Upstairs at The Kimberly, brunch can best be reduced to a couple of four-letter words: “view” for the unexpected cityscape that comes with being thirty stories up in a rather unremarkable part of midtown, and “slow” for the utter disregard bestowed on diners by an inexperienced if not completely inept wait staff. (somebody please promote the bus boys – my water-glass was never less than three-quarters filled). When a new restaurant’s finding it’s legs one can forgive the front of house faux pas if the kitchen can come up with the goods. Disappointingly, a four-top of Eggs Benedict, Belgian Waffle, Scrambled eggs with Merguez, and a Kobe burger turned out to be something akin to brain surgery: 45-minutes after ordering half our plates hit the table hot and the other half ice-cold. (Is there anything more unappetizing than a puddle of cold congealed Hollandaise?) Come on people, this is brunch, not proper restaurant food. If they can’t get it together to send out a warm plate of eggs to a half empty restaurant things don’t bode particularly well for the evening rush. Still there is that view. And certain people might even consider the languorous pace of things a luxury. In the Meatpacking District we’d have been handed a check and ushered out the door in a fraction of the time spent waiting for eggs to be reheated.
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