Texas Tabelog

Cafe HwaSan
2001 Coit Rd #300A, Plano, TX 75075
Google: 4.4 Stars (303 Reviews)

Habibi-san’s rating:

I used to count down the days until Easter Sunday brunch. Smoked salmon and eggs benedict drenched in molten hollandaise sauce danced in my mind during the priest’s homily like sugar plums on Christmas Eve. After mass, my father would lead us on our annual motorized pilgrimage to judge the brunch buffets of local 3-star hotels. The Hilton Richardson usually had all the fixings (i.e., carving station, build your own omelet, mimosa bar…etc.). Before allowing the valet to commandeer the family Honda Odyssey, our Chief Inspector (dad) would scout ahead to ensure the buffet was worth the price of admission. Then, it was go time.

Anthony Bourdain famously hated brunch. According to him, line chefs often reincorporate leftover scraps from the Thursday delivery that did not sell over the weekend into a dense slew of pork and eggs on Sunday. Hungover wait staffs typically hate the poor tipping and long lingering bloody mary crowd that could not afford the dinner prices from the previous night.

For the most part, I agree with him, but I don’t live in Hell’s Kitchen. Breakfast food is the middle-aged equivalent to picking up pickle ball instead of golf: cheap and easy. For less than 20 USD, I can brew a pot of coffee, drink a poorly fermented bottle of brut with Tropicana, toast two waffles, and churn out shakshuka for me and my wife in less than ten minutes. But, if there is one thing I will claim from Caucasian culture, it is the Sunday brunch. Sometimes, it is worth spending $100 to loiter on the rooftop of Sundown at Granada in Lower Greenville and eat their soggy biscuits and gravy. You can find this phenonemon in any major city in the states. The breakfast burritos at Bottlecap on 12 South in Nashville might be my favorite contribution from gentrification. Ascension’s chorizo Cali burrito in the Design District is a close second:

Sorry, Anthony. My body recognizes brunch for what it is, a mild-mannered altar boy’s post mass reward.

However, my body has a broken internal clock. Cravings attack my neurons at any time of day like an unemployed stoner. Just ask my childhood friends’ parents who always knew if I had spent the night. Pilfered food from their fridge was my calling card. Before my brain’s shame center properly developed, I was a cockroach, a real life mole person. Scarfing down cold, leftover General Tso’s chicken in lieu of avocado toast during the morning of a Middle School sleepover (for which I was ruthlessly and fairly bullied) was my crime. But, my friends’ kitchens were not office break rooms, and the soupy moo goo gai pan would have been thrown out anyway.

Seasonal eating is equally ridiculous, especially since the invention of air conditioning. Unless we are talking about heirloom tomato season or ideal oyster harvesting months, I do not want to hear that it is too hot outside to eat ramen. I want a honey ham and fully cooked lamb in July for Jesus’ half birthday. I want my mother-in-law’s pumpkin cream pie in the Spring and not just once a year for Thanksgiving. Why are we depriving ourselves of “seasonal food” during the rest of the year? Is it more special to have the McRib only when pork prices plummet? Sure. But, try telling that to Habibi-san’s tummy.

I tend to think the hardest about my body’s broken internal clock at Korean brunch, and there may not be a better spot in Plano for thinking than Cafe Hwasan. Wasting an exorbitant amount of time reading science fiction, writing an unpopular blog, or planning a potential international trip at a hybrid coffee shop like Cafe Hwasan is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Ordering the bacon udon carbonara forces you to ask yourself important life questions like, “fuck it, should we go to Palermo?” (considering I am part Sicilian, maybe I should have my name legally changed to Habibipai-san). Carbo-loading in the early morning may seem like a brave choice. If anything, it is self-indulgent. It is a chemical coup on my mouth and brain; a societally acceptable form of addiction for anyone with a BMI under 25 and an LDL over 150.

But, not even Korean brunch is safe from the fake potted plants, green foliage backdrops, neon signs, and cursive menus. I would be more amenable to overlook the Tik Tok drapery if there were more outlets scattered across the room to charge my 2015 MacBook Pro. Despite the frills, make sure to order the rose mushroom tteokbokki even if it is 11 AM (unless you have phobias of the words “moist” or “texture”). The pink sauce is thicker than normal tteokbokki due to the Italian forward tomato sauce and cream while the fish cakes are decadently chewy from presumed hours of infusion.

It is spicy, but it is manageable, unlike the fish cakes at Annie’s Street Food in the food court of Frisco’s 99 Ranch Market. In the spirit of the blog, I ordered the tteokboki for lunch since I had mentally checked out from my previous corporate gig. When asked if I would like the dish at “Normal” or “Korean” spice levels, I confidently rolled my eyes and ordered it the Korean way. It was an egregiously flavorful mistake, which caused my mouth to painfully tingle for the rest of the workday.

Concerning the “Cafe” in Cafe Hwasan, I have the same love-hate relationship with their coffee that I did in Japan, where beautifully prepared matcha and mocha lattes were crafted on every block of every major city we visited. Something I noticed that was seriously lacking from Japanese coffee was any concentrated form of caffeine. While delicious and calorically dense, anything besides a bitter cold brew left me groggy and irritated by 2 PM.

The cloud matcha latte at Cafe Hwasan is no exception. Loaded with my daily dose of saturated fats, their cloud matcha latte is a necessary reward from the 3 veranda roast coffee pods I consume at work each morning. Coalescing with the thick starches swirling in my digestive system from the udon and fish cakes, the latte does little to deter from my Sunday afternoon siesta. Maybe the Old Testament God had a similar diet on his seventh day creating the universe.

If anything, Cafe Hwasan is a paradigm for the American dream. I will eat what I want when I want, and I want you to join me. No need to warm up with the “tteokbokki” from the Trader Joe’s frozen section for dinner. Treat yourself. There is no better time to eat spicy Korean food than on a Texan Summer Sunday morning.

Ma al salama (さようなら ),
Habibi-san