Attack of the Breakfast

Perhaps this should have been breakfast....

Is it just me or does anyone else find the quest to fill ones’ belly with an acceptable breakfast a major undertaking?

On one of the few weekend mornings that I found myself awake before my husband—less bright eyed and bushy tailed for the wear, however—I made the executive decision that breakfast on this beautiful Saturday morning would be compliments of someone else. In other words, I was staying as far away from the kitchen, the stove, pots, pans and paper plates as I could get. Not one to argue too much, my loving husband concurred.

Rare is the occasion when we actually venture out of our house to eat breakfast. Usually its English muffins, toast, butter, jam, Dutch cheeses, scrambled eggs and turkey bacon washed down with acidic OJ (the shameless culprit behind my acid reflux) and V8 Fusion for the Albarda household. But this morning would be different.

Let’s see, where to dine . . . where to dine? Well hell, I didn’t really know. When your options are limited (ergo, when you just don’t have a clue), you pick from the one or two places that you’re aware of. My first thought was the tried and true IHOP. After picking his tongue up off the floor, rolling it back into his mouth and uncrossing his eyes, my husband came up with what we both thought was a better option. 

This is where my ability to keep a secret comes into play. You see, this dining establishment is usually a winner, but today . . . ehhh, not so much. Henceforth, this place shall be referred to as “That Local Place Partially Named After Bread That Makes a Mean Deli Sammich.”

So off we go to “That Local Place Partially Named After Bread That Makes a Mean Deli Sammich.” At nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, I expected it to be crowded; however, we were two of about eight other people in the entire place. Just our luck or was the presence of evil lurking about? We would soon find out.

I ordered a Number 4 breakfast special, which consisted of pancakes, French toast or Belgian waffles with ham, bacon, sausage or Canadian bacon. I was tremendously pleased to discover that I could substitute turkey sausage links for the aforementioned selections and all was right with the world as I awaited my Number 4 with pancakes and a side of one egg scrambled very well done, thank you very much. My husband ordered a Number 1, two eggs over medium with sausage, home fries and toast.

After a twenty minute wait, our food arrives. Yay! A.M. sustenance. Aesthetically speaking, my plate looked a bit dismal . . . and, in this case, looks weren’t deceiving. Even with the help of butter and syrup, the pancakes were simply awful. Yup, you read it right, A.W.F.U.L. The three desiccated turkey sausage links fared even worse. There was no moisture, no umpfh, no flavor and no pizzazz whatsoever to those pitiful planks of dried out meat.

...alas, this turned out to be breakfast...

What the hell was “That Local Place Partially Named After Bread That Makes a Mean Deli Sammich.” thinking? Thankfully the scrambled egg was not a total loss, but it still boggles my mind that a person can’t request something cooked well done without it being a bit charred, burnt, browned or otherwise dried out. 

...but at least my husband fared better than I did.

Out of curiosity, I poked my fork into my husband’s home fries and tasted them. Home fries? Only if that home were one for wayward children. His eggs over medium, however, according to him, were cooked perfectly. And his sausage, three of the pork variety, was juicy and flavorful.

I was so envious.

With more than half of the three abysmal pancakes left on my plate and a dried out turkey sausage left to languish as its own waste product, the waiter had the audacity to stop by our table and ask, “Do you want to wrap that to take home?”

If apple juice were a weapon, his shirt would be full of holes, judging from the projectile spittle that escaped my mouth.

What a disappointing breakfast. And for that, we paid $26.03. Shame on you, “That Local Place Partially Named After Bread That Makes a Mean Deli Sammich.”

I ask you: Can a sistuh get a decent breakfast without slaving over a hot stove? I’m open to suggestions. Seriously.