Yeah, the place you want to dislike but can’t bring yourself to hate no matter how hard you try. Why? Maybe because they do everything right, they’re always busy, and seem to execute all of it perfectly every time? If so, then why does everyone talk so much smack? No idea, but if I were hard pressed to answer I’d say it has something to do with the human condition and wanting to be antagonistic toward nice things, that it’s human nature to dislike people, places, and things that veer toward perfection. It’s like the popular, rich, good looking couple in school who does everything right and I’m the troll in the shadows looking up into the windows watching their magnificent victory dance after being nominated prom king and queen.

In my own twisted brain, I’ve always ascribed to this weird mantra that if everyone likes it then it has to be bad. It’s a comment on and against humanity’s tendency to go with the crowd…But even that attitude is a tendency…You can’t escape being part of some sort of demographic no matter how hard you try. Yeah, yeah, insert the famous Groucho Marx line somewhere in here and no, Republique was Charlie Chaplin’s office, not the Marx Brothers.

But, sometimes you find something that is almost universally good, and even an old curmudgeon like me in the twilight years of his life can be caught unaware in the face of quality.

I think we all know how nice Republique is once you’re inside, but for those who have never been, well, let’s just say I’ve been here at least six times and I’m always impressed. Yes, it could be that the places I frequent (and work at) are pretty stripped down, minimalist, even a little lazy when it comes to interior design and when I enter Republique and am immediately greeted by delicious pastries under spotless glass, copper cookware hanging from the ceiling, and the smell of fresh coffee and pastry, I can’t help but get a tad giddy. Once past the counter, there’s meat curing inside a phone booth. Yeah, that always gets me drooling. Then you’re inside and it’s like a castle. It’s noisy but somehow cosy. Something about it sets me at ease. I don’t know. I guess I’m a sucker for the majesty of stone, medieval archways, cool tile in the floor, long wood tables, all accompanied by the unmistakable scent of roasted flour, butter, and sugar wafting in the air like a fever dream.

And yes, the bar is beautiful and immaculate. They have a lot of shelving (jelly). The young, worker bee bartenders somehow have the time to cut their peels into perfect rectangular garnishes. There’s space back there for several people. The bar top is gorgeous. I often think about what I would look like back there. Who’s the old guy? Why are all the cocktails cloudy and weird all of a sudden? Shit. I just fit in at Rustic Canyon somehow. The place is drab and disheveled in a good way, just like me. I’ve been there so long I’ve become a dust gathering piece of the ambiance.

The menu these days, at least on this past Sunday when I ate brunch, was one of those where I could have had anything and been happy. It all looked good. Yes, I am a glutton, but no, I’m still somewhat discerning. Also, yes, I said the horrible “B” word. Believe or not, we got there at 8:30 a.m. and there was still a goddam line. This is my second brunch in as many weeks. Yeah. Say what you will. Poke fun. This is my life.

My sister in law and I both ordered the potato pancake because I don’t like sharing. I want to barely breathe and cram it all down my piehole like honey badger. Jo, of course, had the lobster omelet. I also got a side in the form of a bacon steak. Our son had a piece of fruit cake, apropos for his current phase of toddlerhood. He’s actually been tolerable in restaurants lately. Still a time bomb of pure energy with the ability to obliviate any social norm, and prone to insane fluctuations of emotion, but tolerable.

Take a piece of fried potato, throw some type of thick, sour dairy on it, smoked salmon, a couple of eggs, thin sliced red onion, fish roe, and hollandaise, a couple sprigs of dill for color and zing–boom! You’ve got yourself a tasty brunch morsel. My only negative comment about this was the plate. The potato pancake was difficult to cut into because the plate was slippery and the damn thing slid all around. Maybe it’s intended to eat with your hands? Why not? I did say last week at Ronan that I wanted to start shunning cutlery more but good manners are too ingrained within me, plus when you eat with your hands you have to wash and wipe them constantly. Tableware bypasses this which is, I’m guessing, why it was invented in the first place. I suppose I could just start licking my fingers and palms more at the table. I’m way past the point in my life where I give a shit what people think of me but I’m sure Jo would correct this behavior lickety-split.

A lobsta omelet, kiddo. I tasted it and thought it was ok, but Jo was gushing over how good it was. I don’t know. I’ve never been much of a lobster dude, maybe because it was always such a big deal when I was a kid over on the east coast. I still can’t quite get the stink of how the boiling pot and the shells smell afterward out of my head. I do love a lobsta roll, however, but there’s got to be lots of mayonnaise and diced celery involved. This was good, low hanging fruit, but good.

Ah yes, the bacon slab. This has become a new thing as of late. No more fried to a crisp thin strips unless you fancy a greasy spoon. The cool kids give you a slab. I like this trend as I’m more of a soft bacon guy because I enjoy the way the fat tastes.

At any rate, whether you like it or not, Republique is one of those staple L.A. joints that gives you cravings that build after not going in after a couple of months or years and delivers each time you show.