breakfasts

I was not so great over dinner last night.

I was underslept and feeling surprisingly hung over. A surprise because while I'd certainly had enough to drink on Saturday night to warrant the hang over, I'd woken up feeling fine. By late afternoon, even after a nap, my edges were somewhat wavery. A damn shame, too, since dinner was at the Manx around a table full of extraordinarily cute, smart and funny girls. I really would rather have impressed them with my stunning wit than what I did do, which was to check out a nanosecond after I finished eating and stare into space until Shelley brought me back.

The food, however, was the definition of great.

If you haven't had the Manx's smoked tofu bowl yet, you really should. Beside the tasty bean curd, it's got spinach and brown rice, and black bean and lentil patties, and ginger. I've been eating quite a bit lately, since liquid smoke is on my endangered food list. I'm currently pretending that the cooks make the tofu taste so good by putting extra vitamins into it, instead of a probable carcinogen. Eventually my ability to suspend my disbelief is going to fail and I won't be able to order it. So until it becomes an indulgence that alarms me, I'm going often and getting it every time

Yesterday was a day of it, indulgence.

Breakfast was going to be simple. Paul, who lives three doors north of me, had bragged about his knack with the eggs. During that conversation, I decided to work my mojo and look doubtful until he put his money where his mouth was. It didn't take long before he offered to make me some.

But then you can't have eggs without bread, and neither of us had anything wheat-free for me. Okay, but I had kamut flour, so pancakes, we'll make pancakes instead of bread. And then, well, there are those two wee potatoes that didn't go into the stew a couple weeks ago, so why not homefries, takes just a second, really. And coffee, of course, there is no breakfast without coffee. And well, while you're cooking the eggs, why don't I make a smoothie instead of just standing around.

The water? That's just for show.

All last winter, once a week, either Saturday or Sunday, missing only a few weekends in between December and April, I went to the Unusual Spot for brunch. By myself mostly, with a paper for good company.

Because I don't eat wheat or dairy, and because I am a creature of habit anyway, I ordered the same thing almost every time, probably 9 visits out of 10. Though that didn't stop me from asking for a menu every time, pretending that I was considering other options. The servers always handed it to me, but they knew.

You might think I'm exaggerating, but the days I order something that is not what I normally order, it's a notable day.

Several months ago, when I said, -I'll have the special omelette please, no toast- the server raised her eyebrows.

"Really?" she said.
"I know," I said. "It's weird."
"Whenever you walk in, the cooks are always like, 'There she is, Miss Don Fran.' They're gonna be disappointed."
"Well, good to keep them on their toes."

It was a good omelette. But it was no Don Fran.*

Over the fall especially, I've gotten out of the habit of going with only the paper for company. At least one of the Esses is almost always around, Michael finishes work around that time and is sometimes into brunching, and I've had someone occasionally waking up with me.

This morning, I was alone. It felt like a solo breakfast kind of morning.

When I got there, my favourite server gave me a huge smile.

"Just for one?" she asked, noting the Globe tucked under my arm. "You need a menu?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'll look at the omelettes. Just in case."

I snuggled in, perused the menu, opened the front section, started in on my first coffee. She came back.

"So this one here, with the goats cheese, is that really roasted red onion AND shallots? Is it maybe roasted red pepper?"
"No, I'm pretty sure it's onion."
"Hrm. Too much onion for me. The Don Fran, then."

I dove back into the reading and sipping. She took the order to the kitchen. The music, which is always unusually eclectic, was low. I could hear snatches of the conversation.

"So... pepper? Because... yeah.... she was going to deviate, but.... onion. I know."

It makes me feel a little famous.

This both pleases me and makes me uneasy. Like I'm not a real person, just a character in the lives of the people who work there. Like whenever they all get together and trade stories about who comes in, Miss Don Fran makes the grade, and they spend drunken minutes spinning me fantastical back stories, each one weirder than the last.

• breakfasts

Jennifer and I did a reading last night, reprising our roles as Miss Matilda Manners and Miss Edwina Etiquette. It was in Rolf's living room, and we were the openers for a band from Waterloo called Agile Like This. They were really fun. They had a song about how great feminism is. That made me happy.

I was also happy with our performance, though I was way more nervous than I remember being for the launch at venus envy. The more intimate environment, I think.

After ALT, Aurele, Eric and I went to the Shanghai for a bit of kareoke watching and a drink. It was super messy there, end of the night "I drank enough to get my courage up to sing that Meatloaf song that goes on for one hundred excrutiating years but then I didn't stop drinking and now I'm doing weird dancing while other people are singing" kind of messy. It was entertaining, but a little strange, voyeuristic, like we'd caught the last act of something a little naughty that was supposed to make sense, instead of just dropping in to the local to have a beer.

For two days in a row, I have had two breakfasts. First breakfast has been a leisurely and lovely chat over toast and coffee and sliced pear, served with a side of making out. This morning, I introduced my gentleman caller to the Two Commandments of Megan's House.

1) Thou shalt not get peanut butter in the honey jar.
2) Thou shalt not flip the flip-top lid on the toothpaste tube. Thou shalt unscrew the entire cap because it is cleaner and nicer than getting the flip-top lid all cakey and gummy with old toothpaste that is impossible to help getting jammed into the flip-top hinge.

There's really only the two rules. Other than the common sense rule of treating me, my cat, and my belongings with care. But I've set the bar high enough at this point that people who don't get the unspoken rule don't usually make it to my apartment. At least not twice. And I don't serve them coffee.

My gentleman caller gets the unspoken rule. And then some. In fact, my gentleman caller seems to intuitively understand that the way to my heart is to ask me to help him organize his record collection and then listen patiently while I list all the ways in which that most enjoyable task could be accomplished.*

I get that most people don't see the wisdom of not flipping the flip-top lid right away, and must be shown the way and the light of entire cap removal.

* By band name, by genre (which would, of course, mean the creation of a controlled vocabulary), by country of origin, by label - all those alphabetically ordered. Then there's the idea of arranging them chronologcially. Of course, it will most likely be alphabetically by band name, and then chronologcially by album, because that is what makes the most sense. Because I said so.