice pile of savory onions, two sunshiny eggs, a pretzel roll and hearty, grainy mustard.
My omelet had the sweetest green innards: fava beans, spring peas and cute baby zucchinis swimming sprightly on a bed of creamy burrata. I mostly picked out the middle of this dish though because unfortunately, the eggs were cooked overdone and slightly hardened.
This is probably the biggest reason I need to eat breakfast at home. I have a hard time finding a place that gets eggs right and I know Three Square’s chefs know how to cook a perfect omelet base just like every other chef who has screwed it up for me at restaurants. They just don’t seem to have the time and attention span in the course of a busy kitchen to give it due respect.
Hash browns were crispy and not over buttered. The plentiful wedge of focacia-type bread was moist, thick and soft with a spare and tangy sun dried tomato piece.
And of course, after washing everything down with a groovy ovular glass of elder flower-tinged Prosecco, I decided I would give the place another chance, only next time for lunch or dinner.