For the fourth time since my arrival, I entered the small eatery. Before I could utter a sound, the woman behind the counter spoke. “The usual?”
"The usual," Doris said, setting down sunny side up, wheat toast, hot tea. Exactly as I have ordered it every Thursday for two months.
THE USUAL. I had heard this phrase in your films and assumed it was reserved for detectives and cowboys. No one told me it could be conferred upon ME. No one tells you it arrives without ceremony, one Thursday you are a customer, the next you are KNOWN, and the eggs are moving before the door finishes its bell.
I want to be precise about the scale of what Doris does, because I have studied her like a strategist. She tracks the orders of perhaps two hundred regulars IN HER HEAD. No ledger. Carl: black coffee, short stack. The deputy: scrambled, bacon "almost burnt, not burnt, ALMOST." Me: the eggs of the rising sun, wheat, tea.
When Carl's doctor changed his orders, the short stack became oatmeal WITHOUT CARL ASKING, and Carl, a large man, went quiet in a way the whole counter pretended not to see. That is not food service, America. That is GUARDIANSHIP, conducted at six a.m., while calling everyone "hon."
In Japan, a tea master might study a single guest for years to anticipate one preference. It is high art. Doris does it at scale, before sunrise, in orthopedic shoes.
"The usual" is not an order. It is a TITLE. It means a place has watched you arrive enough mornings to bet eggs on your return. Citizenship, issued one plate at a time.
A man does not ask to be known. He arrives every Thursday until he is.
This morning, drunk on my new rank, I tested its borders. "Doris," I said. "Surprise me."
The counter went still. Carl turned fully around.
Doris narrowed her eyes. Studied me like a hand of cards. And ruled:
"...You'll have the usual. But I'm putting the jam on the side. You're not a surprise guy, hon."
JAM ON THE SIDE.
She was completely right, America. The jam was excellent. Carl nodded once, like a judge. I am not a surprise guy. I am a usual guy.
Fifty-four years and one waitress to learn it, and I have never been more at peace.
The jam is part of the usual now. She never asked. She knew. Of course she knew. She's Doris.