In the last several months, I have eaten breakfasts on Friday mornings in 15 diners scattered across Ottawa. I did some quick math at just my level and calculated that means 30 sausages, also 30 poached eggs (medium) because my order quickly fell into a pattern. The Classic. Two eggs. Poached. Healthiest Bread you have. Sausage. And an orange juice please. (Unless it costs $7 like the most recent spot, when I passed, of course).
“Orange marmalade?” my friend Alison asks, every time, like a tiny, friendly test.
Most places do have it, but not all, and always the marmalade is in one of those small little plastic packages. This whole eating adventure was Alison’s idea, and it’s been a really good one. Normally she chooses the spot, and I show up. Usually at 8, although we’ve gone both earlier and later.
I began taking notes at the beginning, but that fell along the wayside.
Our very first breakfast was at a place called Cozy. Here’s what I wrote on the Notes app on my phone: “Waitress, blonde, camo shirt. Men present, work men. Hasn’t been renovated. Canadian bill of rights on wall. Elvis. Hockey jersey, crooked. Bologna on menu. Marmalade. Orange juice was in a bottle.”
Next was Stan’s: “Old placemat. Waitress in coat. Juice in jar. Licence plates on walls.”
I’m sure you’re getting the picture.
My notes fade away with: “Milk: good as cold ever tasted. Waiter stood far away.” And then the word “Reynolds.”
And who knows what that means?
We’ve learned a lot about breakfast joints. They are largely the domain of old men, construction workers and police officers on a break, plus us. We’ve moved tables so we could hear each other over a table full of guys who talked like they were at a hockey game. So loud. Also, very sweary for so early in the morning.
We did a little bit of tut-tutting, but not too much, because we both have sons.
We never run out of things to talk about. We’ve stayed light and gone deep. She often bikes. I always drive.
We observe and compare. The potatoes are very important, and honestly, a bit of a giveaway as to the quality of the rest of the plate. Good potatoes in the morning — freshly cut, deeply fried, lightly salted — usually mean the rest of the plate will also shine.
I’ve not had a bad egg, but Alison has. I have come to see that, surprisingly, more can go wrong with a fried egg, hard, than a poached egg, medium.
I’ve already thought about how we could branch off to a dumpling tour, starting in Chinatown. There are a lot of possibilities.
Why don’t you take this idea and run with it?
Find a friend. I wouldn’t suggest filling your table, just find someone special to sit across from you who buys into this vision, and then get going. Take notes if you are so inclined. You’ll enjoy chatting with the wait staff. You’ll be interested in who else is in the restaurant, breakfasting. You will almost definitely see license plates worked into decor if you go out far enough from the city centre.
It’s so fun. If you do it, please let me know. I’ll tell Alison.
P.S.
Can I ask you a favour? If you haven’t listened yet, please check out my new podcast with NavPress, Good Books Big Questions. (You can listen to it on your way to and from breakfast. We made it breakfast diner commute sized). We recorded the last episode of Season One the other day and I interviewed my very own editor from Holiness Here. There’s been a lot of special lately, and I am thankful.
Here’s the trailer to give you a taste, like an egg. And would you mind subscribing? You’ll just get a notice when a new show drops. It helps shows move out into the world, like reviews help books find their way. Thanks friends!