Grease crackles from the kitchen as you enter. Slow burning coffee circles your needy nose. Those are potatoes on the grill — russet; that sounds good, but the salsa chorizo egg scramble beckons…the masochistic urge for indigestion hits as your weary slacks hit the booth. Ash tray secures a tip — looks small — a dollar and sixty cents, but it’s all appreciated here.

Misty knows and she brings your coffee. She can see it in your eyes. It’s a cheese-fried, gravy day — three cups minimum — no small talk just warm nods.

“Scramble, please.”

Plates and silver clank around the corner; old couples in cardigans rustle their newspapers — sipping their saucers gently — savoring early hours in late lives. The middle window booth is empty as always; to both booth sides loners look up and down — ready for next.

Your friend Bill used to work in kitchen; it’s not clean, but what good kitchen is? That monster grill burns it all up: microbes, mice, miscellania. When your mug strikes one sip to bottom, the tray arrives. Steam bathes your dry pores as your lips switch to auto-drip. Luminous yellow eggs deep-dished with chorizo — topped with bubbling pepper jack cheese and hearty salsa graces your presence. One bite in, the feast gets spiritual. The clanging, wafting, crumpling, sipping, watching, and watching watching slides all the way down — filling more than the arteries.

“Thank you.”