Guest Post by That Girl.
Saturdays are fantastic days to make plans for and have them all fall through on account of once again not realising how inherently lazy you are and how thoroughly you will sleep in. Yes, once again, I find myself having brunch after midday one rainy weekend morning. Saying brunch when really, I mean breakfast, makes it slightly less embarrassing.
Walking to the cafe, we pass a tall, svelte woman who is proudly wearing a badge that proclaims she has lost 26kgs so far and further implores us to ask her how she did it. I really, really, really want to stop and ask her how she did it, but that would be playing into The Man’s game, and furthermore, I am getting dizzy with hunger, so we let her swan by.
The Pour Kids is tucked just off Glenferrie Road, opposite the Coles supermarket parking lot in Malvern. It’s a cosy joint with brightly coloured walls, decorated with pictures of impoverished children, or something. Either way, it’s nice.
I ‘start my day’ with some freshly-squeezed orange juice, that is delightfully rind-y and frothy. I think of Nutribullet infomercials. I think of my favourite infomercial of the moment, the Hot Shapers. I think of how I was supposed to wake up and gym this morning. A lot of thinking is going on.
|Not made from a Superfood Nutrition Extractor, but just as good I would guess.|
Being that we haven’t gymmed yet today, I am of course inappropriately hungry, so we do that thing we always do and order three dishes for two people. When all three meals arrive, I try to snarf down the one that is most easily disposed, so that people won’t stare at the greedy diners trying to hide their array of food. My continual shoving of sandwich into mouth is doing much to dissuade the starers, because I am a very discreet food-shover. Very.
|The knuckle sandwich, which is a lot better in your mouth than on your mouth – $11|
‘The knuckle sandwich’ is this thing of slow-cooked beef knuckle, which I had to firstly confirm with my dining partner wasn’t going to be bone-filled and gristly because I am literal like that, with cornichons, mustard cress and butter on a ciabatta roll. It is tangy and beef-melty and crunchy and lipsmackingly delicious – except I don’t smack my lips, because no. Last time, I had the ‘This little piggy’ sandwich and it’s safe to say, these kids know how to make a sanger.
|A toasty with the most-y – $14.50|
This is just sexy and makes me feel immediately inadequate and undeserving, except that’s a lie, because I know I deserve food, just like those poor children. Described as French-toasted brioche, with berry compote and vanilla cream, it somehow looks like an even larger serve than the last time I had it, and just like the last time, it also remains unfinished. It is drowned in berry juices and syrup and is therefore quite soggy, but there are sugar crystals atop the glorious blob of vanilla bean cream, and two thick slices of brioche, and it’s filling and generous and not unlike the best kind of worst love. Every good girl needs this just once in her lifetime.
|Duck for cover – $16.50|
And now, for the main event, the pièce de résistance, the gnocchi. The gnocchi. The GNOCCHI, for BREAKFAST. (Because there’s no point pretending anymore, it’s 12.45pm, and I am eating breakfast.) Any place willing to serve me gnocchi for breakfast will serve me for life. Congratulations, impoverished little folks – you are no longer impoverished. There is so much beauty on this plate, what with the Swiss chard, the Italian-style pork sausage, the fried egg, and the most gorgeous thing of all, the burnt butter gnocchi. I take a moment to have a moment.
If things were to go to plan, I would probably eat this for breakfast every day. The gnocchi is exceptionally soft and fluffy and potato-y, with a scattering of salt that sings in my mouth. It’s what I imagine eating potato cloud pillows would be like. They are much too good to share and I rue my decision to be a decent dining partner each time someone steals one of these nuggets from my plate. The Swiss chard is drizzled with oil but I’m still satisfied that it fulfils my greens requirement; the egg oozes runny yolk and that’s all we really want our eggs to do in the end; the pork sausage is inherently meaty and savoury and fatty in a way that most certainly won’t help me in the long-run, but seeing as I’m way past caring, I happily continue on my merry way.
Eventually, it seems, I’m going to be the one not wearing a badge, but people will be able to tell I’ve gained 26kgs so far, and I will not be imploring people to ask me how I did it, because the answer will be the gnocchi. The afterlife will be paved with this gold, I’m sure of it.
TL;DR – Get the gnocchi. If you, for some weird reason, don’t like taking the best free advice of ever, get a sandwich.