Busters on 28th
4204 28th Avenue
Sometimes you travel the Cities, searching for the perfect breakfast. You even go out to the 'burbs in hopes of a good meal. Sometimes you try a sub-standard restaurant more than once on the off-chance that you caught them on a bad day and the hash browns really will be crispy this time. And then there are times when you notice an unobtrusive sign in a newish bar in your neighborhood that says "Now serving brunch," and you think, "Well, wouldn't it be nice if there were good food right here in my neighborhood. Even though it is a bar, and there's almost no possible way for a bar to measure up to the exacting standards of six very picky eaters..." So, you go, not even expecting anything wonderful, thinking only of the convenience (and of your secret hope that you can finally become a regular at a local haunt).
You walk in the door after 9:30, and the place is quiet and deserted, but for one other table of diners. You wonder what you've conned your friends into eating, and you dread the panning this place is about to receive.
And then, somehow, the food arrives, and everyone is happy. This is Busters, the quiet, unassuming new little bar next door who might just be the new love of your life.
The menu is heavy on the traditional food, with a bit more emphasis on lunch-style food than most brunch places (as befits a bar). There is an acceptable Eggs Benedict (rated a "solid B" by Jimmy who has sampled the Eggs Benedict at most places in the metro area) , as well as a tasty and fresh perfectly-cooked scramble (which, not to brag or anything, the waiter said I was the first person to order) with broccolini and bell peppers and Parmesan. Judy and Fern both had the BLT. All of us got breakfast potatoes on the side.
It was when Judy first tasted the breakfast potatoes and declared them "perfect" that I stopped worrying and learned to love Busters. Or maybe it was when my side of toast (fresh bread from the Baker's Wife) arrived with four little containers of two kinds of delicious jam, homemade peanut butter, and good butter. At any rate, at the conclusion of the meal our little club handed out A's like they were going out of style. The only complaints I heard were that we had eaten too many of the "perfect" potatoes, and that the coffee wasn't all that good. Jimmy, true to form, gave out the harshest grade, possibly because making Hollandaise is a bit of an art, and it just wasn't his kind of Hollandaise. Our rarest form of praise came when we all agreed that we shall return. Maybe I'll finally be a regular after all.