Breakfast, my mother used to say, is the most important meal of the day. And while she was probably right about that, one of the details not precisely fixed by that nugget of motherly wisdom was when, precisely, breakfast had to fall.
Me? I like a nice middle-of-the-night breakfast. I like the occasional three-in-the-afternoon breakfast. I like pretty much any breakfast there is, just so long as it doesn't have to happen before, say, 11am. Because, really? On most mornings, the only things my body can handle before the sun begins decently inching towards noon are cigarettes and beverages of either the hot tea, Vietnamese coffee or wake-up beer variety.
So with all that in mind, I offer you the above snapshot of one of my more recent "breakfast" excursions. It's a place that suits my particular routine just fine and also boasts a fine plate of corned beef hash and eggs--by my reckoning, the most perfect breakfast plate ever devised by man. So can you name the restaurant?
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