Chuck's Immoral Breakfast

I lean back and look out the window. Chuck the Eater apologizes, as he always does, for the ancient sour milk smell of his car. He's calling it that fairgrounds smell now. But we both know the truth. It's the smell of children puking up and spilling milk in the backseat. It's the smell of parents who've gotten used to the smell of puked up milk in the backseat.

"We had a great breakfast Sunday." I open. "Went to Breadwinners. The Observer kept saying it was a great place for breakfast and brunch for so many years, so we just decided to go."

"How was it?" Chuck asks.

"Good. Pretty good. I ordered a chicken salad sandwich. The Brain got a French Eggs Benedict. That's Eggs Benedict served on croissant with Medrange, rather than English muffin with Canadian bacon. It was huge. He only ate half of it, because he wanted chocolate cream pie for desert. And he brought home cookies. So, I guess he liked it."

"I guess so."

"It's much better than Cafe Brazil. An order of magnitude better. Same kind of stuff - eggs, skillet potatos - but better. Nicer. The Brain was surprised at how nice it was."

"What did you have, again?" Chuck wants to know.

"Chicken salad sandwich. I was thinking hard about getting biscuits and gravy. But, if I ordered them, I'd feel like I had a rock in my stomach the rest of the day. I love biscuits and gravy, but...you know...chicken salad for the win." I sigh, wagging a finger in the air. I hadn't realized how much I regreted passing over the biscuits and gravy.

"I'll have to go there for Father's Day."

"It'll be crowded. You'll need a reservation."

Chuck thinks about this for a second.

"Have you ever eaten at Ham and Eggs?" he asks.

"Nope."

"Well, it's like the opposite end of the spectrum. We went there breakfast Saturday before last. The owner is from New York. Everyone calls her Jackie-O. She's disabled. She rides scooter through the restaurant and has a parking space reserved out front that says For Jackie-O Only."

Where is he going with this?

Finally, Chuck zeroes in on the target. "I had biscuits and gravy."

I wince. "Wow. Great." Bastard can eat whatever he wants. "Were they good?" Duh!

"Well," he smiles, "the biscuit was the size of a loaf a bread and they served my gravy in a gravy boat. The portion sizes are immoral."

I sputter a laugh. "Immoral?! Can I have that?"

"Sure." he says, pleased with himself on all fronts.