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| - Erin Go Bring Me my Check!
I applaud Seamus McCaffrey for taking it slow when opening his sister pubs (Rosie's and now Turf), but this pub near Sens, PastaBAR, and The Breadfruit has some serious deficits to remedy.
I took my Phoenix transplant friend, Katie C, for a late breakfast on Saturday around 11am before our trip to Downtown Phoenix Public Market.
Passing through the modest patio at the entrance to The Turf (Accountant), we entered a large open space with dark, wood paneling, polished metallic-speckled concrete floors, drop-down Starbucks-reminiscent glass lamps, and not a single visible patron to be found. The glossy, just-opened cleanliness of the pub made it look like a miniature Yard House Restaurant: four flat-panel TVs displaying futbol and basketball, too far away to follow, too TV-ish to ignore, suggesting, "We are pub for a quiet pint...No, we are music venue (see the stage!)...No, we are a wee modest sportsbar." Conflicted.
At the bar, I flipped through the menu to see if breakfast was still being served, and I was told by the bartender that the posted Sat-Sun-Mon breakfast hours of 7-10am had been extended to noon. I mean, really, who's racing to the pub for breakfast before 10am on a weekend?
We chose a booth along a side wall and noted that the swirled, multi-green upholstery was either retro or contemporary or both. (Conflicted.) When we sat down, the server at a nearby booth rose from her intimate conversation with a blond man and asked us for our drink orders. Coffee and water.
After some deliberation and discussion of real Irish soda bread, Katie ordered the french toast and I ordered the Traditional Irish Breakfast, minus the meat (sausage or bacon; black and white pudding). To her credit, the server said I'd be wasting money with that order and should order the simple eggs and hashbrowns and substitute in the fried tomato and soda bread. I asked for poached eggs, but the server returned minutes later, saying, "We don't have poached eggs." Okay, then, over medium.
Our breakfast arrived quickly; by now, only one other two-top was being served in the palatial pub. The french toast ("Some of the best french toast I've had," Katie said) came with a giant ramekin of butter but no syrup. We asked for the syrup, and at the end of the meal, Katie almost asked for the butter to-go; it was seriously an entire stick of butter.
My egg breakfast didn't have the side of fried tomato (a staple of English and Irish breakfasts), and when I asked for it, she brought two sad mealy tomato slices, unfried. The soda bread was dense and dry and bland and dotted with four measly raisins.
Throughout the service, our distracted waitress (think: Reese Witherspoon + Jewel) was pleasant but forgetful. She spent her time between tables sitting with the blond man in the booth, close-talking and smiling. Was he another waiter or her boyfriend? I joked to Katie that I should bring a girlfriend to my classroom and give her smooches in between the grammar lessons I teach. She filled my water and coffee often, but her casual presence at the booth across from us blurred the lines of professionalism.
The bill for two breakfasts (including substitutions, which she didn't charge for) and a coffee was $16. Very reasonable. I guess we got what we paid for.
Katie noted that most people don't choose an Irish pub for their breakfast/brunch, but the Turf hardly tried, it seemed. And with Palatte closing, I wanted to give Seamus a shot.
I will definitely return in the evening to have a $5.50 Imperial Pint of Guiness, but I will not return for breakfast.
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