I woke up ravenously hungry on Monday. This is not entirely unusual, but once I realized I had only eaten a bagel early Sunday morning, and four scrambled eggs late Sunday night, and a few squares in-between ... well, a girl's gotta eat, and she's gotta eat NOW.
I bounced gently on the bed until Spike just happened to wake up. I leaned into his half-awake face and said slowly and clearly, "I'M ... STARVING."
He's a good man. He took me for breakfast. On our way to a place we've been before, we saw a place we haven't. It looked like a dive, but all good breakfast places look like dives. (The tricky thing is that not all dives are good breakfast places. One has to be careful.) There were lots of cars in the parking lot, always a good sign. So we went in.
It ... was ... wonderful.
In between mouthfuls of home fries and rye toast, Spike blissfully pronounced his verdict. "Look at these potatoes! They're not burnt, and they don't taste like crap!"
That's right, my friends. We have very high standards for our breakfast places. We want potatoes that aren't burnt and don't taste like crap.
On a related note, I'm on a way to a breakfast meeting this morning at a breakfast place that is the most well-known and popular one in my city. Their homefries aren't nearly as good.
