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It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it was a dreary Sunday morning a couple of weeks ago. Deep within my soul an eerie discontent was brooding; or maybe I was just hungry. As I surveyed the bleak and depressing landscape, a foreboding sense of dread gripped me and could not be shaken. Well, what really happened was that after trying to do something as simple as take my family to breakfast, I gave up.
The script for this depressing melodrama has repeated itself too often in the past year, so I thought it might bear repeating to you. Maybe it was the rain or maybe it's the time of year, but everyone and his brother seems to be out for breakfast on every Sunday morning these days and trying to eat without waiting in line for at least a half an hour is almost impossible. The painful scenario is always the same. We hit the road around tenish for a waffle, a bagel, some eggs, lox or maybe a stack of flapjacks. First stop, the Original Pancake House on West Charleston. No luck there, the line is out the door and visible from Valley View. Oh well, you think, another week without a scrumptious apple or dutch baby pancake is disappointing, but good for the cholesterol count. Weight the alternatives, I consider the Egg and I for an eggy Cincinnati chili omelet--in about the time it takes for me to rationalize this over the pancakes, we pull in the parking lot and are confronted with a sidewalk overflowing with rugrats. Now it's bottom of the barrel, which means IHOP time. But the entire population of Sun City seems to be on South Decatur, and the coupon clippers have beaten me to the House of Pancakes punch bowl. By now I'm tired of driving, hungry as hell and in a really bad mood. Once again, I have suffered the slings and arrows of Sunday breakfast misfortune in Las Vegas. The only solution, lunch, but I'll describe that next week on Food For Thought here on KNPR, Nevada Public Radio.
This is John Curtas.