On one of my rare forays to the south, I chanced to eat food that I didn’t have to cook for myself. This is a rare indulgence for me, and I thought of how our people enjoy the meals prepared for others, (not to mention not having to do the dishes) at all restaurants. I happen to be a breakfast meal type of guy and I will share with you those experiences.
While loitering around in Montreal one fine evening, I got invited to Cosmo’s for breakfast. The next morning, we traipsed out of the small taxi and into a very small counter top style restaurant. Our small entourage had filled the room and we ordered. Buddy ordered the Mishmash, which he told me, was not quite sure of what was in that mishmash of sorts. The wall is covered with just about every piece of paper known to man and added to the mystique and allure of that somewhat grubby place. Our meals arrived and breathless moments later, I happily sighed with that perfect burp. This is the best breakfast I ever had.
Three months later, I ventured down south again and could never really be happy again with the breakfast served again, until I drove by a good friend in Chisasibi, who just happened to be in the breakfast business. Once inside his establishment, I noticed that other patrons were quietly eating their food. Two other patrons, brothers they were, joined me at my table. “I dare you to eat the brunch style breakfast. Two others tried and failed,” joked one brother.
“I’ll pay your breakfast if you finish it all,” dared the other brother.
With gusto I accepted the dare and many minutes later, a turkey platter appeared, laden with pancakes, French toast, home fries, just about every fried meat there is and two complimentary toasts. Bravely, I asked for butter to load onto the pancakes and swirled around a half litre of sweet syrup. I was already working on my second cup of coffee when the massive meal came around.
“Shades of John Candy!” I exclaimed and a small crowd gathered around to watch. Halfway through, I started to sweat. I had already stopped drinking coffee and my gut was visibly stretching my Sunday suit. Gross jokes of exploding bodies came up and I quickly urged them not to talk like that when I’m eating. I quickly joined the conversation, hoping that the little time I took breaks from swallowing would help with my digestive tract.
“Are you alright?” asked one brother worriedly. To tell him the truth, I gamely said I could do it, as I looked at the two remaining toasts.
“Bring on the jam,” I quickly called to the garçon, as he sped off to find me some strawberry preservatives. I actually chewed those last pieces as my eye lids tightened with my stretching skin, a sharp contrast to the widened eyes of disbelief of the growing audience. I was glad to finish that whopper of a meal and glad that, at the same time, the hospital was just across the street.
