| rev:text
| - As greasy a spoon as you're likely to find in Hogtown, the Coach House is an institution in the way worn out record shops, strip clubs and historical crime scenes are.
Ducking in from a grimy section of Yonge street, diners are greeted by wobbly stools, cracked pleather booths packed too close for comfort, and a loose-shirted older gentleman sweating behind the counter.
Service is insulting in the best diner fashion. Coffee arrives swiftly, though, and is refilled without asking. It won't win any awards, but it's good enough to chase a hangover.
Breakfast orders also arrive promptly.
Over-easy eggs are perfectly cooked, but the yolks have burst somewhere in transit, spoiling a bit of the fun. A veggie omelette fares better (and likely healthier), but it's eggs are cooked to dryness; the exterior just past caramelized. I never trust omelettes or scrambled eggs in places like this; I imagine someone opening a carton of pasteurized liquid egg-like substance; I like to see what I'm getting.
Sausages are properly greasy and just-charred.
A mound of home-fried potatoes could have used a few more minutes on the griddle, but then I like my potatoes extra-mushy.
Drowned in tabasco (no ketchup for me), it's just what i crave.
Toast options are appropriately white-or-brown industrial sandwich loaf.
I wouldn't take a business meeting here, unless I did something illegal. I wouldn't bring my wife-she deserves better, cleaner and less scary. But when I want to indulge the occasional Jack Reacher novel fantasy, the Coach House is home.
|