One of those is Wild Eggs, an outpost of a Louisville, Kentucky-based mini-chain that opened four months ago near Washington Park. And while the weekend waits there can certainly try your patience, you'll find more families in the crowd than fixie-riding twenty-somethings nursing hangover cures.
Wild Eggs, which anchors a strip mall off Alameda, is brightly hued and sunny, with photos of breakfast foods hanging above the booths. The staff is bright and sunny, too -- which is great when you're feeling chipper yourself, but a little grating when you're feeling hung over.
Still, you'll find plenty of ways to kill the effects of last night's bad decisions, starting with freshly squeezed orange juice or a Bloody Mary, and following with items off a breakfast menu that includes Benedicts, chilaquiles, pancakes, waffles with ice cream, French toast and a Kentucky hot brown. (Some dishes are labeled with names you might feel a little silly saying.)
I couldn't bring myself to order pancakes called "The King Would Eat These" or "Raspberries and Lemons Oh My!" (What would the server say back -- "Sure, one order of the 'Oh My,' coming right up"?), so instead I asked for the Kelsey's "KY" hot brown and a side of sweet home apple bourbon crepes.
My chirpy server was also incredibly efficient, and it wasn't long before my meal was on the table. The hot brown had a predictable artery-clogging level of richness and was, therefore, delicious. Thick slices of sourdough had been toasted, then stacked with roasted turkey and tomato and doused with a white-cheddar Mornay sauce studded with bits of bacon. Topped with a runny fried egg and dusted with paprika, it was recovery food effective enough to make me forget the chattering children at the next table.
I polished that plate off and turned to the crepes, which were more like dessert than breakfast. Thin pancakes had been filled with sweet-tart cream cheese and a spiced apple bourbon compote, then rolled, topped with candied pecans, a vanilla bourbon drizzle and powdered sugar, and sided with dollops of whipped cream from a can. Were I the elementary-school version of myself, I probably would have been delighted at the over-the-top sweetness of the dish. But bourbon or no, it was a little much for the current me.
I polished off my coffee, paid my check and darted through a gaggle of kids to get out the door.