The Beloved, the heir, the tummy, and I went to Grafton Street in Harvard Square for brunch today. The meals were perfectly ordinary to good; we weren't looking to have a stellar experience, just a comfortable meal in a pleasant environment, and G.S. is quite reasonable for breakfast and in waddle distance from my apartment.
The food was fine, I hope most places can handle scrambled eggs and bacon, and no place I have been recently truly distinguishes itself with its Belgian waffles. Grand Marnier Drunken Brioche french toast occupies that strange place on our personal menu of things we all want, but none of us is willing to order, so we get "for the table." It was less carefully made than in the past, with eggy tendrils clinging to the sides. The special omelette (cheese, scallions, ham, and tomato) was surprisingly good. The egg was tender; the cheese wasn't overdone, nor was the ham. Do "hearty" and "delicate" have to be oxymoronic? The bread basket came with three overly sweet rolls (a big hit with the heir), and a few slices of a more subtle raisin nut bread.
Service here, at breakfast, at least, has been good for us. Today it was attentive, despite a large post church crowd. (Interesting difference, we ended up here last Easter Sunday stictly by happenstance, and it was near empty, today every table was full.) Water glasses were kept full, though the woman was also graciously willing to leave a pitcher at my suggestion after the second round. The food came fast, the check at a comfortable rate. We were in no way rushed.
Here is my quibble, though, and it completely dominated my experience of the meal. Why seat a pregnant woman, or any other bellylicious personage, on a bench seat with a fixed table position? At first, I thought it would be okay, and I quickly rejected the thought of asking for a chair to be moved to the end of the table when weighing the gained space against being in the flow of traffic. I will *not* make that mistake again. I couldn't eat half of my breakfast.