I'm against taking food pictures in restaurants; that's why you'll never see covert snaps of "what I got served last night at Such-n-Such" here. Taking the snaps requires a kind of guerrilla-style no-flash photography that I'm simply too untalented to succeed at, and furthermore it interrupts a lovely meal. And there's something just so 21st century - "me me me" rude about it. My mom wouldn't approve.
So allow me to describe in words the breakfast that we destroyed this past Saturday. The Brit (bless him) had run an 8km race to end prostate cancer and I'd had rather an exhausting morning of cheering him on (hard work, I deserved a big breaky). We pulled into a local diner, cold, tired and hungry. Since there's no love lost between me and restaurant breakfasts, I dove into a triple-decker Monte Cristo sandwich instead.
Of course, this being a diner, the sandwich was not the artisanal ham-sourdough bread concoction of a posh brunchery. It was 3 layers of supermarket challah interspliced with deli ham and turkey, processed Swiss, then dipped in egg and grilled. You might wonder what is served alongside such a behemoth. Chips and salsa of course, and a warped little metal teapot full of orange pekoe.
So much yum I couldn't even think about having a Scotch egg at the football game.
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