Eggs.

I am tired, I am cranky. These things I know. Aside from it being my persona for the last many years, today I actually and honestly feel pretty worn out, having much to do this past week in the way of work and stress. Sunday rolls around and a sister just wants to get some eggs, is that too much to ask? In my fair city, it seems that it just might be.  Don’t get me wrong, eggs are available, often plentiful in the city of Detroit. Many folks raise their own chickens in the sweet confines of the ghetto, so one would assume eggs are indeed everywhere. Egg whites on the other hand, seem to be next to impossible to find in a town that just started to add brunch to the menu. Curious too, as it is an option a restaurant can charge extra for. In the land of nickle and dime that would make it a win/win. I am not talking Egg Beaters here folks, no, I don’t want to eat that shit. Just the whites. J Lo knows what I am talking about, it is the friend of many a dieter across the world over. Back in LA it was never a problem to procure, but LA is known for it’s special orders. I have never wanted to be a special order dick mind you, but it has happened. I have become what I hate, a high maintenance restaurant customer. Sure, there is shame related to ordering an omelet made with egg whites, no potatoes, instead sliced tomatoes, no toast, coleslaw – but when one is attempting to adhere to both calorie counting and food combining, shit gets uptight. Are we all supposed to gulp down six egg omelets,  cheese and Hollandaise sauce with heart healthy smiles on our increasingly puffy faces? It is like Satan is trying to punish me for not wanting to be a fatty anymore.

The story starts with noon cresting, as I alert my comrade to the fact that brunch must be gotten. I am ready to be waited on and enjoy a delightful meal out. Granted I can already tell that things could go either way as a workman who is supposed to be fixing something up on the place next door keeps walking on my porch gabbing on his cell phone trying my door handle. He knocks, I answer with a terse, ‘can I help you?’ to which he realizes finally that he has the wrong place. Stunning being that he had already been in the place next door and then went back out to his car. Still, I feel bad about what I perceive to be a bit bitchy and make an effort to try to be nicer. Fact is, I don’t like motherfuckers knocking on my door. The only exceptions to this rule are friends, and the UPS man bringing me presents. Otherwise you best stay away from the door. Selling something? Die. Putting supermarket flyers on my porch? I will kill you with my mind. Jehovah Witnesses? Skull punch. My postal carrier can clearly feel the animosity emanating from my home as she opts to bring mail only upon occasion. Still, this post isn’t about what is behind the door, it’s about getting some fucking egg whites for breakfast. Sadly, the suburbs have egg whites down. Maybe that is where I have gotten so spoiled. Competitive environments breed customer service and choice. Non-competitive environments breed mediocrity and uninspired menu items.

