Yesterday, hubby and self once again partook of breakfast at Breakers Café. This was shortly after self had been forced to leave trusty Mercutio (Ah yes, self’s Altima does in fact have a name) at King’s 76 on Woodside Road. Restaurant was full, but we were able to snag seats at a table right by the kitchen. (And, for the first time, self noticed that there was a portrait of the café owners at the bottom right corner of the wall mural).
Once again, hubby and self requested coffee. Once again, self asked for “the two egg breakfast.” And once again, self did want to say “coddled” eggs, has been wanting to say this ever since getting back from Virginia, but has only managed to insert the term into one of her post-VCCA conversations, which happened to be at this same restaurant, several weeks ago.
Since self already tried asking for “coddled eggs” here, she knows that all she will get in answer from the waitress will be a blank stare. So she tries to come up with another way of describing her order, and the waitress is waiting, waiting, with pencil and pad poised, and self tells herself to think, think, think. The presence of the waitress must be putting undue stress on her for her memory bank is coming up empty, completely empty.
Finally, self decides to try asking for “soft-boiled eggs.”
Again, there is the blank stare. In fact, self thinks this was the exact same waitress who stared so inimitably when self requested “coddled eggs” several weeks ago. What are the odds, dear blog reader?
And again, waitress has to ask: “You mean poached eggs?”
And once again, self nods miserably.
And hubby and self then proceed to eat humongous plates of hash browns, eggs, and linguica (even though self has already had a pre-breakfast breakfast of banana nut muffin and Aged Sumatran coffee).
Upon departing the premises, self and hubby pass the bird cage. The bird inside is whistling. Sometimes it says things like, “Hello beautiful!” But now it is merely whistling.
Herewith, a lame rendition of the whistling: la la la la la la la la
Self turns to hubby, indicates the bird and says, “That bird can talk.”
Oh? hubby says (without speaking — this response self inferred from the raised right eyebrow)
And why is that parrot choosing to be so mum this morning, self wonders? Or perhaps it’s just being mellow — mellow as in, don’t expect me to perform for you every day, you idiot. Which, come to think of it, is probably what Dearest Mum felt when Dearest Lola would trot her out to all her friends in Iloilo and request that Dearest Mum play a Mozart concerto.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.