5204 Bloomington Avenue South
I've slain a lot of mice this week, against my will, I might add, but it seems to be some sort of calling - of course, maybe that was just Fern calling to let me know that there was a mouse in her apartment, but I'm taking it as a sign. Into every generation, a slayer is born, and so, this week's review is brought to you by ... Lexi the Vermin Slayer.
The Scooby gang gathered this week at Hot Plate. More accurately, we gathered outside of Hot Plate, waiting for it to open. Damn those posted business hours that keep us from enjoying our breakfast any old time we please. They finally invited us in at 8:00, but we chose to avoid the lure of the televisions inside and sit outside to enjoy the sunshine. Unfortunately "Enjoying the sunshine" looked a lot like "squinting into the blinding glare of daylight", especially as the sun reached perfect eye-blinding height. Judy suggested correcting the problem by standing as she ate, but laziness and comfort won out over pretecting her eyesight.
The food at Hot Plate is blindingly average. The potatoes are exactly the same ones served at Beau's regular breakfast joint in Nashville. They are called "roasted" on the menu (which Beau claims can be an indication of some big bad going on at a restaurant), but they showed up dyed orange with unknown "spices", and with a slight crust surrounding their freezer-burned insides. Beau and I ordered breakfast burritos, which didn't come with potatoes, but did come smothered in "spicy chipotle sauce" (which was about as spicy as your average main dish at a church potluck). The burrito was as big as your head, but not nearly so interesting.
Jimmy bravely ordered eggs benedict, and even seemed happy with his meal. Nobody got the Eric Estrada of the day, which is some sort of layerey-eggy thing with about a million things crammed inside. It's an age-old problem. If you add more ingedients, you're bound to come up with a sure-fire winner (for me, it's goat cheese), but you might also hit upon a deal-breaker (i.e. Candian bacon).
Rachael ordered the pancakes after determining their thickness from the server. Only thin pancakes will do for Rachael, perhaps because she doesn't really like pancakes and thick ones taste too pancakey. So, why, you ask, did she order pancakes in the first place? Well, she's the magic eight ball of breakfast ordering. From the outside, her logic looks a lot like a decahedron floating in mysterious inky fluid. Still, don't we all secretly think the magic eight ball's answers really come from a higher place? And didn't Rachael's pancakes arrive just to her liking and satisfy her? I'm just saying, this is more than I can say for my perfectly logical burrito.
Wasps joined us for the end of the meal, which added degrees of difficulty to clearing the table for our phobic waitress. I did not slay them, as I reserve my powers for the scurrying vermin of my closets. The crew gave the place higher grades than I expected. The average was a B-. Still, I believe there was some sort of grade inflation going on, and I wouldn't expect us to dine again at Hot Plate any more than I'd expect to see Jimmy filling a paper plate with jello salad at a church potluck.