Willalbys exemplifies the strange creature that is Willy Street. Willy (and not, I insist,?? Williamson Street) is the stretch of Madison as the city should be, as if preserved in a time without gentrification or strip-mall boulevards. In one of the last, genuine bastions of Madison neighborliness, Willy cannot fathom pretensiousness and one of its diners, Willalbys perfectly follows suit.
Venturing down the bumps and breezy buroughs of Willy on a Monday afternoon, I was looking for a filling breakfast long past its usual hour.
What pulled me from the search was a memory from days past, of good food made well and an atmosphere that didn't require either a piercing or a tattoo. There it was, at 1351 Willy Street-Willalbys.
First off, the waitress, Cyndi Burleson, reminded me of a lyric out of \Unknown Legend."" I kept ordering just to watch her float across the room.
She had a way of making blue jeans and an apron look better than a starched uniform. There was an air about her that made the place seem more like a kitchen than a restaurant. Because of Cyndi I saw why single men lined up at the counter.
The first minute at Willalbys got me some silverware and a menu that was wedged between the nearby condiments. There's a certain charm to any menu that only requires a back and a front of a single sheet of paper to list the food and drinks. Too many decisions paralyze a simple dining experience. The silverware was equally unadorned, and each didn't match its partners. This I enjoyed because, frankly, it reminded me of my own silverware.
Cyndi put up with my menu musing and I finally found the Willalbys Omelet, the womb, (pronounce the b). The order came with some a.m. fries and a side of toast. Of course, any good breakfast requires coffee.
The java at?? Willalbys was ordinary and appropriate for 1 p.m. on a Monday. It wasn't the kick-you-in-guts-and-make-you-regret-it sort of coffee that would fit the morning of the first day of the week, but instead was its calmer, younger brother. It widened my eyes without raising my blood pressure.
What the coffee did for wakefulness, the food did for hunger. The Womb and its backing foods seem to sprawl across the plate and its aroma alone is enough to satisfy someone's hunger.
Digging into it all requires a chisel plow for a fork and your other hand steadying the plate. The toast is so infused with butter that not even jelly can mask it. The a.m. are not to be swallowed passively, but gnashed and gnawed. The omelet was everything a breakfast food should be. It was heavy on the cheese, generous with the green peppers and balanced with everything else. Given the size of the thing, I swore it contained everything else imaginable.
When I finished the gargantuan breakfast offering all I could do was sit back and think about the best strategy for digestion. A meal at Willalbys doesn't really settle-it lingers. Hours later, you can feel a shift of eggs in your gullet.
Cyndi swooped in and whisked away my plate and jelly packet mess without the forced friendliness that plagues some restaurants. She took a break from tapping her feet to ""Bad, Bad Leroy Brown"" to refill my coffee before slipping me the check. I tipped well, knowing I'll be going back very soon.
blschultz@wisc.edu.
