(disclaimer: Sorry no photos. I really am sorry too. Because this really deserved a photo treatment)
Sometimes you spend too much time in a favorite restaurant establishment.

I mean so much time you actually get bored with the tried and true dishes that your beloved diner dive has to offer. This is when you start to get adventurous and bold. Like today, when I went to Sukis with Mrs. Meathead. I was riding high on the great success we have been having with “poached-hard” eggs at the Royal and so I decided to order them the same way at Sukis.
I said HARD!!! I told the waitress “If it’s at all wet or runny, I swear I’ll gag!” she agreed that wasn’t the effect they were looking for in their customers at Sukis.
Trust me, it ain’t the salmonella that I’m worried about. I’ve eaten far less edible food. (Perhaps the alcohol was my saving grace?) Anyhow, the plate came out and sure enough, they were nice and soft and runny and gooey and full of liquidy, chickeny, embryonic goodness.
Set yolks would have been acceptable. Like dark yellow with no viscosity. But these were running onto the plate, even after I was explicit with my request. Mind you I wasn’t too upset, because I realize it’s not an easy task. That is poaching eggs till their hard all the way through. It’s not like making toast or anything. I mean there’s a real “ART” to poaching eggs. It’s not like a science or anything… (please dear reader: note the runny, gooey, dripping sarcasm… Eggs poached hard take about 5 to 10 minutes. Any grill jockey should know that.)
So the waitress (who is the spitting image of my half sister Connie) comes back with the plate of eggs benedict. She says “They put hard boiled eggs on it for you.”
I would have thrown a fit. But I figgered… I might have done the same thing. But not till maybe the third or fourth trip back to the kitchen!!! But yeah. They plopped two hard boiled eggs on top of the Canadian Bacon and English muffin. Dressed in a ladle of Hollandaise sauce. It was the cheekiest frickin’ thing I ever saw a grill jockey do.
In the end, I didn’t end up eating a big breakfast, which made me feel health conscience, the waitress got her tip and Mrs. Meathead enjoyed her club sandwich. Not a ‘bad’ breakfast after all.

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