It was a particularly warm summer evening when we were out on our family drive. I’m not sure if Dad knew about this place or just happened upon it. Like most of the other places, Gronsky’s Milk House was small and had a friendly staff but there was an exceptional feature – the South Branch of the
As it turned out, my own family now lives close to where Gronsky’s is located. Ironically, Alan and Nate have the same intense hankering for ice cream as Dad has. Fortunately for them, they have almost walking distance access to the outstanding varietal flavors of creaminess. I wonder if this had any weight in buying a house in the area. After a short while living here, we realized Gronsky’s not only had the ice cream parlor but a little restaurant on the side with a few tables and a breakfast bar. Before Nate was born, Alan and I ate there only a handful of times. Little did I know that I was missing out on the zenith of breakfast dining.
Recently, Alan and Nate had been going to Gronsky’s for father and son breakfast outings. My interest in their frequent goings began to outweigh the desire for my rare peaceful moments alone. I have a test for restaurants I eat at: for lunch or dinner if the bread is average, then I know not to expect too much from the entrée; for breakfast the coffee and the home fries are telling. I went to see if eating at Gronsky’s was worth sacrificing quiet solitude.
When the three of us were settled at our table, I quickly perused the menu for any special dishes but found the usual diner type breakfast foods. I already knew what I was ordering: two eggs over easy with bacon and home fries. Coffee came with the meal. Let’s face it, when ordering a meal like this, one doesn’t count calories or think about how much fat one might be consuming. Although the coffee was strong for my liking, there was no nasty after taste. The meal could be good or bad. I sat anxiously wondering if the home fries were going to be disappointingly dry and without seasoning like so many restaurants make them.
My plate showed up after a second refill of coffee and just by looking at it I knew I struck the jackpot. The eggs were perfect with the yolks not overcooked; the toast had a generous swath of butter on each piece which was harmonious in flavor and texture for sopping up the yolk. Then the pièce de la résistance – home fries cooked to absolute perfection. I’m not sure how they do it but the potatoes are moist, tender and seasoned just right. My pleasure seeking taste buds told my healthy conscience brain with a bright flashing neon sign that what I was eating was perfect and unbelievably delicious. I could only imagine while I chewed each heavenly bite of potato and pepper that Adam and Eve while in the Garden of Eden eating that forbidden fruit briefly felt the same way I was feeling.
