“Eat and Get the Hell Out” is what the sign says.
Our party of 8 was handled perfectly: biscuits and coffee before you get the chance to order them, and ten minutes later everybody has hot, splattery breakfast. This is a place that understands the delicate balance of speed, comfort, banter and jet fuel (= starch + caffeine + fat + salt + karo) that make breakfast so important. If you hesitate over your order at a morning meal you fuck up your whole day: the waitress will look at you with sad eyes but won’t miss a beat and tell you what you’re having.
Sample of conversation at order-time:
Dave: “So, what’s ’scrapple’?”
Waitress: “It’s what’s left over after they make the sausage.”
Dave: “Not good enough. For sausage?”
Waitress: “Yep.”
She doesn’t apologize when the coffee comes in faux-ceramic plastic mugs (the Aladdin Thermos-y flavor complements ‘French Roast’, on pallet discount at the Wilmington Office Depot). It’s just bad enough to make you pleased to see metal forks with the table service. You won’t need to look up while you’re eating, but in the 30 seconds it takes you to notice the check is already on the table, you’ll see other customers craning their necks to read the t-shirts that decorate the ceiling. The fire marshall is apparently the only local at the Stack ‘Em High next door.
As we leave, a strange man approaches and says something in a down east accent that I don’t understand. I mistake him for a Tourette’s-afflicted diner and mumble something back to him. He smiles as if he had just ordered pecan pie for breakfast, and with a gesture that suggests we have stayed too long, bowls through his assembled wait staff and back through the kitchen door.
