Vertical Dining Lounge

Vertical. Personally, I’m more partial to horizontal as a spatial orientation. I’m engaged in enough ongoing battles (paternity suits, my liver, Puff Daddy, etc) as it is without adding a futile struggle with gravity to the list. All the truly memorable events in my life take place in a reclined position…getting’ busy, luge, bathing, getting’ busy on my luge while bathing. That in mind, I was thrilled to learn that although the name implies otherwise, the folks at Vertical on Broadway would be permitting me to consume my meal in the more traditional arrangement of ass-ile horizontality. Off to a good start, guys.

Upon arrival, we promptly scooched upstairs and dispersed ourselves into our preferred positions around the substantial kidney-shaped table overlooking the entire cavernous Kitsilano cabaret. The demulcent voice of Sarah McLaughlin and similar artists wafted though the rustic-modern lounge and lulled us into an adult-contemporary siesta. Already exhausted from several early morning jogs (and by jogs I mean belts of scotch), the cushiony, sweeping, black benches couldn’t have been more welcoming to us if they had been drunken Danish women with loose morals.

A glimmer of recognition washed over me as the waitress beckoned us for drink orders. “I know that voice,” I mumbled under my breath and looked up from my menu to ascertain that none other than Alison, a former co-worker from my sleazy bartending days was to be the object of our salacious desires for the morning. This double D-licious damsel is the sweetest thang you’ll ever meet and I have no aversion to admitting that my huge crush on her from back in the trenches was brought thundering back as she stood there smiling and gently caressing the coffee pot. Oh, to be that coffee pot, if just for one fleeting moment. I got your hot liquids right here, baby.

The crew proceeded to order beverages while I blatantly flirted with my fantasy-world lover for a minute or two before she angelically floated back downstairs to gather our requested liquids. On her maiden voyage with the Armada, The Video Store Girl was somewhat taken aback by my gratuitous blubbering over the waitress. “Jeez, are you like this with all the girls who serve you?”

“Naw,” piped in Agent M, “he knows this one, generally he’s much worse.” True story.

Awakened from my mammary-induced stupor, I once again returned my glazed-over orbs to the menu and made somewhat of an astonishing discovery; the number of items listed on said menu was equivalent to the IQ of your average Joe Millionaire viewer: three. Three?! The most esteemed and respected (and likely only) breakfast critics in North America, possibly the world honour you by choosing, out of hundreds and hundreds of potential locations, your restaurant to help them add to their permanent fat cell count and all you can offer is three paltry dishes?! I hadn’t been this insulted since George Lucas took a 120 million dollar dump and called it Star Wars: Episode I.

To be fair, Vertical does offer up a brunch special on Sundays that contains the four most beautiful words (apart from “I’m still a virgin”) in the English language; All you can eat. Here’s the rundown; scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, pan-fries, “NFL” chilli, croissants, blueberry muffins, pasta, fruit, bran raisin muffins, assorted cereal, and make-your-own omelettes all for the low, low price of $12.99. That’s right, Billy, for the exact same amount of money you paid for that shitty Creed CD, you could have come down to Vertical, stuffed yourself into a diabetic coma and avoided driving your roommate to suicide by playing “My Sacrifice” until he swallowed his tongue. Sadly, lacking any sort of planning or preparation, we showed up on a Saturday, when no such deal was in effect, and the decision now was not what to order but whether we should write the whole trip off and take our hard cash (and flaccid dinks) down to Hooters for a hot beef injection. The laws of physics made the choice for us as pesky gravity once again reared its ugly head and staked its claim on our nutrient-deprived, corpulent carcasses. Onwards, then, with the evaluation.

Faced with so few options, Duck-boy, Agent M and Lang Dang were all pretty much forced into going with the $8 “Vertical Breakfast” which consisted of, as I’m sure you could have guessed, two eggs, bacon or sausages, hash browns and toast. As this classic is such a popular and ubiquitous option on breakfast menus around town, Vertical was really going to have to come up with some sort of amazing twist in order to win over the pacemaker-assisted hearts of my most experienced breakfast crew members. I have to admit, they really weren’t expecting all that much but when the dishes arrived, their dour little faces lit up like Michael Jackson at an aqua-tots class.

A pastiche of tropical fruits and a ramekin of Heinz adorned the plates, providing the meals with more colour than a box of Lucky Charms (magically delicious my ass, a bowl of that radioactive waste per day will give any kid colorectal cancer by age 14). Agent M‘s jaw dropped to his knees as the sausage count on his plate shattered all records with an astounding 6 links. Ducky hadn’t seen this many greasy wieners since his highly underpaid, all-male adult-film days. What? That honours degree wasn’t going to pay for itself, was it?

The hash browns were perfection incarnate: big, thick chunks of potato (skin and all), masterfully deep-fried to the ideal level of crispiness and appropriately salted to kick that blood pressure up a notch. Bam!! The delectable, butter-doused multi-grain toast provided a hint of healthy reprieve from the calorie-induced guilt trip we were on and came with little packets of jam for those in dire need of additives and preservatives. Duck-boy‘s girthy bacon had a somewhat leather-like quality but I didn’t hear him complaining while he mashed it into his pie-hole. As for the eggs? Well, they proved to be tantamount to Viagra for the Duck as boner-iffic, gushing, praise spewed forth from his albumin-laden mouth. Evidently, these eggs were sweetened ever-so-slightly with some sort of magical ingredient (I’m guessing sugar) which distinguished them from Earthly eggs and elevated them to the status of Godly eggs that somehow fell from the asses of deitous chickens, high above. I can merely assume Lang Dang agreed, as the only sounds that could be heard emanating from His Dangness were self-satisfied grunts.

The Video Store Girl went for door #2 and ordered up an $8 eggs benny (modified to her annoyingly righteous vegetarian needs, of course.) It came with the same hash browns as the rest of the meals and looked hella tasty but only succeeded in meeting, not superseding her expectations. “There is just no comparison between this and the hollandaise at De Dutch,” offered The VSG, “I’d give it a C+.” Ahh, spoken like a true ex-Pannekoek House employee and current elementary school teacher.

Finding nothing to my liking on the minuscule menu, I requested that some chorizo, red onions, mushrooms and cheese be thrown together in a custom omelette. This puppy was the steal of the day as it came in at a reasonable $6, including hash browns and fruity garnish and was topped with a dash of paprika as a special “I love you” from head chef Robert MacLeod. The Armada’s reputation is clearly beginning to precede it as Mr MacLeod made a special visit to our table to ensure everything was up to snuff. He also made it be known to us that, despite the menu being so limited, he’d be more than happy to ‘whip up whatever’ for us or any other diners in the future if they so requested. Nice touch.

So where does Vertical rank among the scores of victims we’ve laid waste to in the past? What it lacks in quantity, it makes up for in quality and the friendliness of the staff is second to none (yeah, so, I’m a little biased). While it is undoubtedly comfy, it’s short on cosy as the layout is more suited to a nightclub than a breakfast nook. That said, the overall experience was a pleasant one and as sure as Gordon Campbell’s a lying drunk, you can bet your ass we’ll be back to annihilate that buffet before we sail off into the sunset and the land of topless, Nordic nymphs. Bon voyage, brunch-fiends.