And like the nutjobs that will wait patiently for the privilege to stuff their craws at Franny's, the nutjobs huddled outside of tiny, perpetually-packed Prune are totally in the right.
I'd read a piece by the chef and owner, Gabrielle Hamilton, back when I first moved here in 2001; I loved her no-bullsh*t sensibility and tone, her fearless menu items of then-unfashionable marrow bones, deviled eggs, and Triscuits topped with sardines.
Problem was, everyone else seemed to dig this, too, and I'm not one who enjoys the notion of jockeying with Chelsea Clinton for a seat at brunch.
So, years later, after the trend-eaters trailed off in pursuit of newer New York Times raves, I was wandering around 1st and 1st and remembered my dream deferred. After all, I've got no problem jockeying for tables with true devotees. This is my new-old favorite spot to go toe-to-toe with trusted, serious eaters.
I truly heart the staff here. Recently my friend Susan (AKA Soft-Spoken Feisty Lady) and I poked our heads through draft-reducing door drapes, and asked as sweetly as we could if they were able to accommodate a couple of hungry knockabouts.