Alex and Michael, two stars in my social planetarium, are here to visit, staying with me, despite the fact that I am mid-finals. Here you can see them raiding my kitchen–insulting my hard-earned tubs of homemade ice cream and sorbet for Lauren’s jar of Queso.
This morning, Alex expressed her desire to revisit her favorite Atlanta breakfast haunt, The Crescent Moon, so she could have their French Toast. I said I’m on board as long as we can go early so I could get studying done. (As you can see, now, I am on a mid-day study break).
The Crescent Moon is just one of those adorable Atlanta breakfast nooks, where charm and sass come free with your 99 cent coffee. At the Crescent Moon, though, it’s filtered through the prism of Decatur, often redubbed Dick-Hater for its overabundance of lesbians. And there was definitely a lesbian vibe today at the Crescent Moon. I broke out my Berkenstocks, whipped out my acoustic and started singing “Least Complicated” to the joy of everyone around.
Notice the retro chic scenery:
This is where we used to come in the latter days of college; a special Sunday brunch early in the afternoon. The wait would be 20 minutes, and we’d sit in the little back room, crowded with strangers, drinking complimentary coffee and waiting for a table.
We each ordered our usual: I with The Heap, a spin on Denny’s skillet sensations except gooder. A mountain of potatoes, eggs, bacon, Herbs and a biscuit.
Alex ordered her favorite, the challah (emphasize the CH) french toast. (You pay by the slice, and Alex bravely ordered two).
Michael ordered the nastiest thing ever which he called a Southern tradition: biscuits and gravy. He may be right but I hate gravy. That’s a secret I’m letting you in on. He offered to let me try some, but I feigned fever and passed out on the floor so I wouldn’t have to. Be honest: does this look appetizing to you?
The meal over, we strolled outside and felt the bulk of our stomachs.
We stumbled to our cars and drove off full and contented. Just like old times.