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!