Late post. Busy morning.

Ah, the battle of the sexes! What happens on a foggy, post spring-ahead morning after you, your spouse to be, and your mercurial toddler drop your mother off at the airport and want to go eat for breakfast? When one of you craves greasy spoon and the other the West Coast solace of a “nice cafe?” Well, nine times out of ten, the woman wins. That’s how I found myself at Blu Jam Cafe on Wilshire and McClellen.

“Try something new for once.”

“I don’t like when places purposely misspell words, but ok.”

Now, I’ve walked by this place many times and always been tempted. But something about it was never quite right. It took this morning to bring me to a realization: I only want breakfast in a greasy spoon. Funny how we continue to learn things about ourselves and all it takes is a little push in the wrong direction.

But of course, my well honed, razor sharp restaurant instincts were spot on as usual.

Two words: Soulless convenience. Yet another glimpse of the future.

There’s no host in the place. It’s automated. A screen tells you when they’re ready to seat you and a real person comes by to guide you to the table. Once there, you use a QR code to see the menu, order, and pay. The interior is cold and spacious. Very tall ceilings with accompanying tall windows add to the lack of warmth. There’s no billowing grease or cooks in stained aprons and musty white t shirts. You can’t see the kitchen at all which means there’s also no bar to sit at. Because the whole experience is automated, no one comes by with a pot of shitty diner coffee and asks “Coffee hon?” To me, not the most fun. If I eat breakfast out, I want to smell the bacon in the air and hear it sizzling a mere five feet from the formica countertop I rest my elbows on and ask the person next to me, “Are you reading the sports section?” “No,” they say and pass it over to me.

The most frightening thing about this place was how packed it was. People of all ages and colors, families, a super muscular older guy sitting next to us jacked to the gills on testosterone and HGH (jelly). The place did have grime in the corners, lots of chipped paint on the edges of the trim, and to my surprise and enjoyment, the remnants of barf in the urinal I peed in. The food was just fine, what you’d expect. I had eggs over easy, bacon, and home fries. I cleaned the plate.

I was tired from a long week and wanted the comfortable shoe, not the weird lender pair. I think I was also bummed out a bit because I’m supposed to be eating healthier which means I can no longer eat the things I actually like. Yeah. We come to this realization at some point. My favorite, the dreaded gluten, has not been serving me well as of late. Love handles and lethargy. Bloat boat. Dad bod shaming myself every morning while looking in the mirror naked.

Here’s the conversation in the car on the way back from the airport.

“I wish I could eat what I wanted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you get old you can’t eat what you want anymore. It’s depressing as shit. Another thing that sucks about aging.”

“You can eat whatever you want, honey.”

“Thanks babe. Yes, in essence, I can do that, eat whatever the hell I want, but if I do that I’ll be writhing in pain all morning, ripping ass, and feeling like shit.”

“Ok. What would you eat if you could?”

“Belgian waffle slathered in butter and whipped cream from the can with warm Vermont maple syrup in each hollowed out cube. Four eggs over easy. Side of bacon.”

This exact meal was what I called my “double breakfast.” I’d have it at the Neptune Diner in Astoria, Queens. An altogether strange place located right below the N and W train trellis on the corner of Astoria Blvd. and 31st Street. The first and only diner I’d ever seen with a pebble ice case in the front entryway displaying sort of fresh fish filets.

Before the days I’d work doubles at Sfoglia, I’d chow down there. I always brought a small bottle of my dad’s private stock, the maple syrup he makes at our home, from maple trees on our land in Vermont. iPhones were less connected back then. No instagram even. I’d read a book, gorge myself, and then go up and wait for the train to take me southwest where I often stopped reading to watch the city come into view before the train dipped down under the East River to settle underground in Grand Central Station where I would take either the 4, 5, or 6 uptown. A journey that could take between an hour and fifteen minutes or 20 minutes. I always sat in the same spot. In the corner to the left of the cooks.

Diners are the original American invention and one of the only cultural icons that stay pretty much the same no matter where you go in the country. Yes, from Seattle to Miami, San Diego to Limestone, Maine, and everywhere in between, you can find yourself a greasy spoon somewhere and eat a couple of eggs with their version of homefries, either sausage or bacon, and a choice of white or wheat toast. There’s many varieties of menus out there, some with no waffles at all, but I’ve never been to a place that varies in that one staple dish.

The coffee always tastes the same. Somehow. It’s seems impossible that every diner across the country would serve the same watery black java. Maybe they get their beans from the same place the bodegas in New York get it from.

Anyway, the result was the same. Eat. Come home, fall asleep on the couch watching Clint Eastwood movies. At least in a perfect world.