| rev:text
| - Where do all the local wooly-mammoth intellectuals go for breakfast? This morning, all seven of them were at Flury's. I decided after about a half hour, which was how long it took us to get our food served, that I just might as well enjoy the conversation, as this place is just slightly smaller than my own dining room at home. The bon mots were flying faster than Keirkegaard's Christian existentialism, I can tell you that much!
My potato pancakes were almost teleological in their evolution from grille to plate, reminiscent of G.L. Buffon's Histoire Naturelle: food qua food.
The eggs Benedict? Perhaps a revisit of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin's Jesuitical vision vis a vis revision is in order!
Chocolate chip pancakes, served in the style of Dostoyevsky with just a hint of Gurdjieff, seemed to become of a piece with the worn kitchen, the worn kitchen help and the worn patter of our comrades d'counter.
When, in the final analysis, is a sausage patty NOT, in fact, a sausage patty? Hmmm. Herein lies the very core of civilization's breakfast conundrum.
|