By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
We return a few days later on a Sunday for brunch. The place is hopping. It's the third Sunday of the month so Dragonfly's special Sunday School brunch is in session. It all seems very exclusive (which the hostess snootily tells us it is), with velvet ropes and guests filing into a room where only attendees are allowed. Apparently, $35 and a reservation will get you in the morning party scene complete with dancing on the tables and scantily clad waitresses who don't look anything like the Catholic schoolgirls I went to school with. Next time.
The manager says he will "make a nice table for us" when the hostess greets us. We wait a bit and then are shown to the same table where we sat just a few nights before. This time it's pounding club music that invades from outside and is a bit unpleasant on a Sunday morning.
Immediately you can tell things are different. The servers are men and they're sweet, but they are also hustling, sweat on their brows and upper lips. "There are only two of us for all of this," the waiter says, surveying the restaurant and patio with his arm. "Because of Sunday School." We nod empathetically.
2332 Leonard St.
Dallas, TX 75201
Region: Uptown & Oak Lawn
The bar is packed and the patio is full too despite the oppressive humidity. The same reel plays on the televisions and seems even more bizarre on a Sunday morning. Beautiful, barely dressed women keep popping in, wearing tiny plaid schoolgirl skirts and teeny, barely there tanks with knee socks and black heels.
We order the summer berry crêpe with Grand Marnier and Chantilly cream; the French toast with brown-sugar-glazed bananas and Vermont maple syrup; and the egg sandwich with fried egg, bacon, cheddar cheese, Dijon mayo, lettuce, tomato and sesame bun.
The French toast and the egg sandwich come out surprisingly quickly. After waiting a few minutes, we finally ask about the crêpe. The waiter looks confused and heads to the kitchen. "I'm so sorry," he says when he returns. "It was just sitting at the window."
The French toast is light and sweet and fluffy. It's almost like dessert, like bananas Foster sans the ice cream. Luckily, it's only one thick slice. Any more would have been too much. Strangely, some of the edges are a bit uncooked, leaving the center gushy. But 90 percent of the toast is perfectly toasty and warm.
The crêpe has strawberries, blackberries, blueberries and one grape for good measure. This too was very sweet and dessert-like. It was particularly good with a few bites of bacon. Sweet and salty heaven. The egg sandwich is shockingly large, the size of a hamburger, and very cheesy. It's a classic choice and certainly tasty, but nothing out of the ordinary.
The whole scene is rather Cabaret-esque. The European décor, the waitresses' seductive uniforms, the illusion that in here, everything is beautiful. It may be a little self-involved, but there is nothing illusory about chef Daniel Landsberg's menu. It is beautiful.