The Brunch Hunt continued: Wannemakers and Staring at Jacob
Please note that since writing this blog post, Wannemakers has closed down
Among the list of FAQs I should probably have on this website is: Where oh where to find a decent brunch in Amsterdam? My (limited) recommendations are here, but while brunch is an expanding scene in the Dutch capital, there are still very few places that really hit the mark.
As regular readers will know, I generally think that it’s the expats who are driving the brunch train (and the Antipodeans, in particular). So Staring at Jacob – run by the international clan that brought you Fraiche – should have been a decent contender. Turns out I was wrong. It looks nice enough – hipster-chic, bare bricks, tables that have been bashed up in the giant vintage-furniture-washing-machine, smiley people and fresh orange juice. And the menu looks even better – chicken and waffles, steak and eggs, fish and chips, omelettes – half of which have cool names that sound like cocktails or an HBO series. But it’s a menu that over-promises and under-delivers.
The “Tree Hugger” came with what looked like a child-size portion of scrambled eggs; a flat, chewy imitation of a Yorkshire pudding; and over-salted kale and asparagus. The muesli and yoghurt were nice, but you’d hope that’s a combo that’s hard to get wrong. Onwards to “The Rasco” (otherwise known as chicken and waffles). Now, I’d never had chicken and waffles before, so I was prepared to be fairly forgiving here – the chicken itself was pretty tasty (especially with the added kick of some hot sauce on the side) and maybe waffles are supposed to be dry? But further research (i.e. asking my friends who are familiar with C&W) revealed that I wasn’t the only one to think that waffles that stick to your palate – lubricated by the merest thimble-full of maple syrup – were not the way that nature intended.
A weekend later, and Wannemakers was not much better. In fact, it was probably worse. Again: great style, no substance. We waited over an hour-and-a-half for our food (the waiter was suitably apologetic and brought us a free glass of wine – the service, at least, was pretty good) but it wasn’t worth the wait. My chef friend’s goat’s cheese Croque Monsieur turned out to be a damp, claggy club sandwich that had then been stuck in the oven until the edges of the bread burnt.
My Eggs Florentine with salmon, on the other hand, had the potential to be good: wild salmon, fresh spinach, free-range eggs. And yet the kitchen managed to turn a decent set of ingredients into soggy bread (toast it, for god’s sake!), chalky over-poached eggs, and curdled Hollandaise sauce. We were left consoling ourselves with our free glasses of wine and a posh cup of coffee.
One of these days, someone’s going to open a brunch place that’s a serious contender to Little Collins and Gartine. And I’m probably going to have to keep trying out a whole raft of rubbish before that day comes. But when it does, I will be doing a little brunch dance to celebrate. (And then telling you all about it, obvs.)
