All Photos; Shandra Beri
There is an hourglass that gets turned over in your olfactory center when you walk into a breakfast dive. At first the only things you smell are the scorched coffee and micro-particles of airborne fat from the bacon. As you walk to your table, those smells are reinforced by all the plates passing before your eyes that are crammed with breakfast dive grub; sunny side eggs, pancakes, french toast, hash browns, bacon, bacon, bacon. You are flooded with anticipation (of bacon...) and the warmed by vague memories of all the mediocre mornings that lost the battle in places like this. You sit at your table and don't even care that the menu is so greasy it slides in your grip. The busboy brings you water, utensils, napkins and the fake OJ you can hardly wait to sip between bites of your white trash sourdough toast. Unfortunately, if the waitress hasn't at least given you a nod by now, you know your scope of focus will begin to pan out to include bits you don't want in the scene.
Before long, you have even lost interest in the photo of the geriatric owner being leaned on by an out of focus Matthew McConaughey. You reach for your OJ and as it nears your lips- you smell it. The Stank Of A Million Constantly Used And Ever Unwashed Counter Rags. If your food was in front of you, you could shake it off- refocus, stick a straw in the OJ, breathe through your mouth and tuck into your eggs. But. It's. Not. As a matter of fact, the waitress is STILL unknown to you and that 'smell' is beginning to thread it's way from your nostrils down into your stomach.You cannot deny that The Stank is EVERYWHERE.
There is only one thing to do at this point; ABORT.
We left a 5, dashed to our car and started plotting lunch.