Yep. That tastes like embryo.
On Tuesday, more commonly known as the second coming of Christmas, Denny's grand-slammed a smile on the nation's face by giving out a free Grand Slam breakfast to every willing appetite across the U.S. between the hours of 6 a.m. and 2 p.m.
After announcing this Christ-like graciousness during the Super Bowl, fans of food and handouts were left with a day to digest the best news a man could get since the birth his first born son, and figure out which location they would visit to eat up their early morning delight. As the hype grew and the night flew by like Wesley Snipes from the IRS, I awoke early and got myself to The Spectrum office on time for the first time all year.
Approximately 20 minutes later my cohorts Timothy Monahan and Steven Marth, senior life and sports editors, respectively, walked in as well. After looking into each other's souls and seeing pure adrenaline-induced excitement, we set out on our way. But before we left, Assistant Life Editor Dennis Seaman ran into us, heard the news, and joined our crusade.
And so there were four.
The snow fell thick and heavy like Monique on black ice. The trek was slow, but safe. If we were going to die, it wouldn't be before this monumental occasion.
Obama's got nothing on this.
Mr. Monahan parked the car, aka chariot of dreams, and we all walked up to the front door in a slow-mo, Tarantino-esque manner. It was as if the Reservoir Dogs ditched that jewelry heist at the last second and shot over to Denny's for a cinematic sunrise of sausage and syrup.
With a line stretching out the door and snow falling on our heads, the wait was officially on.
After about 15 minutes, we made our way inside and were cordially greeted by two tall, muscular, black security guards. Yep. Denny's had security - you know it's legit.
When we finally reached these gatekeepers, we asked them how long the wait would be. Alongside an answer that was the equivalent to a babbling "I have no idea," the tallest of the security guys called Steve "baby."
You heard right. A large black man called Stevie Marth "baby." I don't why, and I don't know how, but I can assure you he liked it.
After being cut by a "guy" that looked like an immuno deficient Dutch lesbian who overheard and badmouthed our paper, we were seated and granted our free breakfast.
Guess what we ordered: Two thick, fluffy pancakes, two crispy pieces of bacon, two fresh cooked eggs (scrambled/over easy), two pieces of the most breakfasty of breakfast sausage and maple syrup exported fresh from up north. The Grand Slam - Heaven's breakfast.
Within 10 minutes, our food was delivered hot and fresh. Mr. Monahan and I were the only journeymen to order our eggs over easy. I saved mine until last.
The pancakes were incredibly filling. The bacon and sausage were great, especially dipped in syrup, the true nectar of the gods.
With ecstasy in my eyes and a surgeon's precision, I dissected my eggs. As I poked the bulbous whites with the tip of my fork, I watched some sort of liquid leak out, but thought nothing of it. As I ate my whites and first egg, I thought they were a little underdone but whatever.
My final yoke stood alone. As I scooped it up, round and unbroken with my fork and shoveled it towards my mouth, I quickly shot forward to catch it before it fell.
Success. And then the embryonic fluid slowly leaked out of my mouth, down my chin and onto my crotch. I can promise you that egg wasn't fully cooked.
But hey, you win some, you lose some. Am I willing to overlook an uncooked egg, possibly a salmonella carrier, slowly sliding down my throat?
Absolutely. Watching Steven Marth get called "baby" by a black man who was easily half a foot taller than him and feeling the utmost contentment within my stomach after eating the breakfast of a Grecian god is absolutely, and on this day, literally priceless.
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
