Sunday is a day dedicated to faith for many. Not so for myself. Not only because I do not belong to any organised religion (I do, however, belong to an extremely unorganised one) but because, for a long time, I had lost faith in the idea of paying for my Sunday eggs and bread. Like every other scab, I’d look at the breakfast bill, calculate the amount of ingredients I could buy for the same amount of money and declare that Mr G. (a dab hand with eggs from way back) would be able to prepare said ingredients better than any cafe in Sydney.
It was a beautifully solid plate of scrambled eggs and bacon at the Woollahra branch of Luxe that restored my faith. With all possible due respect to the culinary talents of my husband (and Bill Granger), the pillowy, chive speckled, cumulus humilis of scrambled eggs were the best I’ve ever had. Moreover, they sat next to meaty, crisp-edged bacon that was the first I’ve ever been compelled to find out the supplier of (Haverick’s).
If food is the pinnacle, the holy trinity of eating ones Sunday eggs out is completed by being looked after by a friendly chap and eating amongst a convivial crowd. Luxe’s manager Ricardo is a doll and his Queen Street clientele are as rich and fabulous as the reliably good coffee he serves. A revelation worth the pilgrimage whether you’re a scabby sceptic from Beecroft or Bellevue Hill. Amen.