I arrived at Times Square at 8:30 this morning, ready to save a place in line for the 10:55 Matrix Reloaded for my three officemates. There were very few people hanging out yet in front of the AMC Empire 25 (hereinafter referred to as the "Escalator to Heaven"), however, so I set off in search of coffee and breakfast.
I found Sam's Bar & Restaurant not far from the Playpen on 8th Avenue. It looked suitably dinerlike and reasonable full, so I ambled on in and got a table. The waitresses all looked tough and spoke with Irish accents. The room had absolutely no charm. It seemed perfect.
Then I looked at the menu. Among my breakfast choices: Pancakes, Waffles ... Freedom Toast.
Double-take.
I'd heard of this phenomenon in the news, of course, but somehow never thought I'd witness it with my own eyes. Freedom Toast. God help us.
I almost decided to leave. Apparently, though, I'm not really as principled as I'd like to think, because it had been a long walk to find a place to eat and I was groggy and didn't want to continue the hunt. So I stayed.
But I resolved that as a necessary condition of my staying, I would order the offending item by its proper name and strike my own small blow against this country's idiotic and misguided provincialism. (Poor maligned Joseph French, the early American tavernkeeper who invented the popular delicacy still named for him!)
The waitress asked for my order, and in my boldest voice I said, "French toast with bacon and scrambled eggs, and coffee, please."
My defiance went unremarked, and possibly even unnoticed. And my food was delicious.
