The Breakfast Bin

I'd heard the rumors all over town, but I needed to see this place myself. I mean it, couldn't be as bad as they say. I was never caught up in gossip, and if that's what this was, these people needed some customers and someone to turn things around for them. I was capable of that much.

The outside of The Breakfast Bin desperately needed a paint job. I was hoping that looks were deceiving. I mean, it was possible.

A bell jingled as I ventured inside. It was small and dark because of bad lighting, but it also gave off a romantic vibe with roses on each table, red tablecloths, and soft yellow lighting.

The sign read please be seated. I sat at a booth in the middle of the small place, with a clear view of the entire restaurant. Two waitresses stood at the counter and I could see only one cook. At least I knew the service would be reasonably quick.

The waitress, in her mid-forties, came over with a menu and a glass of water.

“Just holler when you're ready.” With that, she turned and walked away.

The menu was one page, front, and back, covered in hard plastic. It had seen better days as the edges were rolling.

I thought they served lunch and dinner options at this place, but true to their name, only breakfast was served. This led me to wonder how bad it could be. I mean, how do you manage to screw up eggs, bacon and French toast? I laughed to myself at the thought. If this turns into the breakfast from hell, I did have fair warning.

I could understand people being disappointed by the number of choices they had, but again, the name of the joint told you what you were waking into.

I settled on a veggie omelet, hash browns, and dry white toast. That shouldn’t be a complicated meal to cook.

“I'm ready,” I said, not finding it necessary to holler.

She returned and took my order, and as she walked back toward the kitchen, she yelled out that order so fast and loud I couldn’t help but start laughing. She didn’t have any tact. I had to get this woman’s name, just for the sake of knowing it.

There were only two other patrons in the restaurant. Two older men were sitting at the counter, at the opposite end of where the two waitresses stood talking.

Within five minutes, the cook rang the little bell announcing the order was up. I assumed it was mine since the other two men had already finished their meal, though I could be wrong about that.

Sure enough, the waitress headed in my direction. As she went to place the plate in front of me, I looked for her nametag so I could thank her properly, but none existed. I found that odd. Most wait staff wore nametags. What was going on with this place? Was it a lack of funding? From what he could see, that would make sense. It was driving him crazy wanting answers, as if he were in a position to pull this place out of the gutter.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Welcome, sweetie,” she responded and was gone again, back to that spot in front of the counter.

Looking down at my plate, everything seemed fine. The hashbrowns were crispy brown on the outside, just as I liked them. The omelet was bright, with no big brown spots from overcooking and you could see the red and green peppers and onions peeking out the ends. The toast was perfection as well. The more I learned about this place the more confused I became.

It was all up to this moment, and then I would know for sure.

I decided I couldn’t pass up the omelet as my first bite. I ran my fork across the width of that swollen beast, cut that in half too, and then put the first bite in my mouth. And it was magical! I leaned back in my seat, savoring every delicious morsel of that omelet. It was so fantastic that I gobbled it up quickly, wishing I’d slowed down enough to enjoy my meal thoroughly.

When the waitress returned with my bill, I couldn’t help but ask.

“Is it always this slow?”

She sighed. “Didn’t used to be. Once upon a time this place was open sixteen hours a day, and turned a healthy profit, but when the misses passed away, Old Joe here,” she gave a nod to cook, “just lost interest.”

“Ah. I wondered about the romantic decor since you only serve breakfast.”

“Yes, that was her doing. She wanted to upgrade the entire outfit. Joe just couldn’t seem to get rid of the linens and roses. Rose, that was her name you know,” she said.

I shook my head. “No, I didn’t. Thank you for a wonderful breakfast. You’ll be seeing me again.” I fished out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her.

“Do you want your change?” she asked.

“No, you earned it.”

On my way out, I looked over at Old Joe, a half smile settled on his face and then he went back to work in the kitchen.

With the information I needed, I knew exactly what I would do next. Social media had no idea what would hit them, and neither did Joe or The Breakfast Bin.

WC: 909


Prompt 10. Set your story in the lowest-rated restaurant in town.