RUSTIC BREAKFAST
AT RAMOS HOUSE
- by T.E. Whitaker
I’ve eaten breakfast here since the first week it opened in 1995. It’s a short ride from my place, the access is easy and blissfully vehicle-free, and there’s covered parking for the bike nearby. You attach to places. Why do I love motorcycles? It dates back to my childhood. Likely someone screamed past on a Kawasaki Ninja – the hot bike at the time – and so I mowed lawns all summer long to afford a moped. The rest is history.
The same goes with Ramos House. It’s October of 1995. My dad saw an early review and we hunted down the place. Just off Los Rios Street in San Juan Capistrano, by the train station, it’s not the easiest place to find. But we found it. The cinnamon apple beignets primed me, the blueberry coffee cake (not on the menu this time around) sold me, and, after an incredible scramble, the homemade biscuit with apple butter won my heart. I mowed lawns every weekend from that point forward so I could afford breakfast (not true, but you gotta bring it all together in the end).
Ramos House sits near the end of the Ortega Highway, and so the morning begins with an early ride through the shaded and sun-dappled curves of the 74, out to Lake Elsinore, enjoying the brake-coast-throttle of the road’s bends, and – at this hour – the road’s relative emptiness. Ortega is a highway often ruined by slow traffic, Euclid isn’t a fan anyway, so earlier in the morning is when we hit it – watching out for moisture on the road the sun hasn’t yet burned off.
Despite the size of my bike – I’m on the Harley this morning – the lack of traffic enables me to focus on my entries and exits, as always aiming for the Perfect Ride, instead of eyeballing brake lights or dropping back with a frustrated scowl, to create space behind a slow-moving truck.
None of that this morning.
It’s out to Lake Elsinore with the road to ourselves – a beautiful aloneness with the engine beating through crisp cool air – and then back, in flow with the bike, sweeping through the curves and storming down the straights, the rising warmth confirming the wisdom of choosing a perforated leather jacket this morning.
I exchange greetings with the morning’s first pack of sport bikes. I envy them a bit, much like I envy people who’ve yet to see Pulp Fiction or Skyfall, and still have those cinematic joys ahead of them.
Too soon we emerge from the curves and trees into open straights, open sun, fellow riders with the road ahead of them, us with breakfast ahead. Who has it better? Probably Euclid and I, given our destination.
We park the bikes in the garage near the train tracks, strip off our gear, cross the train tracks, and head to the right, down Los Rios. We’re seated without waiting – it pays to be early, this place can get busy – on the restaurant’s herb garden side, with a corrugated roof providing shade.
Years ago a large, leafy tree dominated the center of the dining area, but they removed it, no doubt because of the seating space it hogged and the daredevil birds it inspired.
Years ago a large, leafy tree dominated the center of the dining area, but they removed it, no doubt because of the seating space it hogged and the daredevil birds it inspired.
“I’ll have an espresso,” I said to the server. Euclid ordered the mocha and we both ordered breakfast.
After she walked away, Euclid said, “You’re never happy with espresso at restaurants. Why do you order it?”
“I can’t help myself.”
Soon the espresso was in front of me. I sipped it. Made a face.
“What a surprise,” Euclid said.
“It’s too thin. Kind of a Starbucks-adjacent dark roast.”
“Were you ever a barista?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know anything about the roast?”
“I’m guessing she pulled a longo, not a double.”
Euclid rolled his eyes as our server returned with his mocha. “You just make this crap up.”
“That looks fantastic,” I said.
He smiled with a bit too much triumph for my taste. “Doesn’t it?”
Served in a big mug, Ramos House’s mocha looked spectacular, featuring a fire-toasted marshmallow skewered by a wooden stir stick and dipped into the choco-coffee smoothness.
“It’s not even funny how much better that looks and smells compared to mine.”
He sipped it with annoying delight. “It’s a little funny. Take some time in the day to laugh. It’s certainly one of the good things in life.”
“I don’t believe in laughter between four-thirty a.m. and nine p.m.”
“Only while you’re asleep?”
I nodded. “When I’m awake, I practice a distinctly German perspective on amusement. Humor is for das veak.”
“Great accent.”
Nat King Cole drifted across the café from a vinyl record player as a Surfliner train pulled into the station, adding a certain authenticity to the morning’s scene. Euclid finished the mocha as breakfast’s first course arrived.
It was Strawberry Basil Pain Perdu, delivered to the table with a casualness that assumes food beauty like this is just normal in the world.
