Small places create a very specific kind of ambiance, which I like to call “romantic claustrophobia.” Cue the feeling of being able to smell everyone’s in the diner’s farts — but still being okay with it because it’s romantic.
What I ordered:
Ham and egg and Swiss biscuit — $5.50
Orange juice — $2
I’m going to be honest here because you deserve that. I am willing to pay $5 for a ham and egg and swiss biscuit barely the size of a comparable $3.49 meal at Sunrise. I order food that is not worth the price for a number of reasons, the first of which being small touches like the menu saying “swiss” instead of “cheese.”
Usually paying $8.50 (with tip) for a biscuit and juice wouldn’t bother me. That was until they handed me the juice.
Sometimes you end up with a bottle of juice so small it makes you question everything.
The juice bottle said eight ounces. I don’t believe that. There is no possible way. The juice floated in my hands like a feather, with not enough heft to be anchored there by gravity. The juice was a micro-microcosm of regular juice. The juice was nary significant enough to be a good metaphor for regular juice. The juice was that small.
The juice sufficiently washed down my first three bites. After that it was like trying to sail a ship through the Sahara (if the Sahara was mostly soaked by butter). It wasn’t so much the dryness but the utter lack of appropriate citrus companionship that ruined the biscuit. To be clear, the biscuit was good.
My meal was ruined by the expectation of juice, the common exchange of legal tender for juice, and the receiving of something much smaller and much more sinister.
I was tricked by Neal’s Deli. I was straight swindled, and I don’t appreciate it. I suggest you go, though. Order the coffee. Or the chocolate milk. Or just water. Please, please do not order the juice.