Every Sunday after church I make omelets for brunch. Ham, mushrooms and shredded cheese. My wife likes them and so do I. Add-ons to the meal include fresh fruit, cheese or sometimes pastry.
But, why omelets? I wondered. We didn’t have omelets when I was a kid. Even so, the mere thought of an omelet is pleasant, cozy even. Like curling up with a good book.
The answer harks back nearly six decades to a Sunday morning in May when I found myself in St. Louis after an all-night bus ride from Fort Smith, Arkansas where I had just finished army basic training. I had 10 days leave before reporting for my next duty, and I was eager to get home and slip into some civvies for a few days.
As I rubbed sleep from my eyes and lumbered down from the bus, I realized I was hungry. The army had provided a box lunch when they dropped me at the bus depot. But that was hours ago.
The lunch counter at the bus depot was not yet open, and since I had two hours before my next bus, I decided to explore the streets to see what might be available.
The problem was, it was Sunday and very early. Downtown St. Louis was deserted like a scene from a science fiction movie. I watched a paper cup tumble into the street with the wind and sit there undisturbed. There wasn’t a car to be seen, and the only sound was the low rumble of idling busses back at the depot. It was eerie.
After walking past dozens of dark buildings, I was ready to go back to the bus depot. Maybe the lunch counter would be working. That was when I spotted a diner on the other side of the street.
The building had probably been built soon after the end of the war – concrete block with fading paint. Steamed up windows and a flickering neon sign announced it was a diner, and open for business.
Inside, I sat on a stool at the counter and watched the guy at the grill. He cracked eggs into a bowl, whipped them with a whisk and poured them into a pan. Moments later he gave the pan a swish to the side and the eggs magically flipped over. A minute later he sprinkled in chopped ham, mushrooms, green onion and cheese, folded the egg in half, swished again and slid his creation onto a plate.
It was poetry in motion. I ordered an omelet. It was my first.
The rest, as they say, is history. Except, I never learned how to swish the pan and turn the omelet.
