There are places where you don’t go to eat for the decor, but for everything else. And when I say everything else, I’m even talking about the potato. Small diced potatoes, rattes and bells in the oven, hash browns (rarer, those, but no less treasures).
Interesting phenomenon: they may have been sprinkled with paprika or oregano, but we, sitting on our benches, have the nerve to salt them and dip them in ketchup without having tasted it. That’s okay, everyone has their own preferences. Here is mine: those from the Planète Œuf sur Masson, coarsely pounded with a little more p’lure, then browned on the plate (but not for long, I was told, when I asked how it was done good potatoes as well). They taste so heavenly that I don’t care to burn my lips with bites that are still too hot or that I would take a full plate of them from all frets.
But this text is not about me.
My friend Manon is waffles. “The first restaurant I went to when they first reopened during the pandemic was L’Œufrier, because I was missing their waffles. Well, let’s see, Manon! Are you fooling me? I was convinced that we chose our place according to our potato!
So you, maybe it’s the white bread cut into triangles dripping with margarine, ready to break the egg yolk, that makes you love life, at this precise moment.
The first sip of coffee.
Gripping the bacon with your fingers (the fat you will wipe off with the napkin).
Or the Benedictines? I hear you in chorus: oh yes, the bé-né-dic-tines! Here, here are the words of Decadence, by Jean Leloup. Let us sing, the moment of this ecstasy, our song-tribute with Hollandaise sauce:
It’s the de-ca-dence, the decade where we dance
The décapés of lunch, the décats of melted butter
It’s decadence, I know what I order
Aweille cayenne and Holland sauce
Freedom ! For the disheveled! ♫
Speaking of disheveled…
Dude, it’s the cups of milk. I open them for him one by one and, with his little fingers, he drinks their contents like the English at the Five o’clock tea. We agree that the decorum is not the same. No scones or flowery dishes here. So many good manners…
But like the heirs of the seventh Duchess of Bedford, her every gesture — with a raised pinky — seems like a tribute to tradition.
Hers.
Then there are those times when we deviate and say, “I’m going to get you lunch from the trucker in the morning.” »
Because life is a long highway.
It’s been a hard night, we’re broken, we need to stick together with jam, or we have something to celebrate, a road to take.
Whether it’s the usual waitress or a new one, she won’t bombard us with questions. She understands, she guesses. She’s been through a lot, too. She knows we need time, she’ll come back just for the refill. We will all have refills we want. That’s what a good breakfast restaurant is. The one where we are not rushed, where we are not made to wait in line.
She knows we’ll be back.
It’s your other home, a kind of country house to which a good soul leaves you the keys, hidden under the third slab on the right.
When you walk in, a doily Welcome invite you to sit down. Besides, when the restaurants were closed, I, unlike Manon, couldn’t wait. I went to Planet Egg and ate on the sidewalk. If the weather was too cold, in my chariot.
“We really appreciate your encouraging us, Maya. Enjoy your lunch !
— Ah, you have to keep coming, if you want to be able to continue eating at home after COVID!
— For real: is it also good to take away?
— Yes… but it’s funny not having the doily Welcome.
“Wait, we’ll sort this out.
I left with, that morning, in one hand, the best potatoes in the world; in the other, the rolled-up newspaper doily.
I put it in the glove compartment, where it still lies.
Just in case.