It is a sad day when I prefer a French restaraunt to a diner

My idea of good French food boils down to croissant and fries. And, technically, fries are Belgian. Today, however, the French came to the rescue after a local diner proved unsatisfactory.

Our first weekend here I passed by a little cafe called the St Giles' Cafe. Very simple: one aisle with booths (suitable to seat four) along each side. A counter at the back. Maybe 8 or 10 booths total - possibly as few as 6. A small place. The menu, however, was appealing, as the breakfast plates were all devoid of beans, my breakfast nemesis. The biggest problem identified in advance is that the place closes at 3 pm most days, making it unavailable for dinner. It is also on the other side of town for us. A 30 minute walk at a very brisk pace, 40 minutes at normal quick walk.

This morning, breakfast on the mind, we decided to trek out there. I was fixed on a breakfast comprising eggs, sausage, bacon, and chips. Sounds pretty basic. So, Fiona and I brave a rainy day and make the trek. Wet from the rain and from sweating, we sat down. No menus, but a board over the counter lists the options. I looked to see if there was a better choice than that I originally identified. I found there wasn't. Fiona braved the counter to place our order.

Fiona starts with her order. She went with the full english breakfast. That went well. Then, she placed my order, only to be told that they don't prepare chips until lunch. WTF? They can't fry up some potatoes? OK, so be it. I'll dial it back to the sausage, bacon and egg breakfast. The order seemingly complete at this point, I piped up from 10 feet away, "Can I have the eggs scrambled?" At first, Fiona didn't hear me. After I repeated myself, before Fiona could even turn around to relay my seemingly simple request, the proprietor stated, "We only do fried eggs."

When Fiona asked what I wanted, given this absolute refusal to prepare my eggs in one of the most common ways available, I simply said, "Well, nothing then, I guess," and we left.

After leaving, we walked up towards what we call Jericho (whether it is or not, that's what we call it) as we had previously seen some good looking restaurants up that way. We ended up in a French cafe that was perfectly happy to serve me filter coffee, and scrambled eggs with toast. Fiona enjoyed eggs benedict (on brioche, not english muffins).

So, for the rest of the day we've been wondering what the heck is so freaking difficult about scrambling an egg? And why are some proprietors so reluctant to do really simple things to keep their customers happy, or in our case, keep them at all?

On our walk, I did snap some photos of baby birds. Here's the detail from one of them, with tiny little nubbins of wings, trying to fly:


Here's a broader view:



A final few views from the park: