The Whip

For yours truly, nothing says breakfast like a latexy, sado-masochistic beating early in the a.m. Consequently, when the Armada was informed about an East Van brunch haunt named “The Whip”, we donned our assless Mack’s Leather’s accoutrements, grabbed the riding crops and booked it on down for an anticipated syrupy spank-fest. Imagine our sullen dismay when we arrived, looking much like a Biker-dude only version of the Village People, and discovered that The Whip was far less concerned with flogging than it was with flaunting it’s retro-chic, counter-culture atmosphere. Hey, never let it be said that the Armada can’t accommodate as we quickly transformed into Eurotrash mode, set our phasers on kill and prepared to objectively evaluate our experience.

It took a couple of minutes for us to get seated (not always a bad thing as a wait can indicate popularity) at the cheeseball, That Seventies Show furniture, at which point we made a startling discovery. It would seem as if our wobble-dog table was designed for either amputees or people with Callista Flockhart-thin thighs. In order for us to be accommodated, our legs had to either be wedged in or fully extended, resulting in a spine-bending slouch for all involved. Our pleasant but decidedly older (and severely overworked) server, Kat, informed us that it’d be a few minutes until she could grab our drink orders. Lovely…all the more time for our lower extremities to be completely deprived of circulation. Hey, less blood in the legs means more blood for other, more sexiful regions, ladies!

We took advantage of the coffee wait to further digest our surroundings. The dominant theme definitely appeared to be throwback (to what era we weren’t quite sure) and the clientele was constituted of rambunctious adolescents, pregnant ladies and pseudo-sophisticated Commercial Drive rejects. One particularly creepy dude (I swear this is true) was decked out in a dark velvet jacket, puffy white shirt, skin-tight eighties blue jeans and pointy black boots. Hey, buddy, Simon LeBon just called, he wants his “Hungry Like the Wolf” outfit back.

Another five minutes crept by before our joe reared its ugly head. Now, I just want to take the time to make it clear that I hate coffee in general. It tastes like motor oil and it gives me the runs. The only reason I drink it is to revive me from the previous night’s liquor-induced catatonia and even then I only find it tolerable after the addition of 5 or 6 dollops of hi-fat dairy creamer, a fistful of sugar and a couple of caffeine pills. I generally can’t distinguish between poor coffee and that brewed of beans hand-picked by Juan Valdez himself. That said, I’m still qualified enough to tell you that when a beverage leaves a faint, poison ivy-like burning in the back of your throat, it’s probably been left on the burner just a bit too long. Too liquid-deprived to care, I quaffed it down amidst flashbacks of the time I circumvented the childproof cap on a bottle of bleach when I was five.

Forfeiting the customary and ever-appreciated bimbo-esque flirting and giggling, (and all attempts at casual conversation) Kat got down to business and took our gluttonous order. I won’t say she was unfriendly, just brisk, as one tends to be when they’re working harder than the average Honduran Nike sweatshop slave-labourer. In a busy restaurant with a dozen plus tables, she was the only server and the entire front staff appeared to consist of her, a green-horned busboy and a rather Rubenesque bartender/food expediter. Sadly for her, however, if you check the ratings system currently employed by the Breakfast Armada, there’s no mark for “sympathy” as we are inhumanly cruel and are loath to commiserate with the maltreated.

Thus far we were decidedly not overly impressed, and if the Whip was going to come away from this attack with a decent review the food needed to step up to the plate and pound a Mark McGuire, Androstenedione-assisted homer into the upper deck of Wrigley. Regrettably, all they could muster was a limp-wristed, Bob Eucker-style dribbler up the foul line, straight to the first basemen for an easy out. My $7.25 “Belgian-style” waffles came complete with gobs of runny whip cream, dismal looking pink, previously frozen blackberries and an overall mean temperature that would make the Athabasca Glacier stand up and say “Damn, those are some cold muthafuckin’ waffles!” Barely a step above Eggos, these puppies weren’t actually half-bad in comparison to the true slap-in-the-face of my meal, the so-called “hash browns.”

I don’t think I’ve ever been so singularly insulted by a food item as I was by these inedible atrocities. I knew something was rotten in Denmark when they arrived, ranging in colour from pee yellow to carbon-scored black and the tines of my fork had a rough time penetrating their exterior. I naively shovelled a couple of them into my face and the suffering was indeed pronounced and abrupt. Have you even eaten an uncooked potato before? Neither had I until that first biteful and lemme tell you, I’ve eaten dogmeat (yes, literal dogmeat) that was more tender and appetizing. Those who know me will tell you it’s rare as a crack-free day in Whitney Houston’s house that I leave even the most meagre of table scraps undevoured. However, even an insatiable scavenger such as myself was hard-pressed to choke back these raw Russets. Wholly unsatisfactory.

Egg expert Duck-boy was lured in by the call of the ham & brie omelette for $7.95 but he, too, claimed dissatisfaction at his choice of ovular sustenance, decreeing a more appropriate moniker for the meal would have been the “mostly ham and very little brie” omelette. The menu-touted carmelized onions and garlic were also subjugated beneath the overwhelming Black Forest barrage, making for one melancholy mallard. It would seem as if there was no pleasing Colonel von Duckenheimer on this day as even The Whip’s homemade blueberry jam, provided for the toast, was summarily dismissed with a churlish, “I prefer Smuckers.” Try saying that with a lisp to really get an appreciation for the gayness of it. Agent M was all over the stuff though, pronouncing it to be “some serious, sweet ass jam.” Dude, I don’t care how hungry you are; there is nothing vaguely sweet about ass-jam.

The $6.95 corned beef hash ordered up by M was The Whip’s last shot at redemption in the eye of the Armada and I was sorely tempted to fail it based solely on appearance. All I could think when they brought this plate of colourless mush to rest at Agent M‘s place mat was, ‘Snap! I had no idea the chef’s regurgitated Friday night beef stew was on the menu!’ Despite its unsightly appearance, the generous Agent M claimed that although it wasn’t the best he’d ever had, it was all right. This prompted me to suggest that perhaps those horse tranquillizer and oven-cleaner binges he was prone to indulging in a few years back may have affected his sense of taste after all. For a couple of extra bucks, he topped off his dish with a couple of sunny-up eggs and was fairly content with his overall choice.

We all got a chance to share in a bit of his meal when something (undoubtedly an inadvertently overheard, uproariously witty bon mot spouted off by one of the too-cool-for-school diners) caused him to execute one of the more substantial spit-takes in the history of slapstick. His semi-chewed brunch spewed forth all over my own meal (which amazingly did not detract from it) prompting me to consider placing an ad to refill his position. Wanted; sardonic, lecherous breakfast reviewer. Must be able to consume food and retain within mouth until swallowed. Must be willing to pay for employer’s brunch and drive him around. Only hotties need apply. I expect to be deluged with applicants.

So would we recommend The Whip to you and your loved ones? Well, if you want to practice your affectations and engage in pointless debate as to whether Camus or Sartre was the true father of existentialism while you fruitlessly wait for your coffee to be refilled, this place is right up your pretentious little alley. We here at the Armada, however, will be avoiding it like a Colour Me Badd reunion concert and would advise any with functioning tastebuds to do the same. We were lucky to escape from this ill-fated raid with our lives but we’ll retreat to lick our wounds and resolve to be back next week to lay waste to yet another underachieving breakfast establishment. Keep reading and remember, we’re here to eat bad food so that you don’t have to.