So, I found myself heading to North Park for breakfast the other day. You know how it is, you hear things, people say “you gotta try this place,” and eventually, you figure, why not?
I got there, and it was… well, it was North Park. Kinda busy, people looking cool, the whole vibe. I managed to snag a table, ordered some coffee, and waited for my food. Nothing too out of the ordinary, I guess. The food came, it was decent enough. Looked good on the plate, like they all do these days.
But sitting there, it just got me thinking. It really did. About how things change, or maybe how they don’t, but we just think they do. It took me back to this whole period, years ago, when I was living with my old buddy, Mike. Man, Mike and mornings, that was a saga in itself.
My Adventures with Mike and the Quest for the “Perfect” Breakfast
Mike was obsessed, and I mean obsessed, with finding the absolute, undisputed “best” version of everything. Not just good, but the best. And breakfast? Oh boy, that was his holy grail. Every weekend, it was a new mission. He’d spend hours online, reading reviews, comparing menus, plotting routes like he was planning a bank heist.
I remember this one Saturday, he dragged me out of bed at the crack of dawn. “Dude, I found it! The ultimate pancake spot! It’s across town, but it’s gonna be life-changing!” So, we drove for like, an hour. Place was tiny, crammed, smelled a bit like old socks. We waited another 45 minutes. Finally, we get these pancakes. They were… fine. Just pancakes. Definitely not worth the two-hour round trip plus wait.
But Mike? He was convinced. “See? The texture! The slight hint of vanilla! This is IT!” I’m sitting there, thinking, “Man, the IHOP down the street is looking pretty good right now.”
This went on for months. We tried:
- The “authentic” French crepes that were more like limp tortillas.
- The “farm-to-table” eggs Benedict where the eggs were cold and the hollandaise was broken.
- The “hidden gem” diner that was just plain greasy.
The kicker was this one time, he read about this place that supposedly made “artisanal” toast. Yeah, you heard me. Toast. We went. It was literally a slice of fancy bread, slightly burnt, with a tiny smear of some homemade jam. Cost like 15 bucks. For toast! I could have bought a whole loaf and a jar of Smucker’s for that and been happier.
I tried to tell him, “Mike, maybe the ‘best’ breakfast is just the one you enjoy, you know? Without all the fuss?” He wouldn’t hear it. The quest continued. He even started a spreadsheet. A SPREADSHEET. For breakfast spots. With ratings for “ambiance,” “syrup quality,” “Instagrammability.” It was madness.
Funny thing is, the best breakfast I had during that whole period? It was at my aunt’s house. She made simple scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast from a regular supermarket loaf. No artisanal anything. Just good, hot food, made with a bit of care. And no spreadsheet involved.
So yeah, that North Park breakfast was alright. It was perfectly fine. But it didn’t change my life. And you know what? I’m okay with that. Sometimes, just “fine” is exactly what you need. Maybe Mike eventually figured that out. I kinda lost touch after he moved to Portland to find the “ultimate” coffee bean or something. Last I heard, he was really into competitive birdwatching. Go figure.
Anyway, that’s what was on my mind. Just another breakfast, another day.
