It was my very last breakfast before I departed my beloved Brooklyn for the wider parking lots and friendlier sales clerks of the mid-west. Before I turned in my keys and packed up the very last of my vintage hat collection, my mother and I stopped at one of my top four favorite places in the world - the back garden at Bakeri.
Opened just months before I moved to my favorite borough, Bakeri is an idealized French locale as fantasized by a Williamsburg hipster foodie (two words I have vowed to stop using). My coffee is consistently and delightfully strong but not too strong, and butter is ever the secret ingredient. In fact, if you are on a diet it would be better to buy yourself a Clif bar and stay home. The decor is my sister's dream- French rustic/touches of shabby chic (not the cutesy kind)/vintage fantastic-ness. They bring your water to your table (either a teensy cafe table or a scarred up wood farm table that has obviously knows more of the world than I) in old booze bottles and the dishwear does not match. When I surrender my cash (cash only btw) for my favorite cafe 'ole and huge hunk of Spanish tortilla, I feel just great about myself, I want to pat myself on the back. More than receiving a delicious treat, the place makes you feel as though you are patronizing the realization of a good cook's life-long dream. Every detail is too perfectly on purpose for this to not be so... from the bubble glass cake stands to the age speckled mirrors, to the wide array of small treats that change every time I go in. One time I saw the baker walking down our street after closing time with flour on his pants and a baguette shoved in his backpack. My eyes got wide and I felt as though I had a brush with a celebrity. Sigh...I just love you Bakeri.
Last Friday, we arose early and went there for my last meal. I was devastated when told that tortilla isn't usually served until noon, which says more about my breakfast habits than anything else. I got the savory bread pudding instead and savored every savory bite. Coffee...chocolate croissant ...and big black sunglasses to cover up my good-bye blues.
Ugh...I hate crying in public but I blame the impeccable dense Chanel camellia style apple cake.