Littlefish in the Junction is a brunch spot I've been meaning to make the great swim across town to. Armed with two friends to split a cab and swap food with, I realized that these waters are not as wide as they first seemed.
The place reminds me of my best friend's cottage - the one that is accessible only by boat (get it?) - and comes close to picket-white calmness that I've seen in movies. With simple pastel-hued furniture, radiating of delicacy and neatness, and containing much history in its walls.
Case-in-point: I overhear the staff talking about "cat-paw bricks," and like the nosy cat lady I am, I have to ask. Apparently, the old-timey methods of brick production found them left to dry outside, and in a prime position to be defaced by curious paws. This means the brickwork is quite old (and 100x cooler).
It's worth noting that leisurely Saturday brunches are an unbelievable luxury for me, this Saturday being the first I've had off in about 3 months; the price I pay for my irregular work hours and leisurely weekday brunches, I take it. It seems fair, but it also seems like I just won the lottery or something when I get up after 10am and plan my day around this meal.
I've also gotta mention that despite opportunities aplenty, I have never had huevos rancheros before. In honour of my dear friend Kate, sitting at home with a baby too young to have brunch (or food) at all, I am inspired to order her favourite dish ($12), perhaps by the same divine forces that inspire her to call me in the middle of it.
It's a bit more basic than I've witnessed in the past, but definitely satisfying enough to quell my fears of "did I make the right choice!?"; inevitable when dining with friends who order the thing you almost did.
The cheese and egg melt together in a creamy, stringy mess contained by the tortilla and smothered in all the right garnishes - though I was maybe expecting some beans in there. As this is my first time, I can't be certain if I was supposed to.
Much like our server predicted, our forks are getting passed around the table like nobody's business, ensuring nobody misses anything.
Holly has gone for the basic breakfast ($7); the stars of which are little sausage patties, emphatically recommended by our server. I push my mental block (re: eating tube-shaped meats) aside and try a little piece. I'm in luck! Because, as I just said, they are shaped more like mini-burgers, which I superficially feel much better about.
I haven't had a sausage in years, but these are very tasty; they taste very fresh, a little spicy and look hand-assembled. Holly is crazy about them, like the practically incandescent caraway-free rye toast ("no seeds! Just the way I like it"), and home fries. "Make sure you get some onion in there," she says, as I scavenge around on her plate. "It's nice and charred... the best part."
Ardi's stack of strawberry-rhubarb French toast ($8) comes drizzled with cinnamon crème fraiche, and is a dense and sticky delight. My pangs of envy are soothed by the generous samples she gives me, one last (and sizable) piece acting as the perfect dessert morsel to my cheesy breakfast. A proper balance of sweet and savoury (ie. high levels of savoury) is achieved, which I enjoy for a moment, and throw back out of whack with a large piece of Devil's Food cake for the road.
The cake is a little richer (though that's probably my chocolate-aversion talking) and stiffer than I expected, but the fondant icing is surprisingly not; a thick and creamy white chocolate paste that I keep eating, even after I've had my fill of the cake.
Never do I try this at home. I think it's a vacation thing.