Fat Hen

Every time I go to Fat Hen, I’m charmed by it a little more. I vaguely know-ish the story of the place; there’s some kind of Italian involved and some kind of Scandinavian–but I’m not going to look into it any further, because I love my imagined love story, the Italian and the Scandinavian, loud and dark plus sweet and light, their strange Euro union bringing forth the most divine brunch on earth.

Today I fell in love with the 70th street spot even just a little more: they have a special little lonesome table for the “just-one”-ers. Squeezed up against the window with a good view of the line for macarons and kouign amann at the bakery across the street, it’s a perfect non-awkward little spot to sit and read and eat your eggs in peace. I like going out to eat by myself, but unless there’s a bar to sit at, it can be weird. Not at the little onesie table. Scone (buttery and milky in that really proper scone way) and coffee, eggs “in camica”–two eggs baked in marinara with basil and mozz with a baguette for sauce-swiping, same thing I’ve gotten on every FH visit. After the a week of pre-dawn yoga and kids hyped up on Hannukah, oh, you have no idea the joy of a long, quiet, what’s-the-word-for-lonesome-in-a-good-way brunch.

(And I skied yesterday, so no the scone and the baguette annnnd the eggs were not overkill, OK.)

My little spot: