Forget the usual mega-brunches, with their prix fixe prices, "whatever"-service, and trips back to the empty salvers. Here in this two-room corner cafe that throbs with highly caffeinated conversation, major hallooing, and some of the wisecrackingest service this side of Rosie on a roll is yet more proof that the gay gene extends to the concept of brunch. On a late Sunday morning, it seems that wise straights have discovered this reasonably priced (average $8 per meal) little secret too. It all works thanks to the sensible kitchen, which turns the usual brunchly ducklings -- taffy-pull pancakes and omelets Firestone could patent -- into swans. The cook even gets the temperature of the food right, dish after dish turning up neither retro-warmed nor colder than winter in Murmansk. Helping it all go down is coffee as fresh as a slap. While eavesdropping on dialogue worthy of Carson on Queer Eye (tables are that close), admire the Liberace-meets-Auntie Mame décor. Rarely has more been better. Typical of brunch, timing is everything, and during peak hours, lines can form faster than a face-lift on Joan Rivers, but be patient -- the waiting ones disappear just as quickly, sucked into this happily spinning vortex of the well-toned and quick-tongued.
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