After a week of heavy eating with some of the best chefs in the Northwest, I planned to simply order a glass of juice or a cup of tea at Café Presse this morning. I’d arranged to meet Charles Drabkin there to follow up on a conversation begun over the weekend at the International Pinot Noir Celebration, and while food and cooking would inevitably be part of the conversation, I didn’t plan to eat anything.
But Drabkin spoke so enthusiastically about the food coming out of the kitchen that I felt a moral obligation to try something on the menu.
I looked for something cheap and noticed the omelette for a buck or two less than on any breakfast menu I’ve seen for quite some time. I ordered one with mushrooms… not expecting much given the price… and when it came my expectations were met. It was plain and completely alone in its dish.
But two bites into the omelette I started to wonder how in the world I was going to make it in for breakfast weekly given the fact that our home is on the other side of the state.
Most places use omelettes as a comatose-producing egg wrap for a mess of cheese, meats, and occassionally vegetables. The perfect omelette at Café Presse is a study in simplicity. You taste egg, perfectly cooked, and, in my case, mushrooms. There was also a slight tang inside that I’m still trying to identify in the hopes that I might try to make something similar at home. I hate to admit I couldn’t identify that third element immediately, but I’m willing to fess up in the hopes that one of you do know and will tell me. Please.
It didn’t even occur to me to reach for the salt or pepper. And Tabasco? Not a chance. You don’t mess with perfection.
