Boxing Cat: This chipotle motherfucker will really stretch your pantaloons

BCB

My Sunday morning Boxing Cat Brewery (BCB) brunch began the way they all should: by taking life-affirming gulps of spicy-ass vodka and tomato juice directly out of a pitcher (my apologies to my punctual friends who had ordered it). And it was a damn good bloody mary. Just damn good. So many crushed peppercorns that I felt like a crushed peppercorn. Which was a great distraction, because what Iactually felt like on that Sunday morning was a shipping container full of dead Eastern European hookers.

Meteorologically, it was a beautiful Sunday morning on the heels of a beautiful evening at Bocado — which is the greatest place in the world, give or take a place or two — and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot more that I could ask for other than ham.

So I ordered the croque monsieur and waited on the patio sipping iced coffee and chilling harder than a naked dude at the Harbin Ice Festival. But a fierce May wind and a neglectful groundskeeper conspired to insure that our table was inundated with a steady stream of twigs, leaves and other arboreal detritus that had gathered on top of the canopy above us. Although it wasn’t raining, the retractable canopy was still unfurled, likely as a way of shielding our table from any naturally-falling arboreal detritus. Unfortunately, during our visit to BCB the wind on the patio was blowing with a frequency familiar only to the newly-in-love, and days (weeks?) of accumulated dead-tree-parts assailed us with regularity.

Celestial barrage aside, I had a great brunch. Iced coffee was money, the bloody marys were swell, and the croque, when it arrived, was great. It had a lovely chipotle twist, which was a nice change, and was drenched in a delightfully-heart-attack-inducing sauce that really got my goat. It wasn’t as cheese-heavy as most croques, nor was it broiled, but the ham was there in more than sufficient quantities.

At first, this uniqueness dazzled me. ‘You are so saucy, my dear croque, such a unique and beautiful chipotle-infused soul you have,’ I said out-loud and adoringly  while my table-mates quickly relocated to a different table where no one was talking to their sandwich.

‘Let your friends go,’ the croque replied, its voice all breathy like it was drinking a dry martini and wearing a revealing beer-bread evening gown, ‘I’m all you’ll ever need.’

But over time, as the novelty of a chipotle-croque wore off, the sandwich settled into a less-exciting and blander category of sandwiches, Those That Have Ham In Them So Of Course I’ll Eat It But I’m Not Going To Kill Anyone For It Or Anything. Not bad, BCB! Your mom is proud, I’m sure! I would be.

Once the zing wore off, it just became a normal ham sandwich. That is to say, great. And the side salad, well, not much I can say about that — it was early in the game when we were assaulted with a particularly vicious barrage of falling twigs, and I could only shield so much of my plate. Obviously I saved the ham sandwich, so I didn’t get the chance to try the side salad before it became a side-salad-with-a-side-of-twig. I bet it was okay. No ham in it, though, so it couldn’t have been that good.

So yea, Boxing Cat rules, and the croque is totally worth ordering. I’d definitely order it again. But in the hierarchy of croques, it falls short of clinching any titles. Nothing to be ashamed of, though; not everyone “wins prizes” or “is special” or “deserves to be loved” or “will ever get out of jail for murdering that guy over the last ham sandwich.” You know? Not everybody is that guy, or that sandwich.

The BCB croque gets a solid Three Ham Hocks out of Five Possible Ham Hocks.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but here goes: go for the ham, stay for the bloody mary.

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