There’s a shadowy organization known as the Toronto Brunch Cabal, a group of breakfast and lunch restaurants (Aunties and Uncles, Le Petit Dejeuner, Bonjour Brioche) that pride themselves on short menus, lineups out the ass and beautiful, hand-loved food resulting in slow service. They are the rare weekend jewels that make our devotion to brunch worthwhile. Noon is not one of those places.

The service, first of all, is un-Cabalic — coffee cups don’t stay empty and waiters are welcoming. The food, meanwhile is, good enough but doesn’t inspire secret society–style devotion.

But, of course, you could name your restaurant “Worst Brunch Place Ever” and Torontonians would say, “Hey, a new brunch place.” And this is far from the worst place, so even during a blizzard, with 10 feet of visibility and cars driving at 15km per hour, the place is packed. We’re the first to arrive but by 11am every seat is taken. Is it so inconceivable that we make our own breakfast?

We arrive early to beat the crowd yet sides of plump peameal ($4) and crispy strip bacon ($3) arrive barely warm. It’s an undignified end for the ethically raised pig (from Beretta Farms) who gave his tummy and backside for our side dishes.

Our cheery server keeps topping off our coffee. He plops down a fresh carrot-apple-ginger juice ($4.50), appreciably light on the ginger. Too much ginger would be an easy way to strangle morning taste buds.

Heavy blueberry pancakes ($8), two of them, swarm with thawed blueberries. It’s a matter of personal preference — fluffy pancakes via whipped egg whites versus, well, this — but they’re a little leaden and a sea of butter and syrup can’t put them right. If these pancakes met the light-as-air Aunties and Uncles pancakes on a dark street, somebody would be getting $8 worth of a beat-down.
Vibrant salads light a candle in the darkness of fatty egg dishes. A cheddar and bacon omelette ($8) suffers a dearth of cheddar and bacon while exploding with caramelized onions. A spinach and feta omelette ($8) is generous with B-grade feta. It’s a little flat and could use some punchier element or perhaps just better feta such as an intense Greek or Bulgarian. Under-seasoned hollandaise on the eggs benedict ($12) is balanced if each bite contains some of the sweet/salty peameal bacon or superb smoked salmon.

Aside from the friendly service, sopressata hash ($3) is the real standout of the meal; a dish truly worthy of Cabal entry. Crispy threads of fried potatoes mingle with grounds of the spicy, southern Italian, cured pork. We order a second round.

Perhaps something magical occurs at the eponymous hour of noon. Because when we return later for lunch everything is better. Tart, slushy strawberry lemonade ($3.75) deglazes our crust of attitude. “Summer,” a brilliantly designed mousetrap of a sandwich ($12, with soup or salad), compresses as teeth sink into toasted ciabatta — and out pops the unwanted avocado from the centre. Brilliant. Free of the interloper, amazing prosciutto that’s soft enough to be cut thickly and buffalo mozzarella that’s just north of melty grab the mic and crush it. Disappointingly, an accompanying soup of coconut-curry carrot tastes not of coconut milk or curry. But inside another crackly bun gushes a mound of pulled pork ($10) winningly teamed with roasted peppers and a chive aioli.

Discerning diners will wonder what Supreme Clientelle prosciutto de parma is doing consorting with ghetto feta. But the Toronto brunch zealots will disregard such details as long as their coffee arrives snappy and is refilled often. Are we really that lazy? Is it so hard to cook eggs? Or is there an inherent pleasure in having our breakfast made for us that transcends all associated frustrations? Torontonians are prepared to brave a blizzard to avoid cooking their own breakfast. How about an earthquake? Martian invasion? Rapture? In a post-apocalyptic wasteland ruled by bikers and Tina Turner, where gas is more valuable than gold, will we still wait 45 minutes for lukewarm poached eggs, complaining that there’s no Wi-Fi in Bartertown? And in such a dystopian future, Noon would still look, y’know, decent.