3 /5 Shawn Rahman: Lo! The morn was tender, the air kissed with promise, we, resolved to begin the day with grace at Grace’s Table. How poetically it all aligned! The restaurant sits proudly in the heart of Napa’s downtown, where the idea of a slow brunch feels almost noble.
I imagined the meal would be a hymn to the senses, eggs of ethereal fluff, coffee brewed by angels, tamales blessed by the sun itself. Instead, it was a dirge.
The coffee arrived, brave but uninspired, like a suitor who has forgotten both his flowers and his charm. The Southwest tamale, meanwhile, appeared upon my plate not as a dish but as a philosophical riddle. Can something exist and still possess no flavour? I pondered, then reached for the salt and pepper, the last line of defense for the desperate and the damned.
We also ordered the Chilaquiles. Ah! They were marginally better, the culinary equivalent of a sonnet scribbled after three glasses of wine: not great, but at least one feels the effort.
And yet, the stride seating was delightful, wide and welcoming, as though to say, “You may not enjoy the meal, but you shall suffer in comfort.”
So I took a final sip of my perfectly ordinary coffee, rose with what dignity remained and wandered into downtown Napa, where the sun still shone and the vineyards forgave all sins.
