in yo FACE

I just did one of my very favorite things to do on a Sunday in Atlanta. And I ain't talkin' about the events of last night. THAT's a story for a different day, friend...

I live around the corner from a very popular breakfast restaurant called The Flying Biscuit. It is ridiculously popular, for reasons that elude me. I mean, at the end of the day, it's all just eggs and coffee to me - but the people line up for HOURS to get into the place. Honestly, on any given weekend, rain or shine, you'll see a massive crowd of people outside. In the summer...they wait in the sickening heat; in the winter, they wait in the cold and rain. I don't get it. And I don't get it largely because there are about a hundred breakfast places in town. Again...it's just eggs and coffee, y'all.

I used to manage a popular restaurant in Manhattan's West Village. It was the same thing: the people would line up to get in for pancakes and bacon - with about a thousand other options nearby. And they were always grumpy, usually having partied the night before and in desperate need of nourishment. Mean, angry, hungover people to whom a thirty-minute wait was a life sentence. They would harass me endlessly until I was able to seat them, and then berate the waitstaff for not moving at lightning speed with their coffee or bloody marys. And since it was just breakfast, the checks were never very large, so the staff didn't make money despite running their butts off all morning. There are a lot of parts to breakfast service: creamers and jams and sugar caddies and little hot pots of water for tea and spoons and blah blah blah. Everyone was unhappy, and I would just pray for the end of my shift.

So, I got up this morning and needed food - having been out last night and in need of nourishment like all those awful people I mentioned. Which brings me to my favorite thing to do on a Sunday. I called the restaurant and placed an order to go. I casually strolled over to the Caribou to get an iced coffee, then back across the street to the Biscuit to get my food. The hideous people in line glared at me, and I could hear their thoughts: "What? Why does HE get to just saunter inside?" I sailed in, picked up my food, and worked my way back through the throng outside. They glowered and grumbled and turned their attention to the hostess, who was just trying to keep some order. The women all had that bitter, pinched look on their faces that said, "Now why didn't we think of that? God, I HATE that guy" and their boyfriends all had that harried look that said, "What the fuck are we waiting for? I mean, it's just eggs and coffee."

I, however, sat in wonderful comfort on my porch, ate my food and drank in the beautiful day. My favorite thing to do on a Sunday.