It’s 4:30 am on a Saturday, and my husband convinces me to get dressed and go out for breakfast. This is nothing new. About every couple of months we wake early and go out to eat.
I have been in Ireland before, and I have also traveled to London and Paris. I do not remember seeing any all-night diners. I have found them in New York, Ohio, Arkansas, and some small town in Oklahoma whose name escapes me.
What will Paul and I do when we wake in the wee hours in Belfast?
Although perfectly capable of making our own breakfast, there is something viscerally pleasing in ordering breakfast from surly waitresses whilst surrounded by late-shifters, drunks hovering somewhere between sobriety and regret, and heart-broken lovers.
“I think this steak died of natural causes.”
“What’s wrong with Cholula?”
“I was rich last year. I had a six bedroom house and everything. My wife. She took it.”
These people are reminders of the grittier side of life.
I still have a notebook I kept in my 20s full of half brilliant ideas and bad poetry. I was cynical then, writing poetry and scoffing at love songs. I wrote mostly in a Waffle House in Galveston. They’d let me stay for hours even if I only ordered coffee. Not so at the House of Pies where I wrote in my mid-30s. Here, I’d have to have a meal, and they would still shoo me away when the clubs let out. I don’t blame them. It’s all about the benjamins.
The booth is just comfortable enough to make you want to leave when you are through eating. The earth-toned decor fades pleasantly into the background so you can concentrate on your food. The understated pop music is only slightly annoying. You can enjoy your undercooked eggs and stretchy pancakes in peace.
So what’s up Europe? Do you keep these dens of marginalized hungry people hidden away where tourists can’t find them? Maybe they don’t exist. Maybe they are only in America where we feel we have an inalienable right to cheap food all hours of the day and night. Certain Cheeky Nando’s memes lead me to believe otherwise. Let’s chalk it up to another experience to look forward to.
I have been in Ireland before, and I have also traveled to London and Paris. I do not remember seeing any all-night diners. I have found them in New York, Ohio, Arkansas, and some small town in Oklahoma whose name escapes me.
What will Paul and I do when we wake in the wee hours in Belfast?
Although perfectly capable of making our own breakfast, there is something viscerally pleasing in ordering breakfast from surly waitresses whilst surrounded by late-shifters, drunks hovering somewhere between sobriety and regret, and heart-broken lovers.
“I think this steak died of natural causes.”
“What’s wrong with Cholula?”
“I was rich last year. I had a six bedroom house and everything. My wife. She took it.”
These people are reminders of the grittier side of life.
I still have a notebook I kept in my 20s full of half brilliant ideas and bad poetry. I was cynical then, writing poetry and scoffing at love songs. I wrote mostly in a Waffle House in Galveston. They’d let me stay for hours even if I only ordered coffee. Not so at the House of Pies where I wrote in my mid-30s. Here, I’d have to have a meal, and they would still shoo me away when the clubs let out. I don’t blame them. It’s all about the benjamins.
The booth is just comfortable enough to make you want to leave when you are through eating. The earth-toned decor fades pleasantly into the background so you can concentrate on your food. The understated pop music is only slightly annoying. You can enjoy your undercooked eggs and stretchy pancakes in peace.
So what’s up Europe? Do you keep these dens of marginalized hungry people hidden away where tourists can’t find them? Maybe they don’t exist. Maybe they are only in America where we feel we have an inalienable right to cheap food all hours of the day and night. Certain Cheeky Nando’s memes lead me to believe otherwise. Let’s chalk it up to another experience to look forward to.