A breakfast of banana bread and cappuccino was had at East Village. The coffee at this place is always decent. The housemade banana bread was $12. It came toasted and with a disproportionally large dollop of butter that would have satisfied even the most hardcore butter fans. As a fellow – ahem – butter worshipper, no complaints there.
Now, the banana bread. This I discovered was, in fact, a cake. On first bite, the deception began to unravel like bunch of guilty schoolkids trying to get their story straight. Why the bread was more soggy than crisp, more cakey than could possibly be accepted for what it was. Perhaps it was actually a cake and its descriptor a most unfortunate accident. An undiscovered mishap on the otherwise accurate menu. An unintended misnomer. Or, was there something more sinister at play. A deliberate act to mislead unsuspecting hunters of banana bread. An imposter happening to assume the role on the day of our visit. Or was it just a banana bread that didn’t know what it wanted to be? Confused. Non-committal. Wavering, like most of us through life. I will never know.
The pancakes were slightly dearer. They looked more appetising. By the accounts of my dining partners, the pancakes were good.
Taste verdict Adequately banana–ish. Cake-ish.