Idiots eating waffles.
The shining view of Maple Leaf Gardens is the only thing remotely athletic about this slopbucket. Everything is battered, buttered and flammable.
You can smell the triglycerides from across the street. You can hear the bubbling and crackling of the skillets as you start to sweat Crisco.
This place has been around for over 40 years, and you start to get the feeling that some of the patrons have been sitting in the same place for exactly as long. You give them cute sardonic nicknames in the back of your mind. "Glassy eyed Joe". "Wheelchair Pete". "Morbidly Obese Mona".
Eventually I start getting bored reading people's various neck tattoos and I start to wonder.... "What is it that makes this place always busy?" Is there methadone in the syrup? Is there some kind of secret win-free-dental-care lottery that I'm not privy to?
It's one of the only places in town where people probably wouldn't complain if you put ashtrays back on the table. Come to think of it, they actually still may be out there.
Pass the syrup, glassy eyed Joe.