Hotcakes under the Maple Tree

“Dear Diner Gods, please, please, please let me have my own booth on this fine morning,” I said, huffing and puffing from the 72nd Street Station.

As steam rose from Broadway, traffic moved erratically. My stomach growled. I glanced over to see if any other pedestrians noticed, no one did. One last cab passed. Speed walking, I bolted toward the local diner.

The diner’s door flung open. Every age, race, sex, and ethnicity had my same idea. They crowded in booths, ate pancakes, and read the New York Times. Scanning the room for a patron on his/her way out, proved impossible.

“Shit, fuck, shit, at least there’s a seat at the counter,” I said to myself.

I positioned myself on the nearly empty counter. A waiter handed me a menu. My elderly waiter friend approached me.

“The lumberjack combo, buddy?” He asked with a thick Greek accent.

I nodded my head and replied, “Yes please. Today, I will do hot cakes rather than waffles, though.”

Digging through my murse, enlightening and cheerful reading material, The Complete Collection of Edgar Alan Poe” was unearthed. Flipping through the pristine pages, I sipped on coffee.

My order arrived quickly. After placing the book down, and yours truly concentrated on the more cheerful “Lumberjack Breakfast.” Syrup drowned the pancakes in gooey goodness. Bacon sizzled. Hot sauce decorated scrambled eggs in vibrant rouge.

In the middle of breakfast, a middle aged lady sat next to me. She resembled an “earth mama.” Her hair flowed grey, curly, and free-spiritedly. While her glasses steamed from the piping hot coffee, “MS. Hippy Dippy” stared over at my half-eaten plate of pancakes. The pancakes lost their luster, since the syrup evaporated.

After the check arrived. Ms. Hippy Dippy took another look at the pancakes. Then after sneaking one more glance, there was a tap on the shoulder.

““Excuse me sir, are you going to finish those pancakes?” She asked, casually.

“Actually, no, I really don’t like re-heated hotcakes.” I replied.

“Oh, thank you, sir.” She replied, gleefully.

Grabbing a white paper towel, Ms. Hippy Dippy reached for the pancakes. Rather than placing them on an empty plate, the sugary delights were placed in her purse. She zipped it up, and smiled.

“ These pancakes will be used as fertilizer. We’re (her environmental group) planting more trees. Thanks to you and your pancakes for saving the planet.” She said, completely straight faced.

Food coma kicked in, upon leaving the diner. This stuffed tamale wanted to forget the words, “lumberjack” and “breakfast. “ A red leaf fell from the heavens. It reminded me of the half eaten pancakes, which would one day become a tree.

“That’s it, that pancake fertilizer will be a mighty Maple Tree,” I proclaimed.

This has been another New York moment, brought to you by diners, hippies, and makers of maple syrup.

Advertisements