Egg Benedict Arnold
Logfile: Saturday, June 27th. Approximately 9:45 AM. The Crime Scene: De La Tierra
Restaurant, inside the Monte Sagrado.
Disclaimer: I am a resident of Taos. My culinary expectations run low; my expectations for
service, lower still. Normally I prefer the aromatic delights of McDonald's coffee and a long walk
in the mountain air. I am not a millennial nor a churchgoer, so my brunch dealings are sparse
and my credentials suspect. That said, I've cooked in restaurants, and I know what a fulsome,
glistening platter of not-quite-breakfast, not-quite-lunch is supposed to look like.
Fresh-squeezed juice. A generous cup of coffee. A Mimosa, if you want to live dangerously.
Reflecting on the experience, and a bill of nearly $100 for two small people, I'm afraid this
review amounts to a tragic tale of woe and betrayal. Allow me, kind reader, to explain.
My daughter was in town from NYC. I wanted to show her a great time. Just the two of us. A
long walk and brunch at the Monte. What could go wrong?
In hindsight, plenty. The undercooked, liquified blueberry muffin was a flare shot into the
morning sky, and I ignored it. The solitary waitress working the entire restaurant should have
sent my ARE YOU BEING SERVED hackles into overdrive. But the place is so beautiful, so
unique, that I swallowed my foreboding. Among other things.
I had been promised a Southwestern take on classic Eggs Benedict, and thought I, how different
can it be? I am an adventurous eater, raised on chile peppers, and I've eaten my way through
Hong Kong night markets and a questionable food hall in Greece and lived to tell the tale.
My daughter was smarter, ordering the American breakfast: boring, but good. At least it came
with a normal, human-sized mug of decaf. My coffee came in a tiny, beautiful cup that remained
mostly empty throughout our meal until I flagged the waitress down, begging to be seen,
begging for a refill. But that is another story.
For now, I want to focus my ire, and your eyes, on the yoke of darkness. The undercooked white
lies. The main course. And the downfall of my tale.
My plate arrived. The moment of truth. And there it was: the Southwestern Egg Benedict. Egg.
Singular, treasonous, and quite sad. Flanked by two microwaved strips of bacon that defied the
gravitational rules of pork breakfast products, a pair of lumpy bread-like clumps placed beside
the egg rather than beneath it, and a side salad drowning under a brown-orange dressing of
rare and unknowable provenance.
I looked longingly at my daughter's plain toasted English muffins (they'd run out of sourdough,
and white). What I would have given for something pasty and edible.
I ate the underdone, white-runny poached egg, and regretted it a few hours and several
bathroom trips later. I'm not sure my illness can be attributed solely to the egg. But I have my
suspicions, and the egg has no alibi.
Here is the part that saves the morning. My daughter, watching me surrender, watching me
raise the white napkin of defeat over the corpse of a single egg, beckoned to the waitress and
informed her, gently, that Eggs Benedict is normally plural. Served with two eggs. And then she
laughed. And I laughed. And for a moment the crime against humanity in front of me didn't
matter, because I was sitting in a beautiful room with the one person with whom I wanted to
share the glorious Taos morning.
So: one star. The star is for the ambience. And for her.
Case status: unsolved. Suspect still at large. Last seen runny on a plate. read more