Pet Peeve Redux

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with what I am about to blog. I just like it. It's me playing the old Yamaha six string I keep at my folks' house, newly re-strung with D'Addario Phosphor Bronze Extra Light strings, at a recent family gathering to exchange apres Christmas presents, while my dog, Gabby, looks at the Wifey (behind the camera), as if it's all her fault. (Whatever "it" might be. It's hard to tell with the dog, but she is very judgemental.)

I was going to blog about growing cilantro a couple of years ago, only to have it killed by the "light chlorine mix" they used to power-wash our house before they painted it, despite having moved the pot the recommended six feet away from the house, but while away from the office I heard one of my least favorite (make that "most loathed") commercials playing on the television. The ad was for a local company called The Original Mattress Company, and it's not that it is a bad ad (it is) of low quality in terms of both production values and content (eh), nor is it that the company, while being a locally owned chain (making them, in theory, less despicable than other matress companies), makes dubious claims of superior quality, lower price, and, of course, superior ethics. It's the name. I hate places that claim to be "The Original," especially when it is clear that there is no way in heaven or hell they could possibly, actually be THE ORIGINAL whatever. Call it a pet peeve.

And as with all such things, my peeve causes me difficulty. In this case, it's The Original Pancake House, which is an upscale breakfast place here in Charlotte. First of all, the first one-- the original Original Pancake House-- is housed in a restored mill building, one in which they used to gin cotton (if I have my local history down). So if the Original Pancake House were originally housed there, you wouldn't want to eat what they served. And, of course, the second one-- the unoriginal Original Pancake House-- is in the perennially upscale and indelibly butt-headed part of my little burg called South Park. We ate at the original once on my father-in-law's insistance. I had pancakes. They were OK. We ate at the second one . . . Well, I don't recall why we ate at the unoriginal Original, but I know that we did. On this trip, Rachelle observed that six bucks a plate was too much to pay for eggs. (That's six bucks for a pair of eggs, as a side, which I think was the cheapest thing on the menu.) We would never, she proclaimed, breakfast there again.

Which was fine with me. Except that I had the Eggs Benedict.

I love Eggs Benedict. I love Eggs Benedict with a passion many will never know. A good Eggs Benedict can sustain my soul and brighten my heart for a week at a stretch. A bad Eggs Benedict make me doubt God's good intentions in creating this earth. And the Eggs Benedict at the Original Pancake House were very, very good. So good that I have, on more than one occasion, found myself cruising by the joint (the original Original, not the unoriginal Original) at breakfast time, lusting after poached eggs, Canadian bacon, English muffins, draped in Hollandaise sauce, freshly steaming on a plate. Handily, the rich idiots who populate that part of my city keep the place jammed, especially on the weekends, so I have yet to succumb.

Last summer, when I made my annual pilgrimage to California, after traipsing down the coast from Big Sur, we landed in San Simeon right around dusk. We piled into a hotel room, dined on cheese, bread & fruits bits, watched The Shining (partially so that none of us would have to do it again any time soon, and partially because at least one of us couldn't remember having seen the thing in its entirety), and turned in sometime later, as always, than was strictly healthy. The next morning, I insisted on breakfasting at the restaurant in front of the hotel. (Chris and Lauren would have been happy to subsist on bread and fruit, but I insisted. I wanted eggs.

I sat before they did and began endearing myself to the waitress. The menu was, to say the least, interesting, as menus mostly are in California, so it looked like it might take some doing, but I finally figured what the hell: roll the dice. Eggs Benedict, please.

And they were perfect. Better than perfect. The eggs were perfectly poached, the size of hockey pucks; the English muffin was just toasted enough, the Canadian bacon perfectly seasoned and perfectly sizzled, and the Hollandaise sauce, oh, my God, the Hollandaise sauce! I ate until I couldn't stuff another bite in my mouth, which was three bites after my stomach started sending me protestant gurgles.

"How were the Eggs Benedict?" the waitress, now in my thrall, Mwuha-HA-HA-HA, asked solicitously while presenting the bill.

"Perfect," I said, "Best, lifetime."

I don't know that she believed me, but she smiled.

We got back on the road, and I think, what with the marvelling at the California landcsape rolling through Los Robles, I neglected to say that I was particularly happy that morning, knowing that there were perfect Eggs Benedict out there in the world, and I would never, from there on out, have any compelling reason to seek out the Original Pancake House. (Either of them.)