A sacred ritual for the vast population of this fair city. We are soldiers and we wait the wait for a table at the favourite hot spots, ignoring our stomach’s cry to fill it with the nearest foodstuff. Patience, dear organ.
It might be just eggs/french toast/homefries/breakfast pig for some, but for us, it’s a communal expression of the love of food and friends, over freshly squeezed OJ.
Saving Grace today. I had Baked Eggs (poached eggs in some sort of cheddar/hollandaise gravy of ridiculiciousness).
We lingered, discussed with exaggerated hand gestures, and shared bites of our food with a very friendly couple of ladies next to us. Because when you’re amongst good food vibes, your soul rejoices in sharing the experience with others. (That said, my sample of breakfast quesadilla from my new perfect stranger friend was mouth-watering).
But seriously, you know it’s good when the napkin you put on your plate doesn’t stop you from going back to finish those last bites.