The Elusive Eggs Benedict

F Street Station does is right

Review
By Britteny Ketterman

From my perch at the counter, I watch as people try to squeeze their way into F Street Station. It is 11:30 in the morning and I am astounded to see how many people are awake and trying to get in to a restaurant that is famous for its block of self-serve cheese at the bar, late night deep-fried food and more often than not, is the watering hole for the Anchorage Aces Hockey Team.

I have been on the search for the perfect Eggs Benedict, something that I thought would be easy to find in Anchorage, but instead has turned out to be like the quest for the holy grail. Local rumor has it that if you want a good Benedict, this is the place to be.

Two chefs stand behind the bar in front of me, working in perfect unison. “Only 12 more left,” one of them yells over his shoulder. I watch as they line up ten plates along their prep counter, stacking them anywhere there is space. A woman comes through the door, peers in between my counter mate and I, and mutters to herself, “I hope that I made it here in time for a plate.”

Ten English muffins, ten pieces of ham, ten poached eggs and ten scoops of hollandaise sauce later and I am dubiously eyeing one of those plates now in front of me. I wonder how disappointed I am going to be – seeing how the establishment I am dining in looks like it should stick to beer and wings.

With my knife, I make the first cut and the poached egg oozes out the perfect amount of yolk to combine with the sauce on my plate. When the fork reaches my mouth, I am pleasantly surprised at the burst of flavor that I encounter. Just the right amount of lemon in the sauce to make it interesting to the palate, yet not so much as to overwhelm the dish. I admit that for a moment, I have to close my eyes because I am enamored with the bite that I have just taken.

I hear the chef tell the server that there are no more Benedicts left, watch from my creaking stool as the server erases the words “Eggs Benedict” from the board, and breathe a thankful sigh that I made it in time, as groans go up throughout the crowded room. Content, I lean back over my plate and finish off the rest.

Goodbye, Turnagain House.

By Janine Daniels

Breathtaking views of the ocean, a glorious drive on a sunny evening along the Seward Highway, the anticipation of my first summer visit to the newly acquired restaurant I have long counted among my top 5 places to dine. I feel blissful.

And then, we get there. Pepe’s? Really? Okay - new owners - new name. Fine. Change the name of a long-loved Alaskan eatery and landmark along one of the most revered highways in the nation. Whatever.

The entrance. An oversized sticky pad the size of a poster board with the evening’s specials scribbled on. Uh oh. This might not be good.
The hostess. “2?” she asks. “Yes. We have reservations.” “Does is it look like you need one?” she mocks her own restaurant in reply as we scan the nearly empty room. Oh, no. This is really not good.

As we are nearing our table, the hostess suddenly grabs a water glass from another table. What was that all about? A beetle! Did the hostess really just grab a water glass with a beetle crawling on it? If I wasn’t sure then, I was left with no doubt after she left us at our table and promptly went to the nearby bar to laugh about the unwanted guest with the bartender. So seriously disappointing.

“May I take your order” our server asks as she stands at our table. Or wait. Is this our hostess? Why, yes it is. Mid-order taking, another server (maybe he hosts, as well) cuts in. “Pepe says I need to take this table,” he says. “Well, okay. You’re in good hands,” our server/hostess says as she exits. “Welcome to Pepe’s,” our new server says (really? Again? Pepe’s?). “What can I get you?” “Can you tell me what fish is in your bouillon base?” I ask. Quick flip of the menu, and my server is reading line for line what the menu says. Yes, I know that already. I, too, can read. The menu doesn’t say. My server is now looking at me for my response. I order something else. Guess what is delivered. The bouillon base.

Several loud shouts from whom I assume is in fact Pepe’, a curt apology from my server, and within minutes I’m served the correct meal. The food was good, not great, but good. I’m repeatedly apologized to by my server (who must be Pepe’s son because there is no other reason in my mind that this person would be qualified to serve in a fine dining restaurant), and now I cannot help but just laugh. Out loud. I’m laughing out loud.

I decide a good white wine is in order and I ask for a wine list. I’m apologized to (again) for not having been given this in the first place, and I’m handed a piece of cardstock with water-stained text on it. I’m so entertained by this, that I take out my cell phone and text myself a picture of the menu. No glass of wine is over $11 and no bottles of wine are for sale.

By the end of dinner, I’m convinced that at any moment Ashton Kutcher is going to come running out to let me know I’ve been “Punked”. I wasn’t. This was real. This is Pepe’s.