chillow

Nothing quite like waking up at 8am on a Saturday, scoring a table by the window at a neighborhood cafe, and lounging for an hour over a good cup of coffee and the New York Times. (I'm slowly adding the SF Chronicle to my leisurely read mix, too, but I imagine it'll take a while to adapt completely.) We hit
Mama's Royal Cafe, apparently a neighborhood institution, for the first time.

My short stack of perfectly fluffy buttermilk pancakes was way more than I could eat--and probably the best I've had in years. Must say that Bay Area pancakes are far superior to their chewy, institional cousins found in Manhattan. Loved Mama's diversity, too, which mirrors Oakland's incredible diversity. Love when I go places and most people don't look like me! And the 20-something servers' get-ups reminded me of the garb my Japanese junior high students piled on on the weekends. (As far as they could get from their conservative blue skirt/white sailor-top uniform.) In other words, the servers look like they got dressed blindfolded, with varying patterns and colors vying for my attention. Yet it worked. Must say I don't understand the look a male server was sporting, though--the waist of his jeans rested right at the lower nip of his taut little butt, with an expanse of yellow-green and purple striped boxers blaring out above. Feel like my mother (or any mother) for saying this, but what is the point? Can that possibly be comfortable? And how the heck do such low jeans stay up at all?

Oh, and I read an article in the Times about a guy who killed his wife and chopped off her head, then hurled the head out the window of his pick-up truck while speeding down the freeway, then crashed his truck into an oncoming car, killing two (more) people. Of course, he didn't die. The fucker.