Christmas Day at my house is completely uneventful, unlike Christmas Eve, which is a day-long marathon of gluttony and wine- and champagne-filled debauchery. We wake up late on Christmas morning and pad around in our sloppy pajamas, eventually surrendering to our hangovers late in the afternoon when our gurgling bellies moan for nourishment beyond the bottle. Apparently we weren't the only ones, because there were plenty of other wrecked souls to commiserate with at the joint where we eventually sought sustenance in steak, eggs and butter-soaked hash browns.
Can you guess where I'm eating?
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