Breakfast In America

After a long lie-in this morning, Soon To Be Wife and I headed down to The Donut House on Court Street for a revitalising breakfast before some wedding schlepping. I’m not really a breakfast kind of person – never have been – but when it comes to Sunday breakfast, in either the US or the UK, I’m always up for it.

The Donut House is the Carroll Gardens equivalent of a British greasy spoon. The menus have seen better days, as have the formica tables. And the tomato ketchup bottles bear the hallmarks of a thousand egg and bacon breakfasts. But that’s exactly what I want from my breakfast establishments. Who needs organic mushrooms and handmade sausages, when you can have a mug of steaming hot tea and a huge breakfast for less than a fiver?

Serving at The Donut House is an old-ish guy who looks like he could have been working there for forty years, and wouldn’t be averse to giving you a quick slap if you stepped out of line. When I asked for rye toast as part of my breakfast, he gave me a look which indicated that I was almost certainly some kind of Flash Harry or Johnny Come Lately whose mother should have taught him that bread comes white and white only. The smile and a wink he gave Soon To Be Wife was clearly one of pity, and a non-too-subtle indication that she should dump the rye bread eating loser and replace me with a more mature gentleman with extensive catering experience.

The only problem with eating breakfast in America is that everything comes with eggs. Eggs with salmon, eggs with salsa, eggs with corned beef, eggs with eggs. Which is all well and good, unless you don’t like eggs.

I don’t like eggs.

As a result, whenever I go into a diner, I always have to order from the lunch menu. Which today meant having a club sandwich with french fries and deep fried onion rings, and half a giant gherkin on the side. At 11 in the morning. So much for the wedding diet, huh?

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