I’ve been in the country for close to six months and my mom finally agrees that we can go out to eat but can only afford breakfast since it’s generally the cheapest meal of the day. Money has been tight, but she thinks it’s time for us to experience more of American life. There’s a restaurant conveniently located around the corner called Denny’s and it says that it’s open 24/7 so they must serve breakfast. We spend a good amount of time primping and making ourselves look ready to eat out, especially since it’s our first restaurant outing in the US. We want to fit in.
As soon as we walk into the restaurant, the hostess looks us up and down and says, “you guys look so nice, what’s the occasion?” We look at each other confused. What the heck does she mean? None of us respond because we’re not sure what to say.
She reads the confused looks on our faces and clarifies, “I mean why are you all so dressed up? Going somewhere or are you coming from a party?”
Is this woman an idiot? Going somewhere? We’re already there. And who comes back from a party at 9:00 am? She must be simple minded, I reason, so I try to erase any hint of condescension from my voice when I respond, “we’re dressed up because we’re here to eat breakfast.”
She looks astonished but only says, “Oh…Um, of course, this way please.”
As we walk in, I look around and notice that nobody else has on a sequin top or high heels. None of the men are wearing suits and ties, either. That’s strange. Don’t people dress up here to eat out?
The hostess shows us to a nice, shiny leather booth and we all pack in, grab a menu and start studying it. After a few minutes, the waiter approaches, looks at us in surprise but says casually, “Hi folks, I’m Jonathan and I’ll be taking care of you today. Have you decided?”
“Yes,” I say eagerly, “I’d like a cup of Earl Grey tea and the 2 eggs Breakfast Special please.”
“OK, and how would you like your eggs?”
I stare up at him. How would I like my eggs? What does that mean?
So I just repeat, “I’d like the 2 eggs please.”
“Yes, I got that. But how would you like them?”
I search my brain for an answer. Nobody has ever asked me how I like my eggs. All my life, I’ve been ordering eggs and I’ve never had to explain how I like them.
Jonathan is staring expectantly at me. I look around the table for some help but everybody else seems just as confused. All I get from my family are a couple of “I don’t know” shrugs.
Oh God, he’s still staring at me. This is embarrassing. I have to say something.
“I’d like them big,” I finally blurt out, saying the first thing that comes into my head. I add a huge smile and nonchalantly lean back in my chair trying to appear confident.
I see the corners of his lips quivering as he’s trying to suppress the urge to burst out laughing. Oh no, did I just say something stupid? How could ordering eggs be so difficult?
“What I’m asking is how you would like them prepared. Do you want them scrambled, over medium, over easy, you know, how would you like them?”
Now that’s a new one. The chef doesn’t have an opinion on the matter? Good God, what kind of place is this? I have to tell him how to cook the eggs? Where I’m from, you order eggs and the chef serves the eggs the way he wants to serve them. The customer has no say in the matter. I don’t even know what “scrambled, over medium or ever easy” are.
“The first one,” I say not wanting to repeat the word “scrambled” because I know I must have misheard it. As far as I know, scramble only has one meaning and that’s crawling around on your hands and feet. Do American eggs scramble?
I sigh deeply. This is going to be much harder than I thought.