Brunch at Pawsley’s, or the Tyranny of the Egg

I am told that brunch is a meal. I have experienced it as a negotiation. Pawsley’s, the sunny corner room on Gable Street, offers a menu of fourteen egg dishes, none of which a cat may eat, and a butler’s pantry of sausage, which I did, in the absence of supervision. The waiter, a bashful Siamese named Lionel, brought me a mimosa without alcohol and without apology.

The smoked fish plate, $19, was superb, and the portion, which I would describe as “polite,” left me thinking about it for the entire afternoon in the manner of a man thinking about an ex. Three and a half paws. Lose the eggs. Keep the sausage. And please, Lionel, stop saying “we’re so glad you came” in that tone.