On a cold, gray, drizzly day like today, there's no better place to settle in with a good book, a hot cup of coffee, and the best Bloody Mary in this or any other town. The tall narrow window perfectly frames the steeple of St Paul's Lutheran behind the sleepy shuttered north side of Fifth Street. The eggs carbonara--fresh and fluffy, scrambled in olive oil with onions, peppers, zucchini, herbs, and crispy bits of pancetta--nestled up to the pan-roasted potatoes aromatic with rosemary and the buttery crostini are so good that I never order anything else. The service is friendly and attentive without being intrusive. (My server gets big bonus points for noticing the cover of the book I'm reading--Barbara Tuchman's terrific history of Europe's pivotal 14th century, A Distant Mirror--and making some salient points of his own about tracing historical turning points in music. This is definitely not something you get with a Sausage McMuffin at the drive-thru.) And then there is The Dessert: cherry vanilla gelato topped with imported glace cherries like little cannonballs of Italian summer going off in my mouth. Yes, there is also The Dessert Sticker Shock, when I discover the gelato is more expensive than the breakfast, but it is worth it.
But the best thing about Roost is the trilocation factor. While rooting itself firmly in the Oregon District, as Dayton as Dayton can be, Roost lets me have breakfast simultaneously at home and away and away. The ambiance is pure New York--the simple urban cool of the room, the jazz soundtrack, the other breakfasters who all look like they'll be spending the rest of the day at the Met or in Central Park or reading the Times Arts & Leisure section in bed in Hell's Kitchen. And the food is pure Italy, but better than almost any meal I actually ate in Italy--like Italy died and went to Heaven's Kitchen.
At the table next to me, breakfast is delivered to a couple and their 3-year-old son. The little guy takes one look at his plate of ciabatta French toast, carefully rolls up the sleeves of his Sunday-best shirt, and tucks in like a truck driver getting off a 24-hour run. Ten minutes later, food nearly demolished, he looks over at me and flashes a syrupy grin that fills the room with sunshine. "I am happy, happy, happy," he says.
Me too. Me too. Me too.
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