BEST GYRO IN TOWN

It was a Sunday like any other Sunday.

For those of you with children, this story may seem far-fetched. You probably spend Sundays doing…stuff…or whatever it is you have to do to keep kids happy and fed. I’m sure there are other responsibilities that come with that whole parenting role thingy, but basically, I don’t have to worry about all that pizzazz (with or without jazz hands, your preference). The four-pawed kids sleep in my bed, a little too comfortably if you ask me, and don’t need pooping or peeing or breakfast or water until their first stretch of the morning. And that only happens after I kick them off the bed so I can put on the for-looks comforter and add throw pillows (not my gig).

Anyway, our Sundays usually run a routine of “we should do something” then nothing but pajamas and movies happen. It’s not my fault. I blame my spouse for working hard all week and feeling the need to sit around on weekends to “catch up” on relaxation. Again, not my fault.

This past Sunday wasn’t too far off from any other Sunday. I must add that I’ll need to blame my friends as well. They wined me, dined me, then sent me home with leftovers. Now that I think about it, it must be someone else’s fault. I’m too perfect and pure and sweet for it to be my fault.

I woke up at four in the morning hearing myself announce that I was hungry. When I woke up again at ten in the morning, I realized I was dreaming that my growling stomach was actually some beast from the Otherworld trying to break into my cozy bedroom and haul me off up to the space station…or something to that effect. Regardless, I woke up hungry and needed more than our usual figure it out kind of breakfast; which sometimes reminds me of my mother’s quote, “I didn’t put a lock on the fridge.”  

Come 10:20 in the morning, I didn’t bother brushing my teeth, but I did throw my hair into a convenient pony tail and headed out for a gourmet breakfast. Ooh, I could picture it in the car ride. A farmer’s omelet with sautéed onions, green pepper, mushrooms. Mmmm. No, wait. A country skillet with sausage gravy covering the surface, so when I started to mix it, omg, it all oozed together in love. Then I remembered that I’m allergic to eggs so most of that idea was out the back door.

We didn’t go to our normal love-me-breakfast place, which again, I’ll blame the spouse for wanting to “try something new”. Ugh. It was a bit further up the road and in the next town over.

Upon arrival, we were placed not in the back corner to hide our last night stench, but in the middle of the dining room. Already I was hesitant of this place. All the other patrons looked like they showered. Seriously, I didn’t even brush my teeth. I should have known it was an omen.

Since that whole egg omelet idea was out, I chose a simple gyro. Nothing fancy. Just a plain ol’ gyro. The menu stated that a “plain’ gyro was six dollars, but the “deluxe” was eight. No, waitress lady, I would not like the fries, or the slaw (mayo has eggs). No ma’am, I would not like a fruit cup. A gyro please. A simple, plain gyro. That’s it.

You know how sometimes other servers bring out the food other than the person who took your order? That happened. We were people watching, trying to figure out how early these people got up to look so nice and smell so clean, when a pile of meat was laid in front of me. Yes, you read that correct. A pile of meat on a plate was placed on my paper placemat.

To say that I was a bit dissatisfied, is the underestimated statement of the century. Here’s the deal. They forgot the pita, the tomato, and the onions. If I could be frank, it was a giant plate of gyro meat and a small side of tzatziki that tasted like poop. I couldn’t even taste the lemon or garlic in the secret sauce.

As I stared at this abomination, she laughed while shoving another forkful of lovely omelet goodness into her mouth, “Only you could get a screwed up breakfast.”

Okay, but this wasn’t just a screw up. It was a pile of flippin’ meat. I went back over how I ordered, both aloud and quietly. Did my unbrushed teeth push the waitress out of hearing range? I’d like the plain gyro. I don’t need the deluxe because I don’t want fries. No. I asked for a gyro. Not a plate of meat. I wound up eating it anyway, not having the courage to object. I didn’t want to give a reason for the cook to mix his snot in the crappy tzatziki sauce with a returned breakfast.

Here’s the moral of the story: When you had a fun-filled evening and need a hearty breakfast, go to the place you know and love and save the adventure restaurant for a Saturday.