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| - It's 7am and my glasses are a foggy frenzy when my nose first catches a whiff of the griddle. It's 7:05 and I've made my way to the back table, and ordered sausage and eggs "over." Not over easy, just over, as my ball-capped wearing, grampy aged server classified it. It's 7:10 when an oval plate lands on my table: 4 links, 2 big eggs and hashbrowns. Brown toast and a packet of jam on the side.
By 7:11 am, I feel at home. Stuffing myself with greasy-in-a-good-way sausage, gloriously runny eggs, ketchup-y taters, drinking my coffee, free with breakfast before 11am. It may have been because of the jetlag, it may have been because it was my first taste of Canadian food after two weeks in a foreign land, it may just have been because it all tasted so damn good.
It's only when I had command enough of my senses that I took in my surroundings. Two older gents un-ironically discussing moose knuckles, a shuffling, yet hustling kitchen staff who likely have tales of similar mornings dating back decades prepping for lunch and a small assortment of other diners, looking like they share similar tales of decades gone by. By 7:15am, I'm lost in the nostalgia of it all.
I dedicate this review to the memory of my own papa. I think he would have applauded them for their sausage too.
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