This Saturday morning the kids, Michael and I adventured to the Omelettry on Burnet Road. While obsessively scoping out Austin Plumbing Supply's parking lot (to see if they are busy enough for my professional and constant need for stimulation), I keep passing the restaurant and thinking:
I really need to go there.
I have a sweet but foggy memory of being at the Omelettry as a child -
pancakes and blind-filtered sunlight, a rocky wooden chair I hung upside down from - and every time I pass by it, I am surprised it is still there - just as it was a least 20 years ago. It is perched on a corner that seems to stretch out into the middle of the street - precariously positioned to draw a driver's wandering eye but secure enough to only
look like it is going to fall off into Burnet's ever-increasing traffic. And even though the paint is new, the building looks precarious, too. It could collapse inward at any moment, though the smell of buttermilk would certainly hold it up if it did.
After struggling to park in a parking lot that is cinched. like a belt, just a little too tightly, we go in. My newest theory is that parking lots completely represent what a person can expect once inside wherever they are going. Austin Plumbing Supply's lot is always pretty full for its size. There is one little row of neatly parked cars that match rows of neatly organized knobs and faucets and toilets and bath tubs. (
Imagine a neat little row of bath tubs).
In the Omelettry, we were pushed up against the front window. Ethan had a lot of energy, as he should for a late Saturday morning and was bouncing off people as they pushed by. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Michael shifting, looking nervous but taking deep breaths. I was confused and in absolutely everyone's way. We needed to get on a list - and quick.
Jen for four. Ethan and I went outside to look at the line of red newspaper boxes. The air was light and cold.
Refreshing. Ethan wanted a key to open the Dallas Morning News box. There were no papers in it, which made me smile with private opinions about Dallas, Texas. Cars zipped by behind us on the street. A trio of grumpy hipsters stood at the corner of the building talking about movies. Michael came out to get us. They had a table.
Michael, a man with an impeccable sense of direction, led the way to the back room through clattering spoons and butter perfume.
There is the wooden chair and the sunlight. I felt the warmth wrapping me in. I can only relate it to sinking into a bowl of tomato soup (not that I've actually ever done that) without the smell, of course, but the consistency is right - creamy and slow. There was a cute blond girl sitting in the booth behind us. Ethan saw her and started singing. Loudly.
I showed him how to drink his water with a spoon.
Ethan, I used to do this when I was a kid. Dip your spoon in - keep it flat, not tip first. Good. Let the water roll in, lift it really slow and slurp it out. Don't spill. Awesome, Brother. Show Dad! He was so proud.
Our breakfast arrived carried by a girl in a flowy floral skirt and a lot of beads. Ethan and I split a short stack of pancakes - two large flat disks of sweet bread. There was a hill of butter on top that looked like it came out of an ice cream scoop. It melted while I watched, creating a weighty lake of fat - a moat around a castle - on the stack. I am generous with syrup. If you have ever had Omelettry pancakes, you know what a mouthful of sin tastes like. The first bite when straight to the roof of my mouth, dissolving in its own time. The bread itself - without the butter or syrup - is sweet. I drank six glasses of water.
Saturday morning breakfasts out are an event. It is the one day in the week that feels like the beginning of something good. (Sundays are the end of something good and Mondays are usually the beginning of a week of work). Saturdays take their time, too. After a week of hurried meals, contrived conversations with co-workers you need to be on good terms with and staying up late trying to do the things you actually
want to do, Saturdays provide the weary rejuvenation and refreshment. They provide a moment for the tired mind - even at 24 - to wander to memories and conversation with loved ones and good food.
I will fight for Saturday morning breakfasts.
