Whenever we can afford to, Sarah and me like to try out a new place to see how well it sits with our delicate culinary sensibilities.

And, truth be told, we are actually pretty snobby about food. Now that I’m thinking about it, we’re fairly uptight about our drink too.

And for good reason, I figure — now matter where you go, you’re paying for what you get, so why not get the best deal for your money?

When it comes to food, cheapest is hardly the best, but neither is the most expensive. It’s those in-between gems that manage to put together a tasty, filling meal at a great price that we focus on — sensible satiety.

Every once in a while we manage to get a few words in with the owner, or the head chef, or whoever has just delivered a meal worth writing about. Most of the time, though, we sit back unmolested and are thus able to bring you genuine reviews.

Hence the new link at the top of the site ↑↑↑

Just not all the time, cuz that gets expensive.

Okay, to be fair, I had a hankering for packaged pancakes and fake maple syrup on Sunday, so in that respect I found the New York Cafe Restaurant Bar & Eatery satisfying. Aside from the fact that Sarah has nice memories of the place, however, I can’t dredge up enough reasons for coming back. The prices were reasonable, but I would attribute that more to Aunt Jemima’s influence than to smart cooking. The staff were friendly enough, and the decor cheerful, but if you ask me those things should be secondary to the food. Maybe it’s because the Cafe is trying to be everything at once which, as is aptly demonstrated, usually results in not being good at anything in particular, but for a Danforth staple you’d think they’d have gotten over that problem by now.

New York, you should be ashamed of yourself.

After my last assignment, I’m sure you’ll understand why I had to lay low for a while. This is a dangerous town and I had to make sure that when I popped my head back up, I wasn’t going to get it blown off. With my Walther PPK strapped snugly against my ribcage, I straightened my tie and headed out.

This time it would be to the George Street Diner.

It seemed pretty far off the radar. Nice spacious outside views from every booth so as to avoid an unwanted side of sneaky assassin with my breakfast. The booths were those proper squishy diner kind that would require close-quarters combat, but that was okay. More fun. And if the contact who was to meet me there proved to be uncooperative with me, the vintage stools at the counter would provide a good place for a quick and painful Q&A. My Q, his A.

I placed my order for the regular; the measure of a greasy spoon’s worth: the bacon & egg special. It doesn’t matter if it’s not called a “special” in this particular establishment, they should know exactly what you mean. Besides, I had ways of letting the female staff know exactly what I meant that didn’t require any talking. The only other male in the place was the kind who’d be the first to catch a bullet in the forehead in a gun fight. Mental note: human shield.

About $9 later, the chipper young waitress brought me breakfast: two eggs, four strips of well-done bacon, a healthy helping of home fries, and toast. Except…what was this? The toast seemed to be coated entirely in some sort of yellow grease. Maybe it was some strange intensely-coloured butter coating or — they were trying to poison me.

My mind started to race. If I kept my heart rate down, I could probably plug each of these yahoos and manage to make it back to my place for an antidote. Unless there were more of them out of sight.

So it began.

I reached slowly, ever so slowly for the holster while at the same time inching the bread towards my mouth. I unclipped the strap and gently tugged at the gun, releasing the safety. I passed the bread slowly under my nose; no detectable odours other than butter. Great. That left about one-thousand other possible toxins.

My senses went into top mode; I was aware of every creak and squeak around me; could see every motion reflected in the stainless steel backboard that ran the length of the restaurant. I could feel sweat gathering on my brow; my hand tightening on the Walther PPK as the bread passed my lips. This was it…death time.

Oops, my mistake. Just butter.

Good butter too, or a pretty good imitation. The bread was soft and moist and caused me to relax my grip on the gun. It was still a very unnatural colour but…no poison. It looked like the staff were regular civvies so I wouldn’t have to kill them after all. It would have been a shame to destroy all the kitsch on the walls though. Some of it looked genuinely old and all of it belonged in an old-time diner like that.

I dug into the meal; bacon was good and crispy; eggs were well done and adequately greasy; organic coffee was dark and a good complement to the meal. The place was licensed but it didn’t look like they’d be able to serve me a proper Martini.

I finished my coffee slowly, waiting for my contact who was now five minutes late. The bill came promptly and I got up to leave. For a man with as many enemies as me, it was foolish to wait around any longer.

Nice place, I thought as I adjusted my Italian silk tie. Good atmosphere and great decor, but nothing explosive about the breakfast. Just as well, I suppose.

Then I spot him, my contact, running down George Street with my suitcase, being chased by a very tall man with what looks like…metal…for teeth and a very nasty looking gun shooting at — my suitcase.

Damn, that makes me mad.

