Speaking of poached eggs, I came across these pictures in my photo file that I made about a year-and-a-half-ago at the small lunch counter in the town where my parents live. My brother enjoys going there, and on the infrequent occasions when we are both in town at the same time, we sometimes walk down the hill for a mid-morning breakfast. The place is vintage in the truest sense of the word – it’s from another time. But without feeling precious. The menu certainly isn’t precious. My litmus test in breakfast joints tends to be poached eggs, because if a short order cook can make a decent one then the place ain’t all bad. And here they’re good. Quite good. And look at those old stools sitting at the counter, ready to be taken for a twirl.
Please Note: Pics taken on feeble cell phone camera.