Yesterday the wife offered to take me out to breakfast on my last day off. I chose Shopsin's because I heard that Kenny Shopsin wrote a cookbook and I was hoping to get him to sign one for me.
Shopsin's isn't really a restaurant, it's a collection of four or five tables arranged in the corner of an indoor marketplace. There are no signs that say "Shopsins" but you can usually hear Kenny Shopsin cursing up a storm as soon as you enter the market.
Yesterday Kenny was in a great mood and took our order with a smile and joke. That's good since I'm kind of terrified of him. When I asked him about his cookbook, he told me to go to a bookstore.
We ordered an egg sandwich, a burrito and sliders to share. The sous chef -- who I've heard is Kenny's son -- came out and said, "There's no way you're going to eat all of that shit. Fucking assholes."
The food, as always, was amazing.
When the check came, the wife looked at me and asked, "How much do you tip when they call you a fucking asshole?" We settled on twenty percent.
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