This is a story about a diner.

I’m sitting at the booth with the menu in front of me. I have no idea what I want, despite this being a perfectly ordinary diner without much in the way of surprising items on the menu. But still, the fucking menu is like the Manhattan Yellow Pages. Just the breakfast section (“served anytime”) is like four pages long. And this just adds to the problem because it’s not morning, yet breakfast is an option. That adds four pages of more stuff to look through.

A note to those unfamiliar with my eating habits. I am not a complicated man. I am not a picky eater. But my general rule is this: I don’t order things I could make at home, especially not things I’m good at making at home. Omelets are easy-peasy and so they’re out of the running and that’s a huge section of the breakfast menu cut right out. Cereal? Fruit? Not unless it’s some crazy oatmeal or bizarro European muesli that I can’t readily get in a store. Now, I don’t own a griddle, so pancakes are always an option. Ditto waffles, now that my waffle iron is 250 miles away and in the hands of a woman who doesn’t talk to me anymore. I’m not a ham or bacon fan. Sausages are okay but I’d rather just microwave a hot dog to get my meat-in-tube-form fix.

My go-to is eggs benedict, primarily because of the hollandaise sauce. I’ve never attempted to make it but I hear it’s a bitch to do right. Also: poached eggs. The great thing about eggs benedict is that you just say “eggs benedict” when the waitress takes your order. The eggs are always poached. The meat is always canadian bacon. The toast is always an english muffin. This is an economical way to order breakfast. But here’s the thing: I’d rather have corned beef hash instead of canadian bacon and many places won’t do substitutions.

You see my dilemma.

So I’m sitting at the booth with the menu in front of me. I still have no idea what I want and the waitress has come back twice. Now is the time for action, for decisions.

I answer her question with a question: “What’s good?”

She answers, “Well, the blah blah is popular…” and I cut the bitch off.

“Wait, wait. Did I ask what was popular? No, I asked what was good. Vanilla Ice was popular. Milli Vanilli was popular. The fucking Macarena was popular. I’m not asking what the rest of the jerks are eating. I’m asking you, the de facto expert on this diner’s menu, what the hell is good?”

She replies with the inevitable answer.

“The farmer’s breakfast. It’s –”

Having read the menu through a half dozen times I finish her sentence.

“– a little bit of everything. Fine. Fine. I’ll take that. I’ll have the farmer’s breakfast.”

I make a mental note that it’s always the “generic mid-century physical labor-oriented career” breakfast. Farmer. Lumberjack. Trucker. Pipefitter. Fuck, I don’t know. Sometime’s it’s the Hungry Man, whatever the hell that means. Try putting Hungry Man on your W-2.

She looks down at me, lips pursed, pen poised above her notepad and says:

“How do you want your eggs?”