I wanted to like Mona’s, truly I did. It serves Morning Fresh Farms eggs and Maverick Ranch beef, both local companies. It makes it own hot sauces. It’s in a cool narrow old building 2 doors next to Scribbles and My Brother’s Bar at the corner of 15th and Platte and has painted concrete floors and walls lined with booths.
I’ve been to Mona’s twice now, once for lunch when I had a salad, and once for brunch with Todd. The first time they sat me in the back, near the bar and a mother and child who were waiting for Dad to come out of the kitchen, in his chef’s whites and a NY cap. My table was dotted with glass and illuminated by the window to its left. Mona’s is full of light and talk. I could hear the voices of diners around the corner, including the distinct voice of one man.
The first time I was tempted by the French onion soup but chose the spinach salad, with raspberry onions and Danish blue cheese and Granny Smith apples and walnuts (which should have been candied). The vinaigrette was just a little sweet. The English muffin I ordered to bulk things up was white bread, naked, lightly toasted, and hot—a perfect combination.
On my second visit, I ordered pancakes instead of the scramble and then regretted getting yet another sweet in a season of sweets. At least I had the sense to leave some of the 3 generously sized blueberry flapjacks on the plate; I did finish the lovely lemon whipped cream and most of the pure maple sugar, for which I paid $1.50 extra.
It was Todd’s choice that really stood out: the huevos rancheros that resembled nothing so much as a huevos salad. Even so, I would have taken it as it was, taco salad bowl and all, but for the romaine strips scattered all over it. That was a little too much new American cuisine. The green chile was spicy enough for me (translation: not too much), the eggs were perfectly scrambled, and the taco bowl, broken up, made great thick chips. But it just didn’t come together into the squishy layered thing.
As I was watching the blond busboy with a camouflage headband clean off this table, Todd commented on how thin all the waitstaff were. “Do they not feed them?” he wanted to know.
That is, indeed, the freakiest looking plate of huevos rancheros I’ve ever seen. I doubt that any self-respecting ranchero would ever eat that for breakfast. Some things you just can’t mess with too much without renaming them. Todd’s comment cracked me up. Maybe they only let their waitstaff eat the truckloads of romaine they keep on hand.