You're feeling some breakfast, right? Should we see what the line is like at Plow?
That doesn't look like too many people outside, does it? It's only 10:23, right? It's not like it's 11:30 or something.
What's that, they're around the corner? And down the block? Damn. Seriously, San Francisco, this has to stop. We beