Wednesday, September 25, 2002
Yes, the Ovaltine serves food, a fact which endears it to me no end, as it is well known that I am a food addict, though not one such as gets out of control, nor even one that is likely to get on Oprah, but just one who has been known to enjoy a little food now and then, perhaps even at breakfast. Churchill ate food at breakfast unapologetically, as did Hemingway and quite a number of other fine, respectable types, so I see no need to feel apologetic or defensive about it and do not indulge in such behaviour.
The food: oh yes, the food. They have a big whiteboard in the window with all the specials listed; the specials are always the same and have been the same since, as I said before, the Beatles were playing Hamburg. Breakfast special, served all day $3.50, and a fine value it is, too. Two scrambled eggs, at least I take their word it is two because it sure ain't three to look at it, I mean you can just tell, right? But it might be two. Since they're all scrambled up you sort of have to trust them. One hotcake. No mistaking that, it's one hotcake allright, and a yummy one it is, too. God only knows what's in the syrup, but it's sticky and that's something. Although now that the ownership has changed, you don't get the hotcake, just some home fries, and that is not at all adequate consolation for depriving us of our hotcake. Bacon or sausage, the Western type, no Chinese duck sausage as one might expect in this part of town, but I don't know how it tastes, as I had the bacon. It tasted like bacon, what can I say? Toast as well, white or brown, both of negligible nutritional value; I think the brown is just dyed. If you want to put anything on the toast they charge you: think it's 35 cents for peanut butter. But on the whole a yummy and voluminous breakfast as you can find anywhere, especially now that Denny's charges like $6 for a Grand Slam; honestly, what is the world coming to when Denny's is too pricy?
The other specials are invariably: liver & onions, pork roast, lamb chops, and fish 'n chips. Can't really comment on them, as I haven't eaten them yet, but Carinthia ordered the fish and chips once and said it was good, so it must be. She's a tough sell.
I was skating down the street one day and came to a temporary roadblock in the shape of two junkies. One was a tallish, willowy Native girl of about 18, wearing a hot pink baby T and lowrider jeans, with a fringed belt and two long, silky pigtails wrapped with brown leather ties, hanging down in front of her shoulders. Very 70's. Her friend was closer to 30, with a tight poodle perm and black jean jacket, with blue jeans and a big, floppy hat; also very 70's, just not in the good way. She was saying:
"See that?" she stage-whispered hoarsely and pointed with a scrawny, frosted-pink-tipped finger. "That's the Ovaltine Cafe. They have the best milkshakes on earth. I'm not fucking with you." Her friend was chuckling, she was so dead serious and secretive, like somebody was listening or something. "The best milkshakes on earth. You don't need to eat nothin' with it, nor nothin' after and you're set for the day. I tell ya, they're the best thing on earth. Expensive, mind you, but they're the best."
I figured I'd keep that in mind and skated on my way.
She was right, they are the best, at least since that kitchy place in Victoria with the car in the ceiling closed down. And they are decanted with all the ceremony of a fine Burgundy; I think the waitress even had a napkin draped over her arm as she poured my chocolate shake from the tin cup, but it may have just been a tensor bandage. The shakes are so thick you figure it's even money whether the shake comes up the straw or your brains go down into the glass; it's worth the risk. And they taste like the nice, old-fashioned shakes that your pal-with-the-coolest-Dad's Dad used to make when you would all go over there after school. I never understood how somebody without a job could afford a milkshake maker. Anyway, they're like that.
But the burgers and fries. Ah, the burgers and fries. How, pray tell, can you beat a $2.80 burger? Fries 80 cents more? Sure, pile them on. These ones are chubby and short, like the deep-fried fingers of Edward G. Robinson. And they are yummy indeed, pure gold on the outside with thin outlines of rich burnt umber along each edge; the insides are as pure as the driven snow, white and fluffy and soft and hot and all sorts of wonderful other things including vinegary, salty and ketchupy after I've finished with them. Yum.
The burgers: now, nothing beats a real dinery burger when that's what you want. It's an innate craving, like rootbeer, that cannot be satisfied by any substitute. This is a real, dinery burger. I always order the deluxe, as I am, as you know, a real foodie and always insist on the luxe versions of whatever is served me, the very finest, so I spend the extra 50 cents for a slice of tomato, some shreds of iceberg, and a glob of thousand island dressing; nothing but Cadillac for me! It tastes like a diner burger, which is really all you can ask for $2.80, except that the sesame seeds from the bun not get stuck in your teeth, though they always do.
But the best thing about eating here is the eavesdropping, of which more later.
Saturday, September 21, 2002
big enough for four if they have all had sex with one another already, but otherwise only big enough for two. Each booth features a largeish chipped and decaying mirror and a little sign telling you that, yes, they have beer and wine, but you have to pay for it when you order. Must be quite a few stories behind that little policy. My friend Carinthia says they only serve it because the heap-big-mucky-muck cops used to come in the back door and eat lunch there, and they wanted a drink or two to wash it down with. 
