Gorgeously runny eggs spilled over the sides of a few avocados carved to look like an armadillo, the plate sliding down the counter like it knew where it was going, and it almost did come to a stop in front of the correct customer. The plate also almost fell off the edge of the counter, which people would have claimed was on purpose as an artful commentary on our wasteful society.
Crackadawn was part brunch emporium, part circus.
The line before they opened looked more like concert tickets had gone on sale than a queue for a restaurant.
Stan Kahmen came as much for the show as he did for the food.
One of the servers breathed fire, another showed more side boob than most men’s magazines in the 60’s, and Stan would know, because he owned Offensive Rebound, the best used sports and adult book & magazine store in the state.
The fact that there were two used sports and adult book & magazine stores in Indiana pissed him off.
The owner of Crackadawn went by Quiche Helvetica, and when he was seen at nightclubs he was referred to as Quiche Helvetica.
Stan wondered if there really was another person named Quiche in the area that forced Quiche Helvetica to insist on being called both names. Stranger shit had happened in Indiana, like two used…nevermind.
Stan was convinced the guy’s birth certificate said something bland like Joe Miller.
The coolest thing about Crackadawn was that they didn’t serve coffee, but would let people bring their own as long as they ordered one shot of Malort to go in it.
The shittiest thing about Crackadawn, at least to Stan, was that the hostess, general manager, DJ, Liquevilla Comstock, wanted nothing to do with him.
In case you’re asking, which Stan did, Liquevilla’s birth certificate really does say Liquevilla, because her mom wanted to name her Liqueur and her dad wanted to name her Aston, after his favorite English football club, Aston Villa. So they compromised, choosing the Villa part because they didn’t want cruel kids calling her Liq Ass.
Stan Kahmen wanted to Liq every inch of her, but her disinterest in him bordered on loathing.
When Stan made it to the door of Crackadawn after a one hour and fourteen minute wait, he looked inside and saw something that made his septum quiver.
In the center of the brunch chaos– A server carrying a tray of Bloody Marys served in plastic med school models of uteri, a patron/magician failing a card trick with a handmade deck in which all the queens were Michael Stipe, a man gluing chopsticks together, ostensibly to make a high chair for the chinchilla that sat on his shoulder– Stan saw a woman sitting at a table for four.
Alone.
Not alone in the sense that she was seated with four place settings and her friends were late, or out back blindfolded hitting the Snoop Dog Pinata filled with sativa edibles, or in the unisex bathroom trying to solve the thermodynamics problem on the middle stall to win free matcha suppositories.
She was alone, at a table for four.
With a single place setting
By herself.
In the middle of an eatery that had a line stretching all the way to Doc Flatbush’s Minibikes and Rickshaw Upholstery.
Quiche Helvetica was a large, demanding man, and Liquevilla was if Morticia Addams was played by Charlize Theron doing an imitation of R.Lee Ermey.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Jimmy Doom's Roulette Weal to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.