...48 to go.
I want to write about eggs for a minute. Groan all you want, I don't care. I hardly ever write about eggs, so I'm way overdue. If you don't like it, feel free to go here instead. Have a nice time there.
There's a bar/restaurant/casino right next to my hotel. They have food, and they have a couple of good beers. It's handy-dandy. Unless you try, as I've done for the last two days, to order fried eggs.
These people don't know how to make a fried egg. They have some kind of mental defect that prevents them from understanding this simple concept:
Break open an egg. Dump it onto a hot surface. Break the yolk. Once it's cooked for a while, turn it over and cook it some more.
This is called a fried egg in every place on Earth, except at this bar/restaurant/casino next to my hotel. In this place, they cannot figure it out. The closet they can do is over-easy.
I don't want over-easy. I don't want over-medium. I don't want over-hard. I don't want sunny-side-up. And I don't want scrambled or poached or hard-boiled. I just want a fucking fried egg, or two, or three. I want the goddamn yolk broken, and I want everything to be cooked solid.
Is that so hard to understand?
Apparently, it is.
On Saturday, I asked for three fried eggs, and I got three eggs over-easy. A federal case ensued.
On Sunday, I told the waitress that I didn't want another federal case. She assured me that it wouldn't happen again. So I ordered three fried eggs. I explained what I meant.
A short while later, the cook emerged from the kitchen. He explained that the waitress was confused, and he asked if I would explain to him what I wanted.
So I explained to him. He said he understood.
A few minutes later, I was presented with three fucking over-easy eggs.
So, I give up. I ended up eating three pieces of toast - they came with my eggs - that cost me $8.00.