Midtown over easy

My Dad always had a thing about eating in restaurants that were frequented by cops. This led to numerous meals in joints like Johnnie’s Waffle Shop in Stockton, where half the clientele at any given time were members of the San Joaquin County Sheriff’s department. Dad got this idea in his head that cops had a homing beacon for good, basic, stick-to-your-ribs food, an observation contradicted by numerous sightings of our local PD at places like Yum Yum Donuts.

Anyway, there were three black-and-white Crown Victorias parked on 24th Street on a recent morning outside the Cornerstone, which meant that either someone was reporting a crime nearby or, using Dad’s yardstick, there was some good breakfast to be found.

Turns out it was the latter. Cornerstone has been on that same corner as long as I’ve been in town—coming up on two decades now—and until a few years ago, most of that time was spent living in Midtown within a few blocks’ stroll. So it’s a known quantity. Like many businesses, it’s gone through a couple of ownership changes, but it’s had the same owners, who also operate Cornerstones in Citrus Heights, Elk Grove and Folsom, for the past few years.

The Midtown location serves breakfast and lunch, no dinner. On the weekends, it’s a breakfast joint. Go mid-to-late morning, and you’re likely to see half the people you saw in the music clubs the night before.

We decided to hit the place early—“to beat the hangover crowd,” as my wife put it. Our choices were either to sit inside—at a short counter facing the serving line, in the tight-squeeze front room of booths and tables, or in a more spacious back room, where the three cops were enjoying what looked like a leisurely breakfast—or outside, at one of the tables along the sidewalk of 24th or J streets. The al fresco option appeared more inviting.

Sit quietly somewhere in Midtown’s urban forest and it becomes apparent that Sacramento has a certain leafy magic, which may take a while to reveal itself to those not familiar with its charms. Even after a brutal heat wave, a midsummer morning spent sipping coffee and reading the Sunday Chronicle, with the mournful wail of a train whistle passing through occasionally, can give one a sense of quiet contentment.

But it didn’t take long for the friendly waitress to notice us. She showed up with coffee and menus, took our order and disappeared. A few minutes later, she let us know that breakfast would be arriving momentarily, which it did. Then, she was on hand when we needed her and out of sight when we didn’t, a trait I find commendable in any restaurant and outright remarkable in a neighborhood breakfast joint.

Now for the food: From a standpoint of aesthetics, the vegetarian omelet, with a couple of ingredients added, I ordered was no masterpiece of feng shui or Alice Waters-style balance between positive and negative space on a plate. The half that was not occupied by home-fried potatoes was taken up by a yellowish rectangle with browned edges; salsa and sour cream were served in small side bowls.

But the aroma was dandy, and upon biting into the combination of Monterey Jack, spinach, avocado, tomato and mushrooms, the texture and tastes were just right. Give the Cornerstone bonus points for having real Tabasco sauce on the table, instead of some cut-rate brand from a food-service company. (Should eggs be served without Tabasco nearby? No, that’s a crime.) The potatoes were slightly undercooked but fresh, but that’s the luck of the draw—sometimes you get them when they’ve been sitting on the grill for a while, and they’re a little too done. And a side order of sausage and bacon came perfectly cooked—the bacon was not too crisp and not underdone.

However, my wife ordered Eggs Benedict, which came on a bed of an English muffin split, but barely toasted. And the Hollandaise sauce was a bit on the bland side. It wasn’t perfect, but probably better than you’d get at one of the big chain diners. And the melon was the ideal balance of crisp and juicy—and sweet.

Aside from a group of Harley riders, who might be advised next time to admire each others’ idling motorcycle engines out of earshot of a certain sidewalk café, it was an idyllic way to spend a Sunday morning. Where’s a cop when you need one, anyway?

(This is my second and final restaurant review. Next week, Liz Kellar—who wrote about a Cajun place in Nevada City a week ago in Dish—will return as the weekly contributor in this space.)