A tale of two breakfasts...

So the question is, which breakfast do I review? Darn it, you'll get two-for-one this week.

The weekend saw me at the much-venerated Meredith Music Festival, as much about the music as for individuals in incredibly skinny jeans to show off their latest piercing or ink. No, seriously, I saw the world's skinniest man at Meredith... he could fit sideways through a closed door.

Meredith being Meredith, there is no doubt that breakfast is going to be accompanied by its friend Mr Hangover, and on both mornings he perched merrily on my shoulder, shouting into my ear and clapping little drums in beat with my footsteps.

There are quite a few breakfast stalls to choose from, and it must do a roaring trade, what with the munchies and all. We chose one of the traditional, nameless breakfast venues on the first morning, and after KB waited in one line for breakfast for 45 minutes, and I waited a similar time for coffee - served by a Barista from Pippa May Cook who I recognised last time as well - we sat on our foldaway chairs and listened to the first crappy band and prepared for our feast.

Oh and what a feast it was. To our nutrient-famished, dehyrdated bodies, no Cumulus nor Grossi nor Fat Duck itself could compare. A Breakfast wrap with bacon, cheese (cheese!) and (can you believe it?) runny eggs. Bless. I give you, oh nameless brekky venue, a solid 7 out of 10.

Like light and dark, however, Sunday's breakfast efforts were a sharp contrast. I'd like to say that I tried something different, that second day, and I attempted to - a breakfast Roti (under a sign saying, hotties eat rotis, hahaha) but after twenty five minutes of waiting in line, the charming lady behind the counter stated "Sorry guys, there's only fourteen Rotis left, so you, you, you, you..." I don't think there's any surprise that I was number fifteen in line.

Thank F%*K I got my coffees first.

So it was a more traditional wrap I procured, after trudging to the back of a line that seemed to have multiplied, only to be disappointed that the much celebrate bacon bits had, in fact, run out like $2 panties at a Myer's Boxing day sale only fifteen minutes before.

Hmmmmm. 3.5 / 10.

A massive upside to this was the delicious sample of a breakfast calzone I had from a friend.

Hat's off to you, the entrepreneurial (and nameless) Calzone stall-holder at Meredith for such an insightful pairing.

There was some music played at said Meredith, between all the breakfasts and the beer, and hats were definitely off to Paul Kelly, Wagons, and some grudging admiration to Sia (who was a little annoying but had an amazing voice).

Well, dear readership of two, this Christmas weekend we'll have to find some room in between christmas puddings and whole legs of lamb to sample some Christmas brekky cheer.

Merry Christmas!

Is the Pope Benedict?

My brother argues that Eggs Benedict is the true measure of a breakfast venue's supremacy. The colour and texture of the Hollandaise must be just so, the muffin crisp, the eggs (of course) pleasantly runny. I didn't hold to my brother's religious observance of EB at every venue, but I was definitely ready to put it to the test.

On the Sunday just past, my proposed brekky with the boys had dissolved into brekky with the Boy, my two-and-a-half year old champion kid, Noah. I say champion, but last weekend he was more like a champion boxer, with all the attitude and bravado to go along with it. We butted heads repeatedly (in between his loud declarations that 'I love you daddy') and I was NOT feeling like Dad of the year.

So what I really wanted was a place where somehow, somehow, I could occupy his attention whilst eating and enjoying my meal. We'd meandered up High Street, and was considering heading across to Brunswick St, when I was reminded of Mosskito - you know, the one near the art deco Maccas. Or near the Scarlet Lady, you depraved fiends.

Mosskito (205-211 Queens Pde, North Fitzroy) is situated in an imposing-looking building, but my experiences here over the years have been hit and miss, well, more miss than hit. Coffee, service, food and price have all copped a mental schelacking from me at one point or another.

This time, however, was so vastly different as to leave me at the end of the meal wondering if I'd come to the same place. The service was spot on, jovial, boisterous and very accommodating, and the guy that served me clearly the lynch-pin of the team's apparent lift in customer service.

Eating the eggs benedict after expecting so little was almsot a holy experience, and while there criticisms (not seasoned enough and the sauce maybe just a little thin), it was good enough to have me licking the plate. Nothing better than teaching your son bad manners!

The coffee was good but a little small (my cappucino not much bigger than Noah's babycino) and price wise it was perfect.

At the end it was the service that shone through, and the utter acceptance of a terror doing sprint laps around the tables almost enough for me to wish that I could afford to tip.

Noah really enjoyed his toast too :)



Verdict? 7.5/10, not orgasmic but better than the standard fare.

Next week? I'll be at Meredith Music Festival, so it's the breakfast of the music-weary and hungover!