Saturday, May 13, 2006


KJJ: Just had the world's crummiest brunch at Kerbey Lane. The usually satisfying experience of eating there was backed over by a pick-up truck of dissapointment, sadness, and regret. This is time we're never going to get back, my homies. My time is precious, not Kerbey Lane's time. My time. This is my time. It does not take an hour for the runniest eggs ever to be made and brought to our table. I know it doesnt. No explanation our courtesy was extended. Here's what happened: 11:30 - JRW and I order. He has your usual breakfast platter. I have salmon tacos. 12:00 - After like 1/2 a painful hungover hour we see people that sat down after us getting their food. 12:05 - Our waitress remains silent and unavailable. We remain the only table without food. I start seeing pixies dancing in front of me due to hunger. I can't shake my hangover until I eat. 12:10 - Our food arrives. How long does it take to fry an egg? 12:12 - JRW's eggs disintegrate into the runniest mess of yolk I've ever seen. We are gripped by confusion. Send them back and risk another 20 minute wait? My plate comes without salsa our salad dressing. 12:15 - JRW sends eggs back. Our waitress exchanges his plate for a smaller one whereupon his pancakes and bacon sit, lonesome. Apparently he is now obliged to eat his breakfast in shifts. This part was the saddest. Everyone else was chowing on their nice, festive breakfast platters. JRW had a small, blank plate with two pancakes. JRW deserves better. JRW does not deserve a breakfast shaming. At the very least he deserved an apology or acknowledgement from the waitress. 12:17 - The eggs return. We calculate it only took 2 or 3 minutes this time - why'd it take so long before? These are questions I need answered. I'm thinking when the FBI is done raiding the CIA, they can send their swat teams into the kitchen of Kerbey Lane. Hey dudes, we're not assholes and we're not picky people, and we feel the pain of our brothers and sisters working in busy restaurants. But c'mon... We've been workin' hard for our money too. The good stuff: our orange juice was fan-fucking-tastic, like the best we've ever had. And the kick-ass impromptu bike gang that rolled up gave us the sweat and shakes of jealous inspiration. Peace out peeps. -KJJ