The Carpet Bagger's Journal — moving from NYC to Mississippi

September 7, 2010

Breakfast as Haute Cuisine — Big Bad Breakfast, Oxford, Mississippi

Breakfast gets no respect — the Rodney Dangerfield of meals.  However, it is possibly the food that American cuisine does the best.  Can breakfast be an art form, handled by skilled hands with cast iron skillets?

If they serve Breakfast in Heaven, I think they use the recipes of Big Bad Breakfast of Oxford, Mississippi. Big Bad Breakfast is part of a food empire that is surely the best in the state of Mississippi — it includes a restaurant featured in Garden and Gun — Yes, you Yankees!  They have a magazine down here that sits on people’s coffee tables in the place where your copy of New York Magazine sits.  It is entitled Garden and Gun, sometimes with a photo of guns on the front cover:  Know it.  Deal with it.  Shudder, if you must — called The City Grocery.   The who’s who  — or should I say “who-all is who”? — of Mississippi comes to eat there, and boy, do they know their stuff.

Anyway, Big Bad Breakfast has a chef, Jason Nicholas, with a Fine Arts degree from Ole Miss.  They hired, for a place that makes breakfast as its chief fare, a charcutier.  His last name is Lovejoy.  If bacon is a joy, and if ham is a love, well — this guy knows what to do with it and how to do it.

They make grits that are better than anything I’ve ever eaten for breakfast.  The secret seems to be a bunch of butter and garlic.

And honey, the wait staff — they are a fantasy.  Each is cuter than the last, really, and girls, given that this is Mississippi, there’s actually a pretty good chance that at least some of them are straight.

Despite pretentious 1980s rock lyrics to a song called “Breakfast in America,” people don’t really consider breakfast a tourist attraction.  This is a great pity, for if it were, Breakfast in America would be worthy the way a Sacher Torte is in Vienna.

I say, all the air-kissing jet-setters should decide that Breakfast is the new little black dress and come air-kiss my grits here, or rather kiss the grits of this marvelous place.  Tapas was hip.  So was sushi, long ago.   I declare a vogue for buttermilk biscuits fresh out of the oven, handed over by some guy who looks like he stepped out of a teen heart-throb movie, while Roy Orbison plays softly in the background and you drink your freshly squeezed orange juice.

Come and get it, America!

Big Bad Breakfast, without a photo of the hot waiters

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