Which comes first, the chicken or the egg? At egg, a Southern-style restaurant in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it depends on what meal you’re there for.

The place is firmly part of the laid-back hipster vibe of the new Williamsburg. Our server wore cutoff jeans and gave the impression that she just happened to find herself there, by coincidence, rather than being on the job. Although it was a weekday morning, and none too early, a few groups of people were apparently enjoying a late breakfast, like us.

I liked the way the restaurant opened onto the street — it looked like a converted garage — but the flies hovering in the entranceway and the mysteriously wet floor reminded me of a hole in the wall in Bangkok.

Julia and I had come because she’d read that egg’s breakfasts, served 7 days a week, were the best in town. I was a little dubious, being prejudiced: I consider the restaurant brunch a socially accepted ripoff. How else can you explain a meal of the cheapest ingredients on earth — milk, flour, eggs, bread — routinely adding up to $20 each?

But my first bite of flaky buttermilk biscuit with Kentucky country ham knocked me out. The dark rose, chewy and intensely flavored ham is only distantly related to those pale, watery things you might find coated in honey at the supermarket. A crumbly slice of snappy Grafton cheddar stood up to it perfectly, and there was an unusual, but welcome, touch of housemade fig jam. On the side were grits, the real stoneground kind that has little nibs from the corn in its creamy mass. I’m not a huge grits fan, but I appreciated them.

Julia demolished the Eggs Rothko, a sort of egg-in-the-hole with brioche from Amy’s Bread. The whole top was covered in melted Grafton cheddar, and the displaced round from the center of the bread was also on the plate, toasted and piled with broiled tomatoes.

Egg also serves lunch and dinner; I read that its fried chicken is outstanding, and its web address, pigandegg.com, inspires some tasty speculation. I also notice the name-dropping on the menu of Carolina Gold rice, which I’d previously only seen in the Lee brothers’ Boiled Peanuts catalog. Now that I’m poking around their website some more, I realize they have their own farm — which catapults this humble place to the realm of the ridiculously ambitious. My hat’s off to you, egg.

egg
135 N. 5th Street
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
(718) 302-5151

On my way to the airport after breakfast, I grabbed a bagel from Bagelsmith, which touted in the window its hand-rolled, kettle-boiled, freshly baked bagels. The place looked too cute to be true, but it wasn’t. My bagel, though it was a little softened from the cream cheese by the time I got around to it somewhere over the Great Plains, had a good, distinct crust with a hint of honey, and a satisfyingly chewy but not too dense interior.

Bagelsmith
189 Bedford Avenue
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
(718) 218-7414