As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to patronize Smut-N-Eggs.

It's true. I remember when I was young and 18. It's so much different now that I'm old and 23. Funny how life changes. Back then, the world was my omelette. I was living the good life-- not residing in the dorms, but occasionally sleeping there after a night at a house party. With four rather saintly and older/of-age housemates, one of the first surprising things I had learned from them about town was Bennett's infamous Smut-N-Eggs.

After five years of hearing, fantasizing, and concocting plans to go to Bennett’s after nights of moderately drinking, I had still passed ship on actually taking up a stool at the restaurant. I still remember keenly one specific outing I missed, around the Fourth of July last year. I had worked my tri-annual third shift weekend at an answering service, and a fellow telephone agent called in on the PC-recorded work main line to tell me that she and another coworker were feasting on chili dogs there at six in the morning. God, I was starving, and the VHS-recorded lascivious moaning in the background made those hot dogs sound so good.

Some might call my morning a dream, even though I lacked the REM to justify it. As my roommate returned from her evening out at six this morning, I awoke to her in her bedroom, quite confused and quite vocal about it. Nothing would console her. Being that I had two whole hours before I had to be “awake” and ”at work,” I did the only thing I could do in that situation. I spoke as a voice of clarity, and appeared as a vision of true and pure beauty, as one might expect a Kendrafrank to look like at that hour, and me without my curlers. I took her hand and whispered, “Let’s go to Bennett’s.”

We walked the block and a half, with my wheezing from smoking-induced asthma kept to a minimum with a cigarette for the three-minute jaunt down Vilas and around the corner to Park Street. There was a red door. We opened it.

There were booths and a bar after a small kitchen to our right as quickly as we entered. No sooner were our really nice behinds warming up the cold stools then did one of the most-friendly waitresses come up for our IDs and our breakfast orders. I almost thought I was at a Waffle House the service was so good, even when said roommate needed our freshly presented Smut Muffin and French Toast packed up in the to-go boxes, as she had to first empty her stomach in order to fill it, as a Jungian philosopher once put it. The celery salt and proper Tabasco sauce sat side by side on the table, next to the salt and pepper. If those two pairs were married couples, I’d never pick the latter to hang out with on a Saturday night.

It was worth the five-years-wait. I made an important discovery today, as well. Smut-N-Eggs isn’t just for Sunday morning anymore. Also, I never should sleep on the couch again if I want a decent night’s shut-eye.