Why Are You Waiting in Line at Green Eggs?

One of the rainy brunch crowds, before the Indego bike installation.

To paraphrase a line from that famous Dr. Seuss book, and in an attempt to keep a rhyme scheme, “I do not like Green Eggs Café. I do not like it; Make it go away.”

Why is there a line every single Saturday and Sunday morning that stretches nearly two city blocks to get into the seemingly cherished brunch restaurant on 13th Street in the middle of the Gayborhood?

News flash: It ain’t that good.

Several weeks ago, in the midst of a storm that was producing sideways-falling rain, the Sunday brunch crowd, armed with an arsenal of umbrellas, shoved and pushed their way down 13th Street next to Woody’s, waiting for a coveted seat at Green Eggs. Once seated, I’m sure they had wait even longer to order a stack of red velvet pancakes that could pass in size as a wedding cake from the half-baked waiter who could honestly not care about any type of service.

I never liked the place to begin with, and I’ve given it my fair share of tries. Once I ordered a raspberry muffin to go; When I arrived home, I opened the container to find a pastry that was about the size of a large child, sliced in half, filled with whipped cream, and topped with vanilla pudding. This is not a muffin, people: This is hyperglycemia in a box. Seriously, how did this place survive in the middle of the Gayborhood, of all places? We’re known for counting calories in bottled water, for crying out loud…

My rule of thumb: I will never, ever wait in a line anywhere in Philadelphia to eat unless it is damn good. This city has some of the most amazing dining establishments, and as a person who loves food, I’m more than privileged to have had some of my best meals of my life here. Even on 13th Street, I can name a countless number of other restaurants that serve a far better meal for brunch or lunch than Green Eggs (anything by Marcie Turney and Valerie Safran, including the to-die for Little Nonna’s and Barbuzzo; El Vez; Zavino). There’s absolutely no reason to act like a character in Lord of the Flies by battling it out for a table at this place.

Back to that Sunday I was describing earlier: As I approached the intersection of Locust and Broad, a group of four rain-drenched blonde undergraduates approached me.

“Hey!” shouted one of them. “Do you, like, know where that Green Eggs place is?”

“Up a block and one over,” I said. “Oh, and, good luck.”