Not Your Momma’s Brussels Sprouts (Otherwise known as Pasta Carbonara)

DISCLAIMER: DUE TO THE EMOTIONAL NATURE OF THIS POST, IT IS A BIT LONGER THAN USUAL—INCLUDES GRAPHIC SPROUT IMAGES.

Sometimes in life, there’s a certain food you would kill for, a food you would cross mountains to have, a food for which you would sell your oldest child (okay, there may be other reasons to sell your oldest child) but, suffice it to say, there are foods that sometimes you simply have to have. That food is not your momma’s brussels sprouts. What I’m talking about here are the brussels sprouts from Miami’s Eating House.

Why, you might ask, do you have to have their brussels sprouts? You’ve had your momma’s brussels sprouts and have pushed them around the plate, used them as projectiles and slipped them in your purse. They look like the soggy brains of of miniature cabbage patch kids and taste even worse.

The brussels sprouts at Eating House are oven roasted (perfectly oven roasted, with just the right amount of crunch) with soy sauce, toasted sesame oil, ginger, and lime that gives them a salty sweetness and tang.

To make something already crazy delicious even better,  they’re served with a 63 degree poached egg that, once mixed with the sprouts, takes the dish to the orgasmic zone (and I’m not even kidding. Don’t go to the Eating House on a first date because everything after the sprouts will only be a disappointment.)

Why, you might also ask, the 63 degree egg? Working with my trusty assistant, Madame Google, I’ve discovered that it’s the precise temperature where the egg yolk and the white are the exact same consistency, which of course, would make it perfectly rich and mixable.

So, last Thursday night when my husband flew to Miami for a weekend of fun and sun, “Frat Style,” I made plans to retrieve him at the airport and drive directly to the Eating House for brussels sprouts (among other delicacies, but my primary fantasy involved the trusty sprout.)

What better way to start a romantic weekend?

His flight was set to arrive at 8:35, so I made the reservation for 9. My plan was to squeal into the arrivals level of MIA, toss his carry-on into the trunk and gun it through lights and stop signs to make it to the restaurant. The last seating at Eating House is 9:30, so plenty of time, right?

But then the unthinkable happened.

His flight was late. My mind raced and my stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten in two days in preparation for the sprouts.  Would it be cruel to eat without him? Could he take a taxi and meet me there? Could I enjoy myself alone with a bowl of brussels sprouts? Probably. But I would feel badly. Sort of.

Despite the odds, I held on to hope. There could still be time, if he elbowed through passengers in the aisle of the plane and ran—fast. Miami airport is roughly the size of Texas, but my husband is fit and strong. Sort of.

I furiously texted instructions he would read upon touch down, and I tracked the flight on my phone like a fighter pilot scoping enemy skies. I changed the reservation to the final time possible—9:30 and crossed very crossable part of my body.

Finally he landed. Emerging through the airport doors looking like he was about to have a coronary, I yanked him into the car and squealed off into the South Florida moonlight.

We made it at 9:35 and the wonderful people at the Eating House sat us. I breathed a sign of relief, and my husband swabbed the sweat off his face.  The kind waiter placed the menu down.

I gasped.

THERE WERE NO BRUSSELS SPROUTS ON THE MENU.  I took my glasses on and off. Held the menu close to the candle. I asked the waiter.

It had become a lunch menu item! I knew the dinner menu changed every week but the brussels sprouts had always remained. We had not been consulted!

Speechless we held hands and stared down at the menu. Sure we’d had other great dishes before, but nothing compared to the sprouts.  We paused and soldiered on.  The results—AMAZING!

Reaching new heights, we ate sweet potatoes, cauliflower and pasta carbonara so sinful, we blushed. In a heart beat, our sprouts had become nothing more than a teenage dream.

I don’t know how the Eating House does it, but somehow they’re able put together the most amazing, unique flavours. The Cauliflower was dusted with Marrow, ladened with hollandaise and onions, the sweet potato served with a curried caramel, cashew, lime and herbs. Our taste buds sizzled.

 

Finally,  (always served family style) the anchor to our meal, the pasta carbonara arrived.  Like the beloved sprouts, the carbonara, along with it’s truffle oil, bacon and grans padano is served with the infamous 63 degree egg. The meal left us speechless

Would we return  to the Coral Gables eatery for lunch, for dinner and for brunch. We would run red lights and sell our children if necessary. The Eating House is that good. GO—NOW!