We get a booth against the wall, where we drink tea and watch the neighborhood turn over on the floor; the clock rolling from breakfast rush into lunch. Almost everyone in the place seems to be a friend, a regular -- making the Sunday morning or afternoon pilgrimage for eggs and coffee and slabs of French toast stuffed with peanut butter and jelly and Belgian waffles with blueberry compote and crème fraiche. They wave to each other, gossip with their waitresses, with the owners -- brothers Jaso
