Earl’s favorite restaurant for breakfast closed unceremoniously about a week ago, which left him at temporary loose ends for his usual daily ritual. And which is also why we found ourselves trying Bob Evans Restaurant before eight this morning.
“Let’s sit at the counter,” I said as we moved to the front of the line and the hostess grabbed a couple menus. “It looks like fun.” I’m easily entertained.
The thing is, the counter faced the grill where two cooks were flipping eggs and pancakes with calculated abandon and then gracefully adding a hint of parsley to each plate. Servers also congregated there, pouring hot syrup from a large vat-like container into tiny individual pitchers or dumping oatmeal from a big pot into bowls.
We sat, ordered our meal, and watched. More servers came into this area, put their orders on a special shelf, went off to fill coffee or serve colas, and then return with trays on which to load the customers’ breakfasts. In-between, we caught snatches of personal dramas as they carried on conversations about their lives and tallied checks. It was multitasking at its best.
How do they learn to balance the toast on top of the plate of eggs and without smashing them? How do they know which order is theirs when there is more than one omelet waiting under the warming lights? What is in that pastry bag they sling around their wrist and position over the hot chocolate. (The answer to this one is whipped cream.) In most restaurants that Earl and I frequent we never get to see what goes on behind the scenes. This morning we got a side order of education along with our eggs.
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