The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Killer brunch of bialys awaits
Hen Mother Cookhouse also serves pancakes, and sometimes quiche.
Her lobster quiche is a custardy, four-cheese concoction with corn, basil and chunks of Maine lobster tail. The filling itself is sublime. And, yet, the most remarkable attribute of this extravagant wedge is the crust. Thrust a knife into that golden brown, crimped beauty, and you discern a multitude of buttery flakes.
Until Soraya Khoury opened Hen Mother Cookhouse in Johns Creek three years ago, she had little experience with pastry. “I didn’t bake,” said Khoury, who grew up in a Persian-jordanian home on the outskirts of Chicago, trained at the Culinary Institute of America’s Napa outpost, and moved to Atlanta in 2017, to serve as executive chef of Rumi’s Kitchen Avalon. “I avoided it like the plague.”
Judging from her textbook bialys, famous cinnamon buns, and XXL Cookhouse chicken biscuit, you’d never guess it. The food Khoury and company (including
her chef-husband, Jesus Loyala) turn out for breakfast and lunch six days a week is every bit as fastidiously crafted and delicious as that of some of the more ballyhooed intown brunch spots.
Until a colleague nudged me recently, Hen Mother wasn’t on my list, but, once I started following Khoury’s Instagram stories, I knew I had to try the food of this saucy, unfiltered dynamo, who posts regular dispatches about the good and bad of the daily grind.
Could her fluffy, brownbutter pancakes and market hash with bacon crunch and eggs live up to the hype? Boy, could they.
In recent weeks, I’ve tiptoed back into the postvaxxed world of indoor and outdoor dining, both on a Gulf Coast sojourn and in Atlanta. The thought of schlepping takeout eggs and pancakes 32 miles from Cookhouse to my house didn’t make good sense, so I requested a table on the patio, and, after about a 20-minute wait on the Saturday before Mother’s Day, my guest and I enjoyed a safe, comfortable experience.
Sure, there were a few minor hiccups. My friend didn’t like her coffee (”too acidic”); the staff rushed it away and took if off the bill. The menu advertises the hash with eggs “any style,” but that, I was told, does not include poached. Sunny-sideup did the trick, however, and I loved finding little surprise nibbles in the melange of produce — broccoli, cauliflower, butternut squash, bits of shaved sweet potato. The crispy-edged smashed Yukons that came on the side were perfect, too. And, those two fat brown-butter pancakes knocked me out with their tender, cakey crumb.
I’m no bialy expert, but my guest claimed to be, pronouncing ours exceptional, equal to the finest New York has to offer. I marveled at the accompaniment — a pudgy quenelle of whipped cream cheese with a drizzle of olive oil and finely snipped chives. I also dug the mismatched (but very pretty) china, with patterns of flowers, fruits and butterflies.
In a phone interview, Khoury told me she grew up in a food-loving home with three older siblings. Her Jordanian father, who owned grocery stores and small markets, was a major influence. “So, I always just loved cooking,” she said, “and from the time I can remember, I would save up whatever money I had. And then I would go grocery shopping, and I would, like, make dinner for my entire family.”
She didn’t get serious about working in restaurants until after pursuing studies in Middle Eastern and Islamic cultures, “all the while working as a waitress in restaurants, from the time I was 14, through grad school.” At 26, she entered culinary school, and eventually got hired by California
“So, I always just loved cooking and from the time I can remember, I would save up whatever money I had. And then I would go grocery shopping, and I would, like, make dinner for my entire family.”
Soraya Khoury
chef Richard Reddington to work at Redd, where she met her future husband.
When Rumi’s called, the couple decided to go for it. In Johns Creek, they frequently would have coffee at a corner spot; when they approached the owner about buying it, he agreed. Khoury’s sister, Sarah, is a partner.
“I always tell people: We are right in the middle of a greasy spoon and a greenjuice place,” Khoury said. “You can get a salad, or you can get the French toast. It’s your choice.”
Perhaps, but I think she’s slighting herself. In this brunch-loving town, Khoury’s highly personal restaurant has pecked its way to the top.