9:20A a.m. ET | 1st Ave and St. Marks, Manhattan – Peace in Manhattan comes in small moments. On the patio of Cafe Mogador, the city is slow to wake. Dog walkers jostle by, women return from workouts, people pass in slacks. Most move silently. One pug comes to check out the scene, sniffing around the base of our red metal table. He smells spices, roasted tomato, pita. A few feet above his stunted nose, work is being done at deconstructing the yolks of poached eggs. One slice and the yellow liquid moves out like thin mortar, bonding together flavors.
A wrap of the house merguez sausage sits next to a casually sliced avocado. I sprinkle some salt on the avocado, mix it through the yolks, halumi cheese, olives. Plates begin looking more like color studies. There’s a calm here as the summer temperatures start to rise. Most people in Manhattan are at desks, but here in the East Village, humidity hovering around mid-60-percent with a minimal breeze, it’s still breakfast. We work on plates full of Moroccan spices. The order? Halumi eggs, poached, with roasted tomato, halumi cheese, olives, a salad and zahatar pita, alongside Moroccan eggs, also poached, with spicy tomato sauce, home fries and pita bread. The sides? Merguez, avocado, and a little bit of peace.
