A walk among the trees

Upon the often-wise recommendation of Ms. Muse, I had breakfast at Mary's Market, tucked way back in Sierra Madre, at the foothill of the San Gabriel mountains. I think they're the San Gabriels. I can never keep my Southern California mountains straight.

In any case, it was quite idyllic. The market springs out of place, perhaps because it resembles part of a an old hippie house more than a restaurant. And because it sits under some huge trees, including some very aromatic eucalyptus. Someone should bottle this stuff, put it in a tiny bottle and then sell it to suckers as they walk in the entrance at Bloomingdales.

Mary's is not unlike our own Jackson Market in Culver City, which also sits between single family homes and duplexes and was grandfathered in close to 100 years ago.

As of late, I find myself drawn to breakfast places. Perhaps it's nostalgia, as I spent many years as a short order cook at Denny's (and the like). Or perhaps it's because I believe a dining experience for two shouldn't cost more than 40 bucks. It used to be 20. Or even 15.

In any case, Mary's did not disappoint. 

Any restaurant worth its salt should be able to cobble together a decent meal of eggs, bacon/sausage/ham, potatoes and toast. It's just not that difficult. 

Nor did the company or the environment. We literally sat at a table across the street from Mary's and right beside an urban river, a catchall water basin from the foothills, that was still running, albeit slowly.

I also like going out for breakfast because until I've had 4-5 cups of coffee in the morning and a few good anti-Shitgibbon rants on social media, I'm kind of worthless. Unlike dinner, which I don't mind making at all. Because it means my work day is winding down, my two-a-day workouts have been completed and my gargantuan bottle of Bulleit bourbon is handy. 

Plus, it gives me an opportunity to put my homemade Chimichurri sauce on all kinds of new seafood and savor the few calories I've earnestly earned.

If I had one knock against Mary's it would be the help. 

Not the crunchy, granola-slinging, tattoo-bearing waitresses, who had their own special charm and even offered my dog Lucy a poached egg. But the new kid behind the counter. Maybe he was new to the gig. Or maybe he'd been chomping on some "medicinal" gummies before we got there.

In any case, you gotta step up your game, Spicoli.

As I explained to Ms. Muse, there's a certain rhythm you have to develop as a restaurant worker. Those of you who know, know. It takes speed, grace and an efficiency of motions. I'm hoping that the next time I visit Mary's, Spicoli has found his. 

Or that Mary's has found someone else.