Something to Hide

Yesterday, I met the Diva for brunch and a good gossip.

We chose for our venue one of Philadelphia's more redoubtable foodie establishments, a 24-7 brasserie a la Les Halles, except without the specter of Anthony Bourdain smirking at the punters while they indulge in The B-Team's rendition of his Least Favorite Meal of the Week. Our boite de brunch ('Ouver tous les jours!') was tres French and very atmospheric: we sat at a prize table half inside and half outside a floor-to-ceiling window and whiled away the lovely and cool June afternoon drinking cups of cafe Vietnamese and enjoying sophisticated cocktails the names of which escape me (the restaurant has failed to post its cocktail menu on its website - just one of its tragic failings, as I shall soon relate).

Now, I am on record as loving brunch - although it can be a challenging meal for a gluten-freedom fighter such as myself. What are Eggs Benedict without the English muffins? Pancakes and syrup without the flapjacks? Or French Toast without the, er, toast?

All too often, brunch is all about the bread.

But I am much braver about eating out than I used to be and have become a pretty dab hand at deciphering menu-speak and anticipating where gluten is likely to lurk. Unwilling as I am to quiz innocent table staff about every molecule in the food chef wishes to put before me, a certain amount of detective work is generally involved when interpreting restaurants' cartes de cuisine.

And unless there is absolutely no other choice, I avoid asking for substitutions, contenting myself with dishes the way the kitchen intended them to be and trusting my instincts not to lead me astray.

I perused the menu with interest, ticking off various unsuitable items with my mental red felt-tip pen. Well over two-thirds of the offerings, including buttermilk pancakes; French toast; croques madame; chicken clubs with avocado, bacon, and rosemary aoli; lamb sandwiches; eggs Benedict; quiches Lorraine; and leek and goat cheese tarts sounded delicious but were, of course, interdite. What on earth was I going to eat without causing a proverbial tizzy at the expeditor's window?

Steak and eggs, that's what! I spied it in Les Ouefs' section at the upper right-hand corner of the menu. I was more heartened than I can say by the description of petite filet, sauce Mornay, and sunny-side eggs. I just love sauce Mornay, don't you? It's my favorite part of a properly-made croque monsieur - and of course, I haven't had one of those pour toujours.

I had another sip of my cocktail and waited expectantly for the feast to arrive.

Right on cue! A big white plate containing a generous pile of sauteed potatoes redolent with black pepper and fresh herbs; an adorable little filet cooked just the other side of black and blue; and with two runny golden-yolked eggs peeping up at me. But where was the rich, thick, unctuous, cheesy sauce promised by the menu?

Hiding under the eggs, that's where, slathered onto a slice of baguette the size of my forearm.

Outrage! I'd been betrayed by my usually reliable gluten-sense!

Before I could properly register my shock at this unwelcome turn of events, the Diva took charge and spirited the gluten-filled sauce-topped culprit onto her side-plate, out of sight (if not out of mind). Chastened, I considered where I'd gone wrong and concluded that - at brunch, at least - one must ask about bread, even in dishes that appear to be above reproach. Much as I hate to be 'that person' there really is no other choice - particularly at an unfamiliar restaurant catering to the Breakfast and Brunch Expectations of Others.

Having learned my lesson and vowed to change my ways  I enjoyed every last bite of my tasty repast and had a second cup of coffee, just to show 'em. The Diva, in a heartwarming and stirring display of solidarity, took up a pen and scrawled a stern remonstration on the comments card, insisting that the restaurant's poorly-considered menu ought to be edited post-haste, lest other gluten guerrillas be brought down by unexpected and unwanted cereal sides. I congratulated her on her forcefulness. After all, it is so much more satisfying to blame others than oneself!

But I just had a sobering thought.

Sauce Mornay is a bechamel creation thickened with *gulp* wheat flour.

Maybe the gluten gods were watching out for me after all.