4 /5 Shawn Rahman: On some frigid of weekend morns, I sometimes sought refuge at The Chastain, that establishment where a gentleman may warm his bones by the hearth and commune with his coffee as if it were an old friend with no unpleasant opinions. Yet on this occasion, my companion and I, emboldened by hunger and optimism, elected to partake in their celebrated brunch.
Rumors had wafted through society regarding the grandeur of The Cheeseburger. Thus persuaded, we ordered it along with the classic, Eggs Benedict. The burger arrived in such heroic proportion. Well seasoned and undeniably gourmet, it was as impressive in price as it was in circumference. The Eggs Benedict, meanwhile, rather proved a delightful diversion too, a triumph in flavor for sure although the portions were not.
Our waiter, performed his duties with such grace and good cheer that I nearly forgave the entire establishment for what followed. For, alas, the process, that infernal machinery of reservations and table arrangements, was thrown into utter disarray. Though we awaited the customary summons via text, none came. We were left to inquire of our own fate. Chaos reigned, as though brunch itself were a battlefield.
Furthermore, nearly the whole expanse of the restaurant had been conscripted into brunch service, leaving nary a dry seat outdoors for the humble coffee seeking wanderer. The chairs, still soaked from the recent rains, were left unattended, as if the staff had surrendered them to the elements with a sigh and a shrug. One expects, at an establishment of The Chastain’s repute and the coins they demand for their service, at least a passing relationship with a towel.
