The menu was way too big for what the place offered. Every dish had eggs, pancakes or waffles, breakfast meat and some kind of potato. For ten pages, it was really four distinct "dishes" and all the permutations of that egg, meat, potato combo.
So when the glob of eggs with the bieged hash browns flanked by two cigarillo-slim sausages came out, he barely noticed. But the short stack, on a separate plate, filling out the edges of the dish it sat on, two neat cakes sitting pat with two tight scoops of already melting butter atop, this was desert.
Maple syrup - traditional - as they list it on the dispenser. He wouldn't fuck with that boysenberry mess. One cut from the dulled blade and an eager stab from his fork pushed a moistened portion of that hotcake into where it always belonged since that craving hit the night before - or earlier this morning, rather. Coffee next, then more pancake. Then the eggs.
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