The Unbearable Hardness of One Fried Egg

The Lunch Miser, astute readers will have discerned, is a vegetarian, and on Tuesdays he usually lunches at venerable Em’s Place (154 McAllister Street), a greasy spoon near the Earl Warren State Building (the block-long, gray granite edifice on McAllister Street where his office is located) because it is possible, there, to have cheap breakfast (eggs, that is) at lunchtime.  The two large plate glass windows between which one is bidden to “Enter” Em’s reveal an unappetizing row of small tables opposite a half dozen grimy banquettes, all poorly lit by bare bulbs that hang from the ceiling on cheap rubber cords.  But don’t be deterred — Em’s is the classic, if much decayed, urban American diner.  Most of the customers are students from nearby Hastings Law College.

Em’s breakfasts may generally be had for under $5 (and table and chair, napkin and cutlery, all are provided) — the Lunchmiser’s kind of lunch.  On a recent Tuesday, however, a challenge to the Lunch Miser’s personal integrity was posed, at Em’s — one so egregious as to raise doubts regarding whether the Lunchmiser can, in good conscience, return (even to enjoy such prices). 

The events in question began when the thin, grim-faced woman of indeterminate age who stands at the register and takes orders refused to record the Lunch Miser’s stated request for “the fried egg sandwich, please.”  (She is not Em, who is long gone, but, rather, the wife of the current proprietor, who presumably purchased the joint from Em, or from a successor.)  The Lunch Miser’s order was plainly stated and could not have been simpler — a fried egg sandwich.  Rather than simply write that order on the slip that she held in her hand (and that the Lunch Miser needed for her to pass over the steam table to her husband, so as to trigger preparation of the ordered meal), however, this . . . cashier . . . demanded that the Lunch Miser acknowledge his desire for:  “the number 2, then?” 

            It was downhill from there.

            “Fried egg sandwich, over hard, please,” the Lunch Miser intoned (rather pleasantly, he thought).

            “You mean the number 2?”  A glance upward confirmed that the fried egg sandwich advertised on the greasy board above our heads was second on a numbered list.

            “Fried egg.”  The Lunch Miser wasn’t going to be pushed around; she knew what he wanted.

            “Number 2, then.”  But she didn’t write anything, waiting …

            Now, the hour for lunch was passing quickly and, obviously, the intelligent thing to do would have been to allow this woman the satisfaction of compliance with her establishment’s protocol.  She was the owner’s wife, after all, and exacting such compliance (especially from her suited customers) probably was the highlight of her day.  As a petty bureaucrat himself, could the Lunchmiser not identify?

            “I would like a fried egg sandwich, please, and a glass of water,” the Lunchmiser repeated, a trifle testy this time.

            “That’s the number 2.”  Still without writing, she reached over to a stack of dirty cards and shoved one in the Lunchmiser’s direction.  “Fried egg is number 2.”  Again, she waited.

            You get the idea.  The Lunchmiser wishes he could report that, ultimately, his order was taken and his sandwich prepared (and eaten).  Not so, however.  He ended up grabbing a generic salad at the Subway around the corner, fuming.

Like the rest of us, the Lunch Miser routinely endures shortcomings in service or ambiance, when necessary, in order that he may enjoy a lunchtime meal for under $5 (including tax and tip, per his requirements) within 15 minutes’ walking distance of Civic Center.  He has his personal limits, however, and he is bound to acknowledge that he reached them, in exasperation, that Tuesday at Em’s — and now, of course, he must await the passage of a decent face-saving interval before again darkening the door of that establishment.  Forewarned as you have been, however — dear reader — to order by number, you may wish to avail yourself of Em’s proximity and prices.

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Cut and paste:

Em’s Place

154 McAllister Street (between Hyde and Golden Gate)

415 552-8379

Eat in or take out.