“…as plate after plate of fluffy poached eggs, cartilaginous peameal, and lakes of sunshiney goo continued to pile up over time, I realized that if I don’t start catalogueing these excursions in some formal manner, a great field of human knowledge would be lost. Hence, the Benedict Chronicles…”
Grey and cool and quiet this morning, the kind of morning I like. I overslept. Once sorted, I walked up Broadview in the chill to meet Thunderdome on the Danforth — to get some diner eggs before getting down To Business. We have an old IP project together that we’ve been kicking around for some years now, and I’m mulling a spec script; and the other spec project is just sitting there, waiting. I haven’t had a single creative thought in a month. I hadn’t thought to have one today.
I’d gamely advised that we meet at the corner of Danforth & Broadview; and then look left, look right, and surely, between one or the other of those motions, a place to eat breakfast would reveal itself. This turns out to not be remotely true: the Danforth (at least the part of it we saw, between Broadview and Jones) is a wasteland; people up there don’t eat. I used to be up there. I eat plenty, and did then. I don’t know what happened besides the obvious — the pandemic closed its fair share of businesses and, with the mask mandate (inadvisably) falling two days from now, perhaps people are still nervous. But surely, someone on the Riverdale Business Association would have noticed by now that opening up a brunch spot on that strip would be shooting fish in the proverbial barrel.
We brushed past Starving Artist (Waffles & Espresso) and then came back to it; nothing about my morning really screamed “waffles!” at me but, any port and so forth. Not much in terms of a morning crowd (this was 10:45). A few Benedict waffles on the menu, alongside all the other kinds of waffles. Bloody gorgeous little things when they came out, heaped high on a pillow of spongy mini-waffle, layered with shreds of bacon, and topped with the proudest poached eggs you ever saw, practically grinning at you. I made a last-minute switcheroo on my side order, going maple beans instead of potatoes, the right call. There was just enough sweet against the savoury in the meal overall (plus, the fat-slicing acidity of the salad) to keep me revolving around the plate like a happy little kid on a merry-go-round. Plus, the restaurant filled up as we sat there, the atmosphere was warm and friendly, the server lovely and kind. I enjoy speaking with servers now much more than I ever did before the pandemic. Partially this is the discipline of speaking clearly and comprehensibly from behind (what can sometimes be) multiple layers of mask; partly it’s perhaps just the new novelty of speaking to anyone I don’t already know. Other voices. Other faces (bits of them, anyway). Actual human beings who have been through it, too.
I had a small, single espresso with my meal. I still drink a lot of coffee but not all at once, not in sittings. I don’t think I can ever do a grandé anything, ever again — the first time I tried it back at the office last year I went unnervingly close to arrhythmia before the cup was half gone. Thunderdome and I are about the same age. We’re dealing with the body challenges. Everything about the forties is great except the body challenges. I like to think about the whole span of the human race, 300,000 years or so; and how, for 99.9997% of this, these tanks we keep our spirits inside were expected to last about thirty years. Well, good on us for slipping that particular design milestone without actually changing anything structural; but, there are trade-offs.
Up and done. Back out along the walk. Down Broadview past the valley, chattering about scripts, and finances, and what you do next when you’re done the Mighty Labours.
The waffles establishment in question is located at 467 Danforth Avenue, in Toronto. The Benedict Chronicles is an ongoing, non-regular series.