I’d like an American cheese omelet, please. And could I get the hash browns extra brown? I love them crunchy. Rye, please. Yeah, coffee. I already had some at home, so smack me if I get too buzzy. Sorry, you have sourdough, right? May I have sourdough toast instead? Thanks.
I can never decide between salt and sweet, eggs or pancakes. I always want both. They pour melted butter on the pancakes here. When my parents were in town, my sister and I brought them here and Dad wanted ice cream on his pancakes and we wouldn’t let him have it. I’m not sure why now. It’s on the menu! My last boyfriend and I used to get pancakes “for the table,” no matter what else we ordered. We used to go out for breakfast, and by the time we got home the sun would be going down.
I even like the wait here. Those little benches. No one gets crazy. Maybe because it’s the weekend, maybe because it’s Du-par’s. And the smell when you walk in. That sweet steamy wave that hits you — what is it? It reminds me of all those drives across country when we were kids, all those coffee shops. Sort of metallic, like eggs taste sometimes. And all the pots of coffee going. It even sounds like breakfast.
You know, this is one place where I’d actually consider ordering the liver.
The last time my friend the-cutest-guy-on-the-planet and I came here, we saw Quentin Tarantino. He’s big! I thought he was slight, but he’s tall! And beefy!
I love sitting across from a guy in the morning. It’s been a while. I love stubble and bed hair and pillowcase wrinkles — and why does everyone look sort of moist when they wake up? My sister looks great in the morning. Puffiness is sexy on some people.
My first boyfriend and I used to go to the Du-par’s on Wilshire — when I lived over there. That’s like, yow, 20 years ago. It started in 1938. Now there’s only this one here at Farmers Market and two in the Valley. We could never hear at breakfast, because we’d always been to some concert the night before. He looked good in the morning too. Puffy. I forget what he used to order.
It’s really hard to find an honest-to-god American cheese — not Cheddar — omelet. Nothing melts like American. Goopy. But you have to eat it sort of fast, before it turns to cement. It says on the menu that the omelets here are “fluffy and delightful,” and it’s true. They are fluffy and delightful. You can taste the browned butter.
There also just aren’t enough vinyl booths in the world.
I answered a personals ad once and met the guy here. That booth over there. He had great eyelashes. Anyway, I was being sort of quiet — not like today! — and at one point he asked me to ask him a question, any question, and I don’t know why, but what popped into my head was, Do you have a dark side? Well, it turned out he did. Really dark. Really, really dark. I was so glad we were here in happy breakfast land, all coffee-and-toasty, with delightful omelets.
Maybe we should get one of those chocolate doughnuts on the way out. All these years and I’ve never had one. The icing looks amazing — half an inch thick, and pale like milk chocolate. But we’ll probably be stuffed. At Farmers Market, Third Street and Fairfax Avenue; (323) 933-8446.
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