A Father, a Son...and Breakfast

“Boys only” breakfast at The Hoboken is a weekly ritual. On this day my son and I forego the 45 minute bus ride to school, opting instead for a 10 minute trek to our favorite breakfast haunt.

He chooses the table, generally with a view of the creek. He chooses the seat. He likes us to both sit on the same side.

He orders pancakes. If Mom approves, chocolate milk to drink.

For me, two eggs over easy on dry wheat toast…and coffee – keep it coming. It’s not that I don’t want a pancake…or two…and syrup…and sausage or scrapple. I suppose it’s guilt; mine, not my wife’s. It’s a treat for me when he can’t finish his pancake. That means I can take a bite or two…sans guilt.

He grows increasingly impatient in the interminable five minutes it takes for breakfast to be served. The pancake is almost as large as the plate, which is only half the size of Texas. The butter - roughly a half a pound or so – lingers only momentarily in a shameless glob at the bottom of a plastic serving dish.

He immediately begins the daunting task of coating every naked inch of pancake with a thick, protective layer of that buttery ooze, liberally applying it with the precision and skill of…well…let’s say a bulldozer.

Mission accomplished, it’s on to the syrup, which he generously disperses to his taste; not unlike a massive tidal wave preying on an unsuspecting beach head.

He is now ready to eat. I am nearly done.

We don’t talk much, at least nothing real serious. He likes to steal my phone…and program it with fake numbers. Sometimes he likes to call home and talk to Mom. She always answers, “Joe’s pizza!!” He always laughs. That never gets old…the laugh, not her greeting.

We can see the bank clock from our table. It tells the temperature as well. He likes to try to convince me its 30 degrees when its 40, or 7:45 when its 7:30. He gets a real kick out of that.

When we start seeing the buses go by, we know it’s almost time to go. He doesn’t want to be late, which means 15 minutes early. I get up to pay the bill; a whopping $3.50 – plus tip. He always wants a quarter to get a super ball from the machine. I always give him one.

We leave together…completely satisfied.