Growing up in servile poverty, my parents raised me with an absolute dislike and, even more so, distrust of any eatery that they considered to be out of their hardship-strewn social strata. Those hungry days were filled with so many grocery store pizzas, hometown buffets and dollar Whoppers, often leading to impulsively full nights and possibly short lives.
It’s been a damaging bit of culinary bondage for me, one that I’ve tried to desperately break out of for quite some time now; this was really no more evident than when I traveled to the Jones Assembly, 901 W. Sheridan on Film Row, a couple of Sundays ago, finally deciding to give their lauded brunch a feet-dragging try.