Between stealing government secrets and sleeping with unbelievable women, I recall when I’d have some time to spend with the weekend newspaper; just me and the weighty Saturday Star or, if I’d forgotten to pick one up, a yucky morning yarn with Christie Blatchford and the Sun. It didn’t matter that much either way because I was young, licensed to kill, and coffee was always the first thing on the table at the local breakfast nook.

Recently it’s gotten real bad. Where I used to have a chance to read of my covert  yet well publicized exploits of the previous day, I now barely have time to get through one story before the bacon’s hit the table. In fact, the order’s in the kitchen the moment my foot hits the establishment’s floor. That’s bad juju for a man with no name and a price on his head.

It’s sad to see how much the quality has slipped.

Chew Chew’s Diner used to be a reliably shady spot where I could relax with a paper and surveil my targets. I now have to resort to poring over the comics with after-breakfast coffee and sometimes wonder whether I should even bother bringing a paper anymore. Other than its use  for covertly delivering microfilm or defending against knife attacks, I barely get a quarter’s worth out of  it.

At least not everything in the place has gone to hell. I get a smile and a “good morning, Patrick” from the staff who’s names I’ve yet to learn (I’m hard that way and change for no one). The interior of the place is one I assume to be inspired by fifties’ java joints; red booths, stainless steel, and espionage-efficient layout running the length of the narrow eatery. It has remained spotless and surveillance-bug-free since my first visit, and I have no reason to suspect that the kitchen has betrayed me. Yet.

I await the day when I run afoul of a nefarious international spy ring or organized crime syndicate. I’d be pretty easy to poison (in the relaxed way befitting a weekend), with my clockwork order of the three-egg breakfast, brown toast, and coffee. Black.

One day, perhaps a few years from now, I might get the waffles. Today, I live dangerously.

I can thus provide an expert examination of the staple plate that every good breakfast place must have. Chew Chew’s keeps it simple, starting out with a couple of healthy looking pieces of fruit that, in the context of the plate are there mostly for colour. Healthy’s on the next page. If you want hard liquor with a side of steely death, I believe they’re licensed too (don’t quote me on that).

A proper field agent breakfast includes eggs. A whole new paragraph just for eggs? Yup. They may not be much in a gun fight but they’re pretty versatile otherwise. To mask my pitiless brood, I take mine sunny side up. In order for it to qualify as a proper greasy spoon, a restaurant’s eggs must have a layer of grease that is both thick enough to exhaust repeated attempts to pick them up while being simultaneously thin enough for there to be more egg than grease. Chew Chew’s walks this tightrope with deft, almost deadly precision, producing eggs that are both tasty and impossible to get on the fork. At least, they would be if  “impossible” wasn’t my middle name (no, surprisingly not “danger”).

Enter the bread.

Evenly browned and copiously buttered, the toast comes in unpretentious white and brown. Pumpernickel and other fancy-schmancy breads aren’t on the menu, but you can probably get them if you ask. In my opinion, without proper Beluga caviar and the coldest Cold War Soviet vodka, why bother?

Next the bacon. It’s how I would have wanted Blofeld to die; salty, dried, and crisp. As part of my incredible arsenal of knowledge, I recall watching a training film about the differences between dry and wet cured bacon. My keen eye spotted it on my plate right away; bacon that’s straight as a board. This dry cured strip is a bit less salty, a bit harder to come by, but crisps up nicer and tastes marvelous. (lip smack)

The potatoes are the one thing I could possibly change. The cook adds onions which really puts a damper on my ability to get intimate with the ladies. Plus, they add a funny aftertaste that just doesn’t do anything for anything. Oh well, I guess that’s the kind of danger that goes hand in hand with the hard-edged life I lead.

Orange juice is freshly squeezed. Analyzed by Q branch and came back authentic. Vodka, Florida sunshine, and a golden bullet make for a great ending to a meal. Here’s why:

At this point I’d usually get up to leave but today a heavy hand clasps my left shoulder and pushes me back down into my chair.

I drink the OJ down until there’s only about an inch more at the bottom. I put the glass down, stare Breznedev coldly in the one eye without the patch as he sits to face me, and with ice coursing through my veins I say, “Last chance. If you leave now, I might let you keep the other eye.”

Of course, I’ve no intention of  doing that.

I know that as I take my last gulp of morning happiness,  he’s reaching, infuriated, for his standard issue. I slam the glass back down, the gold bullet that had been laying dormat under the final inch of juice now lazily ricocheting up the inside as if in slow motion. It’s registered by Breznedev’s eye with horror and disbelief as a slim trickle of blood makes its way down his face from a hole in his forehead. The effect is cool beyond words.

“Should’ve looked both ways before crossing me,” I chuckle, thinking how clever the line is on a former nemesis with one eye as I put the smoking gun back into my jacket, pay the reasonable $11 bill, and leave for my first appointment of the day with destiny.

Horrible service, but I’ll probably be back again next week.