Strawberry basil pain perdu is a rustic baguette french toast, soaked in a cream and strawberry concoction that results in a warm cappuccino color, and bright green basil mousse – whipped basil, cream, and sugar – bathe in strawberry coulis. Strawberry chunks abounded. It was sweet and tart, and sweet again, the pain perdu melting in my mouth. My utter focus on the dish equaled my concentration on the Ortega Highway. Was I also searching for the Perfect Bite?
“Did you read what Pele said about Maradona?” Euclid asked.
“No.”
“He wrote something nice and then finished with ‘Who’s better now?’”
I laughed.
“I’m obviously joking,” he said.
A house cat strolled past. “English football fan says, ‘In the end, the Hand of God will spank Maradona.’”
Euclid said, “They still can’t get over that.”
“Or,” I said, “Hand of God Already Taken. Maradona Forced to Play with Feet in Heaven Cup.”
Euclid laughed and tapped at his phone screen. “That should be a headline on The Onion.”
“I think God is probably a goalkeeper anyway,” I said. “He wouldn’t put up with Maradona’s cheating.”
“Was it cheating when Maradona waltzed through the entire English team to score the other goal?”
“No,” I said, finishing the pain perdu. “He was undeniably great. But he definitely touched the ball with his hand. It’s not even disputable. The lack of video review at the time made him a legend.”
“And he’s a soccer player,” Euclid said. “By nature, they cheat.”
“And whine. And cry. Essentially, toddlers with Lamborghinis.”
Soon our breakfast’s main event arrived – Bubble & Squeak with Bacon Scrambled Eggs & Vinegar Tomatoes.
“You should order something different than I do,” I said.
“I’ll get what I want. I’m not ordering for your website’s convenience.”
The scramble consisted of eggs, bacon, and cheese, atop a savory potato and cabbage cake, with the cabbage cooked down. I’m not a cabbage fan, but I couldn’t taste it, so eat on!
The vinegar tomatoes added a real pop to the dish, and – assuming you didn’t mix it all together like a f’in heathen – provided distinctive and varied tastes throughout the journey to scrambled eggs nirvana.
Euclid’s phone buzzed. He grinned. “I texted your Onion-worthy quote about Maradona to Trixie and told her it was from a British newspaper. She passed it on to friends at work.”
“Awesome.” Trixie was Euclid’s Argentinian girlfriend. “Do you think it’s strange a lot of people are having fun with his death?”
“Like you?”
“I don’t mean anything mean by it.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Humor helps almost everything. Heals wounds. Forges friendships. Connects everyone.”
“Jesus, Uke. Way to make breakfast all serious. When did you get so fucking philosophical?”
“I have to be, just to manage all your pseudo-intellectual crap.”
“Thanks. Eat your biscuit while it’s warm.”
“I don’t like warm biscuits,” he said.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said, smearing mine with the accompanying apple sauce-like butter. “Only trike riders let their biscuits get cold.”
“Woah,” Euclid said. “That’s a serious two-wheel elitist throwdown.”
“I’m kidding. Obviously. They’re our three-wheeled brethren. Just, you know, like a third wheel.”
“You’re not going to print that, are you?” Euclid spread apple butter on his biscuit and took a bite.
“Probably.”
“This is the best biscuit I’ve ever had,” he said. “Print that instead.”
We finished breakfast, paid, and returned to the bikes.
“Any word on tomorrow’s ride?” I asked.
“No, but I told my brother that I want to leave before noon.”
“Did he weep little rock-n-roll tears?”
Euclid stared blankly at me. “Why the rock-n-roll tears?”
“I figured he’d be sad and frustrated at your ‘before noon’ demand and might get emotional.”
Euclid maintained the uncomprehending stare, confusing me a little. His brother is a musician whose days begin post-brunch.
“Because he’s a rock star,” I said. “Did you really not understand that?”
Euclid checked his phone as if my train of thought escaped him. “He hasn’t replied yet.”
We started the bikes and I shouted, “He’s probably not up yet!”
RAMOS HOUSE
31752 Los Rios St
San Juan Capistrano, CA 92675
ramoshouse.com
(949) 443-1342
No Reservations
RATINGS
Ride: 4/5
Food: 5/5
Espresso: 2/5
Coffee (the Mocha!) 4/5
Bike Parking: 5/5
Biker “Fit-in” Factor: 4/5
