The missus and I had breakfast at Bob Evans today (the Homestead Breakfast, if you follow that link.) The waitress (probably about 20 years old) asked me how I wanted my eggs, and I said “hard-boiled.” She looked at me as if I’d asked for my eggs “cross-bleezled, with a sprinkle of Halon” or something.
“Um, do you mean ‘over hard?’”
“No, hard-boiled will be fine.”
“Hold on, I have to check if we have ‘hard-boiled’ eggs…” (she’s still looking at me as though my head might, at any moment, rotate 360 degrees.)
She disappears for about 20 seconds, presumably to ask one of her cow-orkers whether she knows anything about these ‘harte-boyled’ eggs of which I speak.
“I’m sorry, we don’t cook eggs that way. Would you like them over hard?”
(Hesitatingly) “No, I’ll have them over easy.” (I guess she’d heard of those. They came out fine.)
I have never been one to sacrifice my appetite on the altar of appearance.
— A.M. Readyhough