Sunday morning. Some friends have invited us to breakfast at a nearby Timbers Bar and Grill. There, in full view of my wife, friends and the overly caffeinated waitress, I commit the biggest mistake I’ll make all week: I don’t order the Sierra Madre Omelet.
My wife does. My friends do. The waitress compliments them lavishly on their choice. Me? Not feeling the Sierra Madre. Yes, the “homemade” pork chili verde sounds kinda good, as do the melted jack and cheddar. Is it the avocado that throws me? Maybe; not a fan of the green bulb. Whatever—I end up ordering … well, who will remember? Not me. A generic bar breakfast; protein fuel.
What I do remember is the look on my wife’s face after her first bite: the rapid spread of mingled surprise and satisfaction. What I remember is the wonderful, sharp aroma of the verde sauce. What I remember is the one bite of the Sierra Madre she let me have—one of the best omelets I’ve tasted in an omelet-filled life. What I most remember is the look she gave me when I asked if I could eat the portion she took home. She hasn’t given me such a look of pure, unequivocal NO #&$@! WAY since the time I suggested—never mind. Suffice to say I won’t make that mistake—not ordering the Sierra Madre, I mean—ever again.