This morning I had breakfast in an shabby greasy spoon in a semi-industrial area of a small town in Eastern Washington. No, wait, the place was in Ballard -- it just looked, felt, and smelled like a greasy spoon in some dead-end town in the sticks.
The water glasses are smudged, the mugs unmatched and dinghy, the counter is worn, and the stove looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the World's Fair was in town. Chipped knick-knacks are scattered all over the counter. The only thing new in the place is a coat of Pepto-Bismol pink paint on the wood-paneled walls.
This was not my first time in the dive I'll call the Time Warp Cafe. I had breakfast there in January, and was absolutely fascinated. I expected to walk out the door and be back in 1962. But no such time shift ensued.
Somewhat to my surprise, the place is still in business. This time I ordered two eggs scrambled and an English muffin. They tasted the way food used to taste back before anyone knew about cholesterol. The tea is good, and, since I'm not a coffee drinker, some day I'll have to bring someone along to test that out. It's definitely not Starbucks.
Since much of what I'm saying about the place could be construed as pejorative, and would surely hurt the feelings of the woman who recently re-opened the place, no name or location will be given. Curious? Not particularly fussy about decor? Ready to enter the culinary time warp? Contact me and I'll take you there some morning.