An ode to breakfasts past
It’s cold here today. A freezing wind is whipping down from the snowcapped mountains of Lesotho. Not a day for flip-flops. Which is the first (of many) reasons to be grouchy. Its days like this I miss the bakery near my house the most. It had a dingy, dive bar feel to it… a hole-in-the-wall with the core-values of questionable hygiene and extra bacon, their menus slipped into plastic folders so greyed and bent they were difficult to decipher.
I grouse about it to my wife.
‘You’re never going to let this go are you?’
They closed down in December for renovations and never reopened. They had the best coffee. And the most amazing breakfast in the history of the world. I feel about them the way Anthony Bourdain felt about Waffle House. I miss them sooo much.
‘It is indeed marvellous. An irony-free zone where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, where everybody regardless of race, creed, color, or degree of inebriation, is welcomed. Its warm yellow glow, a beacon of hope and salvation inviting the hungry, the lost, the seriously hammered, all across the south, to come inside. A place of safety and nourishment. It never closes. It is always, always faithful, always there, for you‘
– Anthony Bourdain, narrating his Waffle House experience
I also miss Anthony Bourdain*. All the people I like are dead. Christopher Hitchens. Anthony Bourdain. Theodore Roosevelt. Admittedly the latter has been long dead. I hope to join them one day. In the feast halls of Valhalla.
*I reference him so much he should probably get his own category.
We end up ordering UberEats. Which gets delivered in a blue Uno Fiat held together with… well probably mould. And maybe duct tape in the areas of substantial structural regress.
The universe is trying to placate me. I smile… but it’s not the same.