Cafe Racer (Sort of) Serves Brunch to Hipsters and (Sometimes) Other Species


Apothecary: Café Racer, 2828 Roosevelt Way N.E., 206-523-JAVA. U DISTRICT.

Time of entry: Around noon.

Level of hangover (1–10 scale, with 10 being a paralyzing head-thumper): A total zero -- jeez, that makes me feel old.

Level of waitstaff hangover: I'd say a zero here as well. Our waiter was a cute hipster who made a damn fine latte but couldn't serve breakfast worth a lick. He set our food down, then wandered away, never to return again. I had to keep jumping up to approach the counter to ask him each time we realized we were missing something -- jelly, ketchup, salt, pepper, the check. When I asked for the jelly, though, he brought out one packet of grape as well as the entire box of strawberry packets. It was adorable. I have never before used that term to describe a hipster.

Prescriptions: Cafe Racer was recommended to me by a coworker from my old Trader Joe’s days. He would get off work around 11 a.m. and head over to the Racer for drinks. Unfortunately, I don’t think I quite fit in there, because my jeans are not nearly tapered enough and I don’t own a single item from American Apparel. Was there a line of hipsters waiting outside, with a director timing their entrance according to level of hipness? I’m pretty sure there was. Every five minutes or so, here came another, his shirt a little tighter, her sunglasses a little bigger.

Now this is where I should be going on and on about how none of that mattered because the food was so fantastic. But I can’t, because it wasn’t. My boyfriend ordered the chili omelet, while I opted for the Café Racer omelet, which has onions, peppers, cheese, and ham. Both come with potatoes and toast.

The toast looked thick and wonderful but was dry and tasteless, and my omelet was nothing special. The breakfast potatoes were a solid “eh.” As for the chili omelet, who the hell orders chili for breakfast? Why would anyone subject their stomach to that kind of punishment first thing in the morning? I can't adequately comment on it, because I didn’t go anywhere near the omelet, but I can tell you that at the end of the meal, my boyfriend looked like he regretted his decision. I dropped him off at work moments later, making sure that his digestion would be his coworkers' problem, not mine.

Hair of the dog: This place is also a bar, and I don’t think anyone will look at you funny if you order an adult beverage before noon.

Success of the soak: Moderately successful. I'll keep this place in mind if I want a stiff drink in the a.m., but not for a delicious breakfast.

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