Dockers Grill
It’s a wonder Sparky and Junior ever made it. After Lang Dang gave directions to his favourite “greasy spoon” to the geographically challenged Agent M and he relayed them to the pair, they found themselves deep inside Stanley Park before realizing that they’d run out of numbers on Hastings Street, indeed, they’d run out of Hastings Street altogether. It may well have been the Thompson Twins calling to Junior from his mental well of 80s rock hits telling him “east is east” that set him on the path to our eventual rendezvous.
We ended up arriving at the same time (and a little late) to find Agent M looking lonelier than a Seymour Street hooker on Christmas, and his bitterness found voice when he asked about my new uber-hip shades “hey Duck, are those your girlfriend’s sunglasses?” Fuck off.
We took our seats to find first and subsequent coffees prompt and on-the-money, although the flavour was suspiciously truck-stop, which is to say it had achieved a kind of common-denominator appeal that left you with just short of enough substance to actually have something about which to complain.
The servers were another matter. Sugary-sweet mom-types who just wanna make sure you get a good wholesome start to your day (although one of the many mottos “we don’t care when you get up, we’ll make breakfast for you whenever you like!” suggests the ‘early-bird-gets-the-worm’ paradigm was not adopted by this particular household). These servers made you wanna run home, call mom and tell her you love her, no matter how young you were when she left.
I couldn’t place my finger firmly on the design rationale behind this place, but much as you’d never question mom’s family room or dad’s garage, we graciously accepted the retro Coca Cola boards, Johnny Walker mirrors, laminate table-tops and Bill Haley commanding us to “rock around the clock”. I would have thought fifties diner if I hadn’t noticed the conspicuously modern beverfridge (which also housed the ketchup and creamers – hey, at least that way we all KNOW it’s fresh).
Have you ever tried to give a “special order” to mom? I was visibly cringing when Agent M ordered his $6.95 French Toast “with brown bread please”. I was pleasantly surprised however to see only a look of mild confusion on mom’s face, followed by “OK”. This acquiescence was confirmed upon delivery as the dish arrived not only based in the desired level of wheat, but was judged a high-quality rendition of the breakfast classic due to the “trailing egg” on all sides of the bread. All this coming from a kitchen that’s on the way to the bathroom? Thumbs up from Agent M.
Now, I don’t believe it’s an exercise in hyperbole to say that every breakfast consumer on this planet has one single requirement that when unmet, leaves said consumer shaken with dissatisfaction: virgin butter. There’s something unmistakable about knowing you’re the first to slip into that soft mound and spread the contents luxuriously over your chosen grain. Today, this was not to be. No, today’s butter arrived flecked, speckled, sprinkled and visibly unpure, suggesting this particular container of butter had slutted it up with other diners that day and been many-times deflowered. With the rest of the crew ready to jump ship, Junior put on the brave face of the King’s Tester, boldly spread some on a corner of bread, and slipped it into his maw. To everyone’s relief, his proclamation was “cinnamon! Who doesn’t like cinnamon!” Phew, another diner-debacle averted.
Sparky avoided the entire conflict by ordering herself scrambled eggs, which came complete with pre-buttered toast at the sweet deal price of only $3.50. Her conclusion: “well toasted, good amount of butter.” Spoken like a true connoisseur.
It was quiet and quick, but truly a treat to have Junior and Sparky back on the Armada’s decks. Welcome back mateys!
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