8:11 a.m. ET | North 3rd Street and Berry, Brooklyn – Williamsburg comes with expectations. Like lowercase is better. Like food from your own farm is healthier. Like white is the only color a wall can be painted. Like weathered wood is the most beautiful texture. Williamsburg also, conveniently, comes with biscuits and pork sausage gravy that’ll have you forget all those futile expectations and just eat.
At egg, that deliciousness comes in a painfully quaint setting. A cup of coffee comes in its own French press; it steeps, you plunge. Petit, intoxicatingly beautiful servers write the daily specials on a chalkboard by hand. At opening time, the place is slow and unhurried, and the new space feels cavernous (its old location, on North 5th Street, was cozier). There’s an odd intimacy when you’re the only person sitting in a place that, on a Sunday mid morning, will be cattle-drive busy. It’s the empty arena feeling, and energy sings around you. Then, when the Chilean waitress brings out the biscuits and pork sausage gravy, the eggs Rothko (topped with Grafton cheddar), and a braised duck leg hash, the place livens up even more, and a small party starts at our solitary two-top.