Another Broken Egg Cafe

It’s mid-morning in an up-scale and growing part of Georgia north of its big city, Atlanta. I came down here to pick up new glasses, ordered after an exam several weeks ago, but adjustments are necessary and the lab technician won’t be in until later. Rather than make another trip, I figured I’d hang out. I like breakfast. And I like hanging out in coffee shops. There are few places that I frequent, though, so I’m always up for a new experience, if the price isn’t outrageous, which is getting to be the norm these days, and if it looks like I can get an omelet that is without meat but more than cheese, I up for it. Too many places serve a veggie omelet that is just pepper, tomato, and onions. So here I am at Another Broken Egg Cafe.

I sit down at a table with a view of the coffee station, which is okay. There are lots of windows that look out into the parking lot that surrounds the small shopping plaza in which this cafe is located, just down from the optometrist’s office. WiFi is available, so I set my MacBook Air next to my Bible. The Bible is the one that I keep on the dash of the truck that is in a nylon cover proclaiming “This Book is Illegal in 53 Countries.” I ordered unsweetened ice tea. I stopped drinking coffee several months ago, and don’t really miss it, which is a bit odd. While sweet tea is a southern specialty, unsweetened with lemon suites me just fine. I ordered the veggie omelet: spinach, tomatoes, portabella mushrooms, and goat cheese, served with seasoned potatoes and an English muffin. All this at an acceptable price. The service is great here, the folks friendly. On the walls that aren’t windows, there are various framed posters that copies of floral paintings. There are a few framed posters with spoon collections displayed, and one that has a fork and a spoon enclosed in a deep frame that must be four-feet tall. I suppose the decor is Chic Country. There are a number of tables that have couples with older kids. School hasn’t begun here, as it has where I live. Several business-types are here, too, one with others that could be clients or perhaps just friends. At least four tables are crowded with women. They could be on their way to work, or just having a meal out after dropping kids at a pre-school or day camp. For the stay-at-home moms, next week will be the beginning of their real summer break.

The omelet is served quickly. It is good. The seasoning is subtle, lacking the zest of other places. But it’s good. The potatoes are mildly seasoned, and though they are okay, they are really just frozen potatoes heated. The eggs did taste real, though. I was totally disgusted at an IHOP one day when I learned that the omelet is made with batter from a carton, not actually made from eggs broken and stirred. I only learned this when I asked the waitress if I received the wrong eggs–my wife had ordered the fake eggs with her omelet. We’d eaten at IHOP several times, and this was the first time the omelet was so bad. It may have been a new change, or just the way it was cooked. It was not good.

That reminds me of this ma and pa diner outside Oklahoma City. It wasn’t a fancy diner, but served good eggs and great homemade hash browns. The woman behind the counter of the small place was the owner. I suppose it was her husband back in the kitchen. We got to talking and she told me that one time she hired a cook to help out. It didn’t work out, though. The guy came from the fast-food school of cooking and hadn’t a clue how to cook a real egg. It makes me wonder about ordering eggs over easy at a chain restaurant. Do they come frozen, too?

It feels like I fit in here in Another Broken Egg Cafe. I’m wearing western-style boots and a long-sleeve, plaid shirt. It’s not that there are others dressed this way. It’s the diversity of patrons. Some are plainly dressed. Women in shorts, and some guys in a beach-style attire. There’s two men in suits. One guy has a camo hat on, and looks like he drove up in his hunting truck. Only a glance in the parking lots says that others clearly drove an audi or BMW or something more fancy. A person’s car is no indication of wealth, however. The guy in the truck probably owns it, while many folks with fancy cars just rent them. Oh, yeah, it called “leasing.” While one couple with a baby sits by the widow, eating with strained faces and not really talking, all the rest look happy, smiling and talking with their breakfast friends. Ordinary people on an ordinary day, in more-than-ordinary restaurant in northern Georgia.

And not one person has read the cover to my Bible, or given any indication of having done so. And not one person has asked me about it. It’s time to go.

Lord Bless, Keep, Shine. . .

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