The story continues, I opt for a walk downtown to a local eatery that just got lauded in the Detroit based ‘society’ magazine Hour. It received high ratings for it’s brunch fare so the likelihood of egg whites loomed. If they do brunch well, then it is likely they do special orders. In retrospect it was a foolish notion, almost as foolish as the mohawk on the waitress dropping menus at the table when I arrived. I am willing to wave bad fashion choices in the event of impending good food experiences but if I am honest it set me on edge. It was already starting to look less likely that I would have the joyful brunch experience that I so longed for. A quick scan of the menu revealed that adhering to the food combo diet would be challenging at best. So it was up to calorie counting to lead the way. I asked 1-800-Mohawk if they did egg whites, she replied that it was far too busy and the cook’s would be really pissed if she even asked. Little do outsiders know, that servers all over Detroit are hostage to the whims of militant cooks, this I know. In the same respect, I did not give a shit about the whys, I knew that once again I was to be denied. Normally I would suck it up and find something to like about the menu. Today, I had enough. The cautiously suppressed rage within started to simmer. A witch’s brew if ever there was one. Maybe it was the denial of egg whites, maybe it was the ridiculous hair (we are talking King’s Road in the 80′s mohawk here), it was probably the tables full of bright young things all about me that was the final nail in the coffin. I was confused, were we in Manhattan? Who are all these people and where did they come from, to fill up a generally mellow restaurant with their ‘cast of Friends’ Sunday AM dreams? Well dressed, clean, good teeth…is this the New Detroit I have been hearing so much about? Needless to say, by the time Running Bear got back to the table to take our order the best I could do was order nothing and not cry in front of my friends in despair. We jokingly started singing ‘all I wanted was a Pepsi and she wouldn’t give it to me, all I wanted was a Pepsi…’. Young Wes Studi didn’t care that I wasn’t ordering and why would she, she was punk.  I hung for a bit, but my plans foiled I began to wonder if perhaps there was somewhere else out there that would be able to deliver. I knew on my walk home I would pass the Westin, far be it from any big city hotel dining room to deny the weary traveler an egg white omelet. I excused myself when the food arrived to go in search of something, anything that could silent my inner rage.  I passed the Westin harboring no desire to go into a hotel lobby if I couldn’t then head to my room and order room service, and kept going. Admittedly the thought of a coney sans bun had crossed by mind earlier when going by Lafayette, but I wasn’t drunk so  I pressed on. Then I came upon the MGM Grand, surely they would have breakfast options, no doubt allowing frequent gamblers the choice of lower cholesterol. Maybe they even had a breakfast buffet..I will never know, I didn’t go in, the idea of the one armed bandit stealing 10 hard earned dollars far too tempting. Finally, I neared the Lager House, I had heard tales of brunch, but they seemed like folklore. Was it just a mirage in the desert that was my food quest.  The sign said open, I went for it.  As I walked in I put my cards on the table ‘do you do egg whites?’ I asked. ‘Not really, but we can probably work something out’ was the response. I looked at the menu, simple, but interesting. Working something out, was something I could indeed work with. A response to acknowledge that maybe I was a dick, but it wasn’t a deal breaker, like so many great dating relationships start, so too would my quest for food end.  Vegan Biscuits and Gravy – fitting no diet plan, turned out to be the best move of the day.I snapped a picture and texted my friends with it, as they were enjoying their lobster laced breakfast fare. So be it. Only after gazing upon the photo later did I notice the plate sitting directly above a guitar pick with a smiley face on it. Normally smiley faces piss me off, but sated, I let it slide.

Post meal I continued to walk, not knowing why, but thinking maybe I would get a coffee. The quest for eggs had been  met with none, but still, I felt compelled to walk.  As I headed up Michigan Ave, I happened to look down on the sidewalk and there it was. Amidst litter, general rubbish and the like, lay a lonely Tarot Card. Clearly, I was meant to pick it up, for otherwise, why would it be there in my path?  I did, but what I saw was unsettling. There on the card was an X, and a man lying on his stomach with many swords in his back.  If this was a sign, surely it could not be a good one. That is why I have stayed clear of the Tarot, say what you will about the Death card meaning change, it could also mean death the biggest change of all. My walk took are far too much meaning at this point. What was to be a simple Sunday off became a look into the future, or perhaps a warning.

When I got home, I looked up this card and found out it was the Ten of Swords. When I picked it up, was it right side up? upside down? Actually it was kind of slanted, but definitely right side up, hence no reversed fortune or meaning. The description could be condensed into the following: “there is a general feeling of pain, loss and misfortune. However, despite these ominous images there are positive aspects to this card. The sea before which the body lies is still and calm and the sun is rising in the distance beyond the mountains, indicating that the darkness will soon be dispelled. Thus each new beginning must come from an end, and with every defeat are sown the seeds of victory.”

Whatever did this mean? Was it something as simple as my quest for eggs? Or was the meaning much deeper? Is there something better around the corner, that is not lacto-ovo based, but some sort of life change. Is the worst indeed behind me, or will I soon be laying face down with several knives in my back? No doubt from some cook who hates making egg white omelets.