The Wrong French Toast

Dear HillBuzz,

When I first moved to Chicago, I dated a guy named Jason who inspired the term “Eeyore” that I now consistently apply to people who not only see metaphoric glasses half-full, cry over spilled milk, live in a woeful past, and dwell on everything negative, but are determined to bring down the rest of us with them.

It’s like a goal they have, to make those unlucky enough to be around them as miserable and rain-cloud besotted as they are.

Jason the Eeyore and I lasted about a month together, finally breaking up after a trip to the local Jewel to get, of all things, trays of crudite and various salsas for an Amazing Race viewing party, where Jason was upset I talked to not only the elderly woman in front of us in checkout line, but her little grandbaby riding happily in the shopping cart’s fold-down rumble seat too.

“Stop talking to babies and old people! I hate it when you do that!”, Jason bellowed, in clear earshot of a woman who not only radiated sweetness and light, but was in many ways a dead-ringer for Golden Girl Betty White.

Jason totally dissed Rose Nylon.

And I knew, before the carrots, tomatoes, and tiny baby snow peas were rung up, that Jason and I were through, and that no matter who won the Amazing Race that night, he and I would never be crossing any finish lines of our own together.

But, on the way back to his place with the groceries, knowing full well I’d start a new chapter in my life single the next day (and free to talk to as many babies or surviving members of America’s funniest sitcom of all time as I wanted, without scolding), I realized Jason would always be someone I was thankful for knowing, because he not only clued me in on the Eeyores of the world, but he also introduced me to Orange, one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago, and gave me a life lesson there I’d never forget.

Orange serves only breakfast or brunch, and is painted in shades of bright, sunshine-happy, delicious Florida sparkling, well, orange. When you walk into the place, you smell citrus wafting in the air, Fruity Pebbles pancakes cooking and bacon sizzling merrily somewhere, and you’re transported instantly to this safe and snuggly place that’s not Belmont and Broadway, Chicago, USA anymore, but somewhere in your heart where nothing bad can or should happen. Someplace safe and sweet. Someplace all about breakfast and smiles and love and good company.

Unless you’re Jason the Eeyore, in which case you see Orange as just another place to rain down on, and you look for ways to ruin everyone’s day and squeeze the last remaining joy out of their lives.

Breakfast started well enough, though, with fresh fruit sushi Orange calls “frushi” ( sweet coconut rice and various fruits with little cranberry, strawberry, and apricot dipping sauces), served alongside piping hot orange-infused coffee that honestly made every cell in my body feel so relaxed, happy, and alive.

Jason thought the coffee was bitter, and of course the frushi was good, but not as good as it was the last time he was there. Jason hates cranberries, and got a tiny splinter from the chopsticks that, after three tries, with Jason practically jamming his finger into my face, I still couldn’t see. He seemed almost disappointed there wasn’t anything bad to say about the frushi, the kind of person who just keeps looking for something to pick at.

Which, of course, he found when our main orders arrived.

I had the pancake flight, a foursome of tiny babycakes Orange does as a special every day, centered around a different theme each day (and on that visit, it was “The Beatles”, with a Ringo of honey oats and granola, a Strawberry Fields with cream and berries, two more connected to Harrison and McCartney that were so delicious they were wolfed down before my brain could even properly file them away for this essay I never expected to write). Jason ordered chai stuffed french toast, filled with cream cheese and something else, which sounded delicious, like everything else at Orange.

Not being a fan of seafood, Orange is one of the few places in the world where I could eat absolutely everything that comes out of the kitchen, no matter what it was. As long as it looks and smells delicious, I honestly wouldn’t care if it wasn’t what I ordered, as long as it was something I could eat.  To me, life’s too short to send things back.  Sometimes the universe surprises you with something it wanted you to have instead.

Which is not how Jason the Eeyore sees things.

Instead of the chai stuffed french toast, Jason’s eyes drooped when he saw the chai french toast kebobs put in front of him (which were almost, but not quite, the same thing as what he ordered).

So, Jason, aghast, sent them back. And I had the pleasure of listening to Jason’s take on this particular travesty of culinary justice as the waitress flew back to the kitchen to grab the correct order.

She literally was gone, at most, a minute.  It seemed much longer than that because of the black hole of despair and indignation Jason had become, but the waitress literally left our table with the kebobs (which looked DELICIOUS), went to the kitchen, the door closed behind her, and she reappeared with the chai stuffed french toast for Jason.

She apologized profusely, but Jason just grumbled something and looked down at his plate, unhappy. But, beneathe a skowl that would make Michelle Obama proud of Jason for the first time in her adult life, I detected the sadistic glint of a smirk, because Jason thought he found something wrong with this order, too.

“It’s ice cold.  I can’t eat this. It’s FREEZING. Here, try it,” he said, pushing a forkful over to me, in the odd way people do when they think something tastes bad or smells funny (so, obviously, they want you to smell and taste it too, because it’s so bad).

Curious, I ate the chai stuffed french toast and my taste buds rejoiced.  I can’t remember the last time I had anything that good in my mouth (no entendres of any kind intended). The flavor combinations were impressive, with layers of savory and sweet, and a little hint of unexpected basil in the cream cheese filling.  I absolutely loved his breakfast, even more than my Beatles pancake flight (which was damn good in its own right). Which, incidentally, was perfectly cooked and HOT. It wasn’t cold at all.

“Do you want me to tell you what I think, or do you want me just to say it’s cold?”,  asked him, knowing no matter what I said, Jason was dead-set on sending the plate back and making a scene.

The waitress was a real trooper, so much so that I decided at that moment whatever my half of the check came to, she was getting a 50% tip for putting up with Jason, who made the very scene I expected from him, complete with a lecture about how hot things should be when served (since Jason was a waiter himself…at a Bennigan’s out by the airport). And the waitress didn’t even roll her eyes or condescend back at him.  Make that a 100% tip.

Jason sent another version of that chai stuffed toast back another two times before he was finally satisfied.  I long ago finished by pancake flight, and actually ordered more frushi as I sat there for what became a three hour breakfast at Orange. People came and went, sitting down for breakfast, then heading back to their lives, as Jason and I occupied that table, with chai stuffed french toast appearing from the kitchen to visit Jason briefly, before disappearing back into what I imagine to be an increasingly more angry kitchen.

Orange comped our check, but I gave the waitress $50 anyway, so embarrassed by what Jason had done.  And I truly believe he set out looking for flaws, trolling for something to complain about, because over the course of dating him, he only ever seemed happy when he was making other people miserable.

After we broke up, that chai french toast really defined not only our relationship to me, but taught me a lot about myself, too. I would have eaten the kebobs and enjoyed them as a surprise from the universe.  To me, they were an unexpected adventure, like driving to what you thought was a funeral home and finding an amusement park instead. Jason would mope around complaining he didn’t get to go to a funeral, while I laughed my head off on the roller coaster of life.

And so, “sometimes the universe brings you the wrong french toast” became one of the idioms I use frequently now, and I’ve infected all my friends’ conversations with it as well.  It’s shorthand for “sometimes things don’t work out the way you thought, but deal with it”.

More often than not, life brings you delicious surprises, like the french toast kebobs I would have never in a million years ordered, but would have relished when put in front of me.  Surprise!  And, maybe, the kebobs where what I really needed, nutrionally, anyway.  Instead of all those strawberries and cream.  Maybe the universe knew better. Maybe it was trying to tell Jason something.

You can’t read too much into breakfast without proving how crazy you are (especially when the Alphabits starts telling you to do things), but sometimes the universe really does send you the wrong french toast for a reason.

When I look at Hillary Rodham Clinton excelling as Secretary of State, looking so happy and confident in her role abroad, I still wish she was our President but am delighted she is in no way connected to the boondoggle that is the Trillion Dollars in spending the Demcorats just forced through Congress.  Hillary Clinton will not be saddled with this economic mess. She will not be responsible for anything domestic, as this nation suffers through what’s likely to be a brutal three or four years. Hillary Clinton may not be President today — but that means she’s not in danger of becoming a Carter-esque one-term-disaster-of-a-President.

Sometimes, the universe brings you the wrong french toast.

I never thought Clinton would end up at the State Department, and honestly never gave the State Department much thought in the course of my day.  And now, I am riveted by everything she’s doing at Foggy Bottom and follow the State Department’s website regularly. And it’s really been a blessing, in a way.  With everything so bad at home, and so many new Eeyores breeding every day in this economy, it’s refreshing to see Clinton in China and read about Sino-American trade relations, instead of following which banks are insolvent and in danger of being nationalized today.

So, Hillary Clinton certainly ordered the chai stuffed french toast for herself, but the universe brought her the french toast kebobs instead. She could have sent them back, and moped around like Jason, but she chose to relish what was put in front of her, and excel on a path she never saw for herself before.

That really inspires me.

And it doesn’t preclude her from ordering the chai stuffed french toast again at some point in the future, like seven years from now.

Just like none of my personal setbacks ever prevent me from trying again, too.  Or prevent you from doing whatever you want to do, either.

Life’s just too short to mope and Eeyore about things.

Eat the kebobs if you get them, and realize there are unlimited surprises all around us. Some people roll with the punches, get over personal disappointment, and make the best of all opportunities presented to them.

You can either be Hillary Clinton, Secretary of State of the United States.

Or, you can be Jason, the Eeyore.

Because sometimes the universe brings you the wrong french toast, and it’s always up to you to decide how you’re going to react.

Sebastian Gray,

Chicago, IL

If you enjoy our writing and snark, please consider helping us save up for a move to our own server, and for us to get the software, tech, and know-how we need to build the interactive site we’ve been dreaming of.  We want to grow and improve in 2009, but can’t afford to do it without your help. $1, $5, or $10 would do wonders towards reaching our goals.

Please Help!

Donate