I like a basic egg breakfast out a restaurant, the kind that comes with a little bit of everything, so that’s what I ordered. L. had the baked eggs. We determined that the price was not only way high for the neighborhood but too high for what came on my plate, as L. noted. I ate and L. and I gossipped and I felt myself relax into a span of days with nary a deadline in sight. I could tell I was feeling a little punchy when I made a pitch to come back for Comedy Night in a couple of Tuesdays. The experience M. and I had at the Potowatomi Casino Bonkerz! should have cured me for good.

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I’m not sure what they do to the hollandaise to make it spicy like that or the chorizo in such perfect sized bits ‘n’ pieces, or how they cook the potatoes just soft enough but still firm, or how they poach the eggs just runny enough but not too runny, but really, if I could live on chorizo hash with poached eggs alone, that’s how I’d do it. L. had the burger instead, and it came with a little blue cheese potato salad that I tried and found a little cold. I gave off some caffeinated rant about how little I care about decorating a place, all that’s why people keep lovers, isn’t it, so they’ll decorate the kitchen and just leave me out of it! but I think L. found it at least a little endearing, not unlike the tiny little sugar spoon in the glass dish on the table. I didn’t eat the little green salad that came with it–it didn’t belong on that fatty, greasy plate, not at all.

I dug into my plate of chorizo, potato, and poached eggs, the eggs runny in a way that I usually don’t like but liked today, hot coffee, the restaurant was dark. It came with a little green salad, and the parts that weren’t soaked in hollandaise tasted refreshing, light. I watched L.’s forearms working against lunch, imagined them pushing a scythe through a field, hoeing rows, lifting heavy live things. My plate so clean they could have turned around and served it to you without so much as a dip in the sink, I turned to the muffins. It’s mostly muffin top said L., the very best part.

I like the way breakfast takes five minutes to slap together. Bread in the toaster, crack an egg in the pan, toss the last of the veggie sausage patties in the microwave, heat heat heat, spread out on a plate, pull blanket up to chin, turn on Housewives of Orange County, and take morning in the middle of the day. I’ve never been any good at napping, but pretending I just woke up? Not bad, not bad.

L. declared my bloody mary the worst thing I’ve ever had in my mouth. I wouldn’t go quite that far, having lived through my twenties, but the drink was definitely up there, as were the home fries on my plate. The omelette itself was good, if suspiciously neat and tidy. I felt a little like I was eating on an airplane, back in the days when you did that, as if my breakfast for lunch had been re-heated in midair. Still, good college basketball games played in front of me and behind me, and if I’m ever in the mood for wings and half price happy hour drafts, I’ll be back.

Has Yaffa gotten worse, or have I just grown up? asked L. when we left the restaurant. I was pretty sure it was the latter, and said so as we walked over to the dog park and the scene of the original crime. Still, the orange juice was good, fresh-squeezed and the right amount and it came with it. Something about orange juice still feels unimaginably luxurious, even now in a time, for me, of plenty. It’s nice to feel falsely that I’m getting some for free.

A. and I sat at the table exchanging gossip and drinking coffee while A. cooked up brunch with C. as sous chef. That’s not a fine dice she barked in fine approximation of the sorts of chefs we see on television. I showed off my new machine; A. talked about all the places she’s been. Brunch up, we dished plates in the kitchen and ate and ate, C. getting up at one point for more scramble, mas mas mas. Everything gone but a few slices of fruit, I washed a few dishes before settling into a rousing round of Mario Kart and this uncomfortably compelling game involving stacking large piles of goo up toward animated pipes for no discernible reason at all. It was a good thing tickets were involved in A.’s late afternoon–I could have stacked piles of goo for hours.