The Wake

I am a college student awake at 6 a.m. on a Wednesday. Has the shock and confusion settled in yet? Good. Few things can arouse my limbs out of their down-heated home, coax them into clothes that aren’t pajamas, and get them to move past my apartment’s backdoor barrier and outside walking on earth that has yet to be warmed by the sun. However, I have found one motivator so powerful that my body, in its excitement, awoke at 5:58 a.m. that Wednesday morning before the alarm could bark me out. What is this supernatural force? Pancakes and eggs from Al’s Breakfast.

Some of you are scoffing at this statement, wondering which drugs I’m on or how long gas has been leaking from the stove in my apartment. I feel only sorrow and pity for the scoffers. They have never sat on one of Al’s red stools and had buttermilk pancakes and scrambled eggs go from the griddle to their anticipating mouths, filling their stomachs with a greasy goodness only 50 years of business could perfect.

It was snowing as I headed toward Al’s. I pulled my jacket’s hood up to protect my vision. One snowflake to the eye is all it would take to walk right by the stout and slender diner, which was an alley until 1937. I entered and paused awkwardly as the 6 a.m. blue-collar rush looked my way. Young and female was an unusual breed this hour of the morning.

The air smelled of frying sweet meats and flapjacks. Friendly conversation reverberated across the yellow countertop—jokes about wife number one and wife number two, a man teaching his son to ride a bike.” “Why would I talk about healthy choices here,” a regular stated sarcastically. “We have healthy choices,” co-owner Doug Grima replied, “We just try and hide them.”

I ordered a green tea and perused the menu. I knew that I wanted, no wait, needed, pancakes. But, what kind? They had buttermilk or whole wheat with blueberries or walnuts or corn or blackberries, the list went on. Making decisions before dawn is something I usually avoid, but after talking things over with my stomach, we decided on two blueberry and walnut buttermilk pancakes and a one egg winter special, which consisted of a scrambled egg with tomatoes, spinach, feta cheese, and scallions.

While we (my stomach and I) waited, I examined the intriguing shelves on the back wall. A crowd of best breakfast awards mingled on the top shelf. The face of the shelf was covered with foreign money, leaving me to wonder if regulars had left the country only to return and give their excess cash to Al, vowing never to leave his pancakes again. On the bottom two shelves yellow pads of paper, each with a name, were layered and stacked. These were pre-paid tabs, an idea started by Al in the 50s as a budgeting device for students.

My egg ensemble arrived first, delicately scrambled and Greekly topped, it received a gold medal from my mouth. Seconds later, a plate of cakes slid in front of me. One bite and the rumors were confirmed; Al’s had outstanding pancakes. Loaded with blueberries and walnuts and fried in fresh buttermilk batter, I was in flapjack heaven where Al is God with butter and syrup as his disciples. The man sitting next to me said it best, “I can’t even make ends meet. My big thing is pancakes at Al’s once a week.”