Published February 01, 2018


Ordering eggs is pretty much the same in any diner I’ve been to. The various cooking styles, side orders and meat options are all reasonably standard, and I know with some degree of confidence which I like best. So, there is no reason in the world that I should feel quite as proud as I do to tell the waiter that I don’t need a menu. That said, refusing the menu gives me an undue sense of ownership over this particular red stool at this particular grey faux-marble linoleum countertop in this particular diner. It makes me feel like a local (which, of course, I am) in a city where I often don’t quite feel at home.

I place my order, which is immediately translated into the shortcode of short-order cooks behind the counter: “eggs scrambled all-the-way” and wonder who orders scrambled eggs cooked less than all the way. The cook uses two forks to scramble the eggs in a small stainless-steel bowl and extracts a small pile of homefries from the mound at the back of the griddle, which, depending on whether I arrive at 7, 9 or 11, is either ridiculously tall or just quite tall. Toast is placed in a conveyer-belt style toaster and cooked bacon is put on the grill to reheat. I have only a a very brief time to consider just how often is too often to eat breakfast out, and whether my bike commute counter-acts the negative effects on my arterial walls of buttery, salty food before my meal appears. No matter how many times I eat here, I am always impressed with how fast they are!