We are stumbling towards the end of the year and in order to hit another arbitrary and pointless target, (getting to Church Street before Christmas) we are attempting two eateries in one day. Sometime when we have a spare moment and enough of an energy surplus we are going to have to do some introspection and try to figure out why we need to set ourselves these arbitrary goals. It’s not as if our respective jobs don’t provide plenty of goals and deadlines. So really, what the hell are we trying to do to ourselves? And don’t say fill the void left in our empty lives, because I’ve already thought of that and rejected it on the grounds that our lives are far too full. Maybe just full of the wrong things. That’s possible, I suppose. Still this isn’t the time or the place. I have to finish the blog, then string the christmas lights, pay my tax, and find out how to work the new bluetooth phone thingy, before heading off to drink birthday whiskies with Matt and Jim. No time to think about how empty my life is just yet. That’s what the holidays are for.
7:30 am on Friday morning is time for breakfast at Citrus – because it is basically a cafe and that was the rule, and we have to go to work afterwards. On King Street the only people around according to Strop are commuters and meth-heads. “And half-arsed restaurant reviewers,” I point out. She gives me the look.
We are the first customers of the day, and decide to sit out on the street because it is a nice morning and the meth-heads will probably be more entertaining than than an empty cafe. Once we have overcome the challenge of trying to move the table far enough from the bench to fit our legs through the gap, without having the not-actually-attached-to-anything table leg fall off, we sit side-by-side facing out on the world, full of optimism and ready for breakfast. That was when the four bendy-buses of the apocalypse darkened the sky, their engines roaring, and their loose fan belts screaming in pain. We began to reconsider the entertainment value of meth heads, but decided to stay put on the grounds that it was all part of the King St tapestry.
“Citrus is conveniently located right next to a bus stop,” said Strop. “Write that down.”
The big breakfast option sounds huge, especially for a school day, and is quite expensive too, so we decide to share one together with a serve of French toast. The juices sound good. Strop chooses the Stress Buster (ginger and stuff) while I go for the Cold Buster (lots of citrus appropriately + honey).
The big breakfast is vast. Strop decides that it will be more efficiently shared if she makes an incision in the edge of one of the (very) thick-cut slices of toast and inserts her share of the egg, bacon, haloumi, sausage, spinach and mushrooms into its cavernous interior. By the time she has finished she has invented the big breakfast toasty-sanger. It is definitely a thing. And she seems to be enjoying it. I thought my conventional on-a-plate big brekkie was good too, my only whinge was that the haloumi was too salty. The juices were very good as well.
Then it was time for the French toast which was drizzled with maple syrup and topped with peaches and what seemed to be fried banana bits. Strop asked the waiter for some plain yoghurt to go with it, to cut the sweetness she explained. No problemo. We ordered coffees too.
The coffee was good, and soon there was no French toast left.
As we struggled to get out of the grasp of the self-disassembling table Strop said, “We won’t need lunch now.”
“No,” I agreed earnestly. But deep down inside I knew I would have some anyway.