“Home is where they know how you like your breakfast.”—my grandmother (who made a great breakfast)
We’re in Boston today and the Hub wanted to go to Wilson’s in Waltham for breakfast.
The owner, Arthur, was at his grill—as he’s been seven days a week for the past three decades—when we came in and headed for a booth.
As we studied the book-sized menu, a new customer took a seat on one of the round stools.
He took our order, and a minute later two huge blueberry pancakes were in front of us. We’d barely cut into them, when the rest of the food arrived.
A young couple came in and ordered. Arthur piled the plates on the bar and called to the young man. “My waitress she’s not here yet so you get plates. No discount. I’m a poor Greek.”
Two more men got up leave and one pulled out his wallet. Arthur shook his head sadly. “If I’d known you were the one paying, I would have charged more. You’re rich enough.” He sighed mournfully. “Too late now.”
Now THAT’S what I call a proper breakfast!