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I didn’t eat today until 3:15 p.m., and while it was certainly late enough in the afternoon to forgo real food in lieu of something like, I dunno, chicken fingers, french fries and lots of liquor, which was yesterday’s lunch, I was desperate for breakfast, except I didn’t want a crap breakfast, so I hauled my butt off the chair and walked from my house to my neighborhood joint, a kitschy little place that does all sorts of things diabolically well, but the eggs Benedict?
If you can tell me who does them better, I’ll take you out to breakfast. No, seriously, I will. Or Sheehan will. Someone will.
But first, you gotta tell me: Where am I eating?
