Cleveland -- If not for . . .

I'd heard it said that if not for the city of New Orleans, with its chicory-roasted coffee, plates of sausage, and beignets, and also for San Francisco, with its hot croissants, organic fruit jam, and fresh-ground coffee, and possibly New York, with its hot bialys and bowls of steamed prunes, Cleveland would have been considered the "City of Breakfasts." Accordingly, I was not disappointed by the Muffin Pit, by my two eggs, over easy with a side of bacon, or by my couple of pieces of wheat toast and two of those puffy donuts on the side, all prepared by a balding, unshaven, foreign-looking, yet somehow curiously at home counterman in a grease-spattered apron. Our orders were delivered, along with a handsome square container of grape preserves, two glasses of orange juice, and two cups of coffee, by a grandmotherly waitress wearing a yellowed doily crown atop her stringy gray hair. I had been keyed up for the meeeting, but, needless to say, I suddenly found my appetite.

from Erased by Jim Krusoe