Breakfast

I’m not much of a breakfast eater.  I think it’s because I’m not a morning person, and that whole get up, make breakfast thing is just too much for me at any hour of the morning.  But once a week or so, I treat myself to breakfast at Jim’s on the Bedford Highway, my favourite place for breaky in the world.  The eggs benedict are incredibly good, with that Hollandaise sauce that you can feel coat your arteries as you digest it.  The regular breakfast (two eggs, toast, hash browns and bacon/ham/sausage or bologna) is my usual (I at once adore Hollandaise and fear it); I mix it up by sometimes having bacon, sometimes ham.
I like Jim’s because I can sit in the booths up  front and look at the kitchen.  There are a couple of short order cooks who make busy service look like the most graceful, lyrical, human dance ever (take that, Mia Michaels).  Watching them work is relaxing, as though nothing can be wrong with the world as long as these guys put up order after order, smoothly and efficiently, with quiet confidence that comes from years of experience.
For much less than the price of a movie ticket, I can come away feeling satisfied that I’ve seen real poetry in motion.

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