I missed my Wednesday target, as if anyone cares. Just as I missed those eight-minute limits before the time-keeper belled me: be-off, Fletch.
Sunday morning at Einstein's is even more fun than a visit to COSTCO. Fun? Sure! At COSTCO, watch a cross-section of America troop buy -- b.u.y, pun intended -- all sizes and shapes, ages and colors, speaking all sorts of languages to one another and heavily accented English to me and other white Euro-Americans. Bankers wives and Bangladeshi restaurant owners pushing carts loaded with 50# bags of rice (no, not the banker's wife.) The miracle of America: it would set Vance's and Stephen Miller's teeth on edge.
Einsteins is not that scale, of course, not quite that busy; it's just a little storefront bagel shop on Mercer Island, bagels going out the door instead of rice, but just as varied a clientele. And what a business they do!
Bill and Frank and John and I have been meeting there for years; I look forward to Sunday morning all week, particularly now that I have not been seeing the guys on Thursdays. Sometimes Scott or Tim or Frank's buddy Ralph joins us for an hour of sharing news and swapping lies (and listening to Frank.)
My choice is always an open-faced Nova Scotia lox on plain or Asiago or Florentine Spinach, toasted of course, with schmeer, tomato, and onion. The bagels are cooked on site from pre-proofed dough prepared in Einstein's central commissary. Yes, it's a chain, a franchise, but still pretty special in great part because of staff. Like the bar on Friends "where everyone knows your name": Tracy and John and Two-thumbs up Susie and Millie with the corn-rowed hair and a smile that lights up the room -- they know us, who we are, what we've done, what we like.
As at COSTCO, even on Mercer Island, white, black and brown. kids and grandparents, foreign dialects and accents, and friendly smiles and greetings. It's MI's bagel place -- all of ours. And the costumes -- OMG. Anything goes: flannel pj-bottoms, biking shorts and helmets, warm-ups and hoodies, tennis dresses, yoga pants, and our John in his church outfit -- it's all there.
Last Sunday, we realized we had not seen for the last few weeks a lovely, elderly couple -- Sunday morning regulars, like us. He tall, reserved and refined. She, once tall but now terribly stooped with years weighing down her spine, yet shadows of that youthful tennis player and classy grace still flikered there. They would arrive via pick-up truck, (pick-up truck? He a well known retired, socially prominant, orthopedic surgeon? 'T'was hard not to like these folks.) They would greet us with a smiling "good morning"; share the Sunday Seattle Times together, enjoying the hubb-ub around us.
We worried that something may have befallen them, particularly to her who seemed so frail, but no. Gimpy John, who knows us all, assured us they were OK but were selling their lakeside home and removing to La Jolla where they have another. The sun is probably good for her back.
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Sunday mornings at Einsteins: come and join us there. 8:30. Try the Nova Lox -- and be prepared to listen to Frank awhile.
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