Michael Johnson
The Garden Kitchen by Pugh's: A Partner's Lament (or, How My Partner's Brunch Trauma Became My Personal Vendetta)
My partner, a beautiful and gentle soul who wouldn't harm a fly (unless it was trying to steal her meticulously crafted salad), recently ventured into the hallowed halls of The Garden Kitchen by Pugh's. She emerged, two and a half days later, still radiating the kind of simmering rage usually reserved for supervolcanoes and people who wear socks with sandals. Let me tell you, I've seen her less perturbed by a swarm of wasps at a picnic.
It all started with a poached egg. Now, my partner is a poached egg aficionado. She whips them up at home with the casual grace of a Michelin-starred chef. Apparently, The Garden Kitchen, in their infinite wisdom, have decided that the only way to poach an egg is to bathe it in vinegar. Vinegar! The very word makes her lip curl. She claims it tastes "like a pickled egg's tragic backstory." And, as if that culinary crime wasn't enough, this vinegary assault is apparently a gluten-intolerant's nightmare. So, thanks, Garden Kitchen, for catering to… absolutely no one?
But the egg-gate was just the beginning. Oh no. Next came the Great Cake Conspiracy. My partner and her friend, lured by the siren call of brownies, custard slices, and apple turnovers (the kind of baked goods that whisper sweet nothings of happiness), were informed, with the abruptness of a waitress who thinks she's a drill sergeant, that these delectable treats were for "take out" only. Take out?! They were sitting in the establishment! Were they supposed to grab a brownie and sprint for the exit like they'd just robbed the place? The staff member, clearly a disciple of Gordon Ramsay's school of charm, declared the place was "more of a restaurant." A restaurant that refuses to serve its most enticing desserts to its seated patrons? It’s like a car dealership refusing to sell cars, insisting they're "more of a parking lot."
Two and a half days. That's how long I've been living with the fallout. I’ve had to endure detailed descriptions of each forbidden pastry, the phantom smell of vinegar clinging to the air, and dramatic reenactments of the "take out only" pronouncement. I’ve even started having nightmares where I’m trapped in a maze made of raspberry crumble flapjacks (apparently as hard as bricks, avoid at all costs), chased by a giant, vinegary poached egg. She can't stop making phone calls and telling everyone about her visit to your establishment.
So, Garden Kitchen by Pugh's, here's the deal: you've created a monster. A hangry monster. Two and a half days of poached egg trauma and "take out only" brownie blues. I'm not saying I'm going to chain myself to the counter demanding cake equality, but... well, maybe I am. Just kidding (mostly). But seriously, vinegar eggs? No sit-down brownies? You're playing a dangerous game, Pugh's. A very dangerous game. Consider this my official brunch-partner declaration of... mild annoyance. And a deep, abiding craving for a brownie. For sitting down. Just sayin'.
Accommodating Gluten-Free