He would be Dish 49: Stuffed French Toast at Sabrina’s, 18th and Callowhill, http://www.sabrinascafe.com/
My Dad is the coolest guy ever. He’s like Steve McQueen with a mustache, except he doesn’t have a mustache anymore. Dad spent decades perfecting his brownie recipe, and once that was perfect, he tackled the timing of the perfect beer-slushie. (In our freezer, 43 minutes.) Dad likes cowboy movies, Clive Cussler novels, and finding good wines on the cheap. Dad also has a secret stash of band-aids in various sizes that he only shares on request.
We like to joke that Brian is mini-Dad (but taller). This morning, when I asked him if he had a band-aid I could use on a blister, he lit up and scampered off, returning joyously with “one to spare!” He spared me Dad’s usual analysis on the nature of my boo-boo and corresponding analyses of choices of fabric, flexible plastic, clear, and paint-on band-aids and best options for shapes (“this one’s a butterfly, definitely”). He’s not Dad yet.
Brian loves French toast. (Bear with me for a moment, this will make sense.) Brian loves French toast and I like pancakes. However, the stuffed French toast at Sabrina’s, loaded up with cream cheese, vanilla maple syrup, and bananas, is a far cry from the modest whole wheat creation that Brian likes. This creation, three inches thick, with two generous slices of brioche dipped, not doused, in eggy goodness, and fried until golden brown, and slathered with glorious… cream… cheese… frosting… if I think about it any more I’m going to faint. I’m already lightheaded from the diabetes-inducing, sickeningly fragrant, unforgettable vanilla maple syrup. This dish is the fatherly answer to the filial French toast that Brian and I have been eating for years. This dish is AWESOME. Like my dad.
A word to the wise—like stoner crack, stuffed French toast will send normal eaters as well as over-eaters into a dangerous spiral of itis, more commonly known as food coma. It is simply too difficult for the average human body to digest concoctions of this magnitude of epicly carbtastic awesomeness. Just like looking directly at my dad’s [former] mustache can cause blindness. Doesn’t mean you won’t do it. And it doesn’t mean you won’t love every second of it.