Cafe Muse

Before they moved down the block to a larger space, Stavros and I really liked Cafe Muse. Their new location, next to the vulgarly named "Chaud Jeans," however, has been nothing but disappointment after disappointment.

Our last and probably final visit took place last Saturday. We arrived at about 11:30, prime weekend breakfast/brunch time. There were several people crowded into the vestibule and not knowing if they were all in the same party, I marched ahead of them to give my name to the hostess. No employee of Cafe Muse took the least notice of me and instead seated four people who'd been at the front of the line. Finally the hostess returned and two women who'd been next in line stepped forward and informed me that excuse me, I think we were before you. You think? Really, I thought there was a breach in the time-space continuum and we were before you but appeared to arrive later. Well, I was embarrassed and said that I'd only been trying to give our name to the hostess but I don't think they even heard me. How was I supposed to know all those people weren't all part of some overlarge mass breakfasting group? At any rate, it's a good thing they were before us because they got a little table just in front of the vestibule that I've had before and it's really too close to the tables around it which disturbs me. Besides, I wanted the high-top in front of the window that we've never been able to get. Actually it's not in front of the window, two "comfy" chairs and a little table are in front of the window and the table is about five feet from the window. This puzzled me, because when and by whom would that area be used? Why not put another table there? They clearly have no aversion to closeness and jamming people in next to each other at Cafe Muse. Another thing that gave me the willies was the busboy's attention to polishing our table before we took it. I don't mean wiping down. I mean polishing. I thought I was watching Kustom Kar Kommandos the way this fellow was making love to the tabletop.

We sat down and coffee and ginger ale (for me) was ordered and we looked at the daily menu. Cafe Muse has its regular all-the-time menu, then a daily list of special dishes. I didn't feel like having breakfast, plus the last few times we'd been in my toast wasn't toasted and the bacon was on the alive side, so I ordered the turkey burger, which of course I had to ask for sans avocado (bogue, bogue, bogue!). It was supposed to come with "tomato vinaigrette," of which I was naturally suspicious, but I assumed it would be on the side so I held my tongue on that account. The waitress inexplicably asked if I wanted ketchup or mustard, which in retrospect I guess was her way of letting me know they were out of the dressing, because there was none when it arrived. But anyway, I'm skipping ahead. I told her I'd like yellow mustard please. I have have to be sure to say yellow mustard in restaurants because they so often try to fancy the joint up by giving you Dijon, which is good in salad dressing and spaetzle and stuff but not on a sandwich, for God's sake. Gross. I also requested the chips versus the daily salad on the side, because the daily salad was something like barley with pieces of fruit in it or some sweet concoction that sounded revolting. I also asked for a pickle and was told that they have no pickles at Cafe Muse. Stavros ordered the French toast with some kind of fruit. He likes pancakes and things like that but I can't eat anything sweet in the morning. And on the weekend I consider it morning until about 2PM.

Our drinks arrived, brought by a very stoned-seeming waiter. He had a look of bliss that one doesn't see often on the face of one in the service industry. Come to think of it, he was also the table polisher. Hm. Normally I don't order pop but I daresay I am capable of detecting carbonation, and this ginger ale, I'm sorry to report, contained none. I decided to drink it anyway because I felt that by barging to the head of the line then making all sorts of demands regarding the preparation of the turkey burger hadn't endeared me to any of the staff. Also Stavros asked for water when we ordered and I assumed that the request had registered with the waitress and that its arrival was imminent should I choose to eschew entirely the ginger ale. Well, guess what, ladies and gentlemen? No water was brought. Waitresses and waiters (I will not say "servers") milled hither and nigh but none would look in our direction despite Stavros's vain attempts to catch someone's eye.

In our ongoing waterlessness, we drank our drinks and commented on the surroundings. Stavros is particularly smug about a blow-up of a wine bottle label bearing the word "Chateau" followed by his last name, Papanastasiou, which hangs framed in the vestibule. "I can't believe they don't have pickles. What kind of a place doesn't have pickles?" I asked him.

"Maybe because pickles aren't French," said Stavros. French? I thought. What's that got to do with it? Then it dawned on me that Cafe Muse was trying to be a French place. It certainly accounted for the "Chateau Papanastasiou" wine label and the gaudy curtains hanging in the vestibule. "Perhaps," I replied.

Finally the food arrived. No water, of course, and Stavros repeated his request. "Sure," said the waitress before disappearing into the teeming mass of waitstaff attending to the every whim of all other patrons, including the two guttersnipes who'd had the gall the insinuate that I'd been trying to cut ahead of them. Those two, I happened to notice, ordered three sandwiches. Well, maybe they split two orders and had three plates but still. It didn't look good.

I was initially pleased to note the absence of the mysterious "tomato vinaigrette," but upon removing the top bun of the burger, saw with dismay that the lettuce atop was coated in a creamy-looking substance that may or may not have contained cream or (shudder) mayonnaise. With the tip of my knife, I edged the slimy greens off the burger and flipped the two tomato slices over and over to be sure none of the matter had contaminated them as well. They looked clean so I slathered a healthy amount of yellow mustard on the bun and assembled the burger. I'm not gonna say it was horrible, but it was pretty dry and flavorless. Those who prefer beef burgers will likely claim that such is the nature of poultry burgers but I have made them at home a million times and it's really not that hard to make them juicy and flavorful. This one bore all the hallmarks of being pulled directly from the package and grilled till it was Cajun (i.e., burnt and dried up). Still, it was edible. The chips turned out to be of the very thick salt & pepper variety (French-style, perhaps) and provided excellent relief from the blandness of the burger.

Stavros seemed displeased with his fruity French toast as well. "Taste this," he commanded, spearing a triangle of what looked like pineapple. The look on his face didn't scream "IT'S SO DELICIOUS," so I said no, and he didn't press it, his manners being slightly better than mine when it comes to criticizing food while still in the restaurant.

We paid the bill and vowed never to return. And not that I need tell you, but the water never came.