We love breakfast. The warm, bitter, coffee steam spiraling heavenward, the crispy bacon -- fat and salty and crunchy -- and crispy taters fried up like mom used to make. It's an all-Am'r'can thing done best by corn-fed Midwesterners who know about a damned hard day of work since, according to tradition, it was invented there. Seems like that would be an easy thing to find in Cen-Phreakin' Pho. That'd be wrong. How wrong? Eighty-five people standing outside some tiny downtown diner that serves, what, 10 at a time?
And while we wait, thanks for the recession-revenue generating parking ticket on a Saturday morning, Mayor McCheese.
Or the other choice?
An easy drive over to fancy pants-not-quite-Scottsdale to again, wait in 45 minutes for friggin' sausage links and chicken fried morning-sunshine.
WTF? This isn't some candy-ass French specialty made with rare ingredients. It's an EGG, fer chrissakes. Maybe some yuppie bacon on the side, yes.
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But why are our choices precisely two in this town? No egg white, ass-reduction plan kinda omelette or fat-free lameness accepted here, thank you very much. Nothing fancy, with a shrimp, or five kinds of benedicts, which sound to us like early morning treason.
No, we just want the kind of breakfast grub created to fuel generations of farmers and salt of the earth types. Give us hash browns, almost burnt on the edges, a place to sit while we eat them, and then leave us alone to enjoy them! Please, give them to us before lunchtime.
And if perchance, you entrepreneurs out there, you have a dream of opening a breakfast joint soon? DO IT. Before we starve to death while waiting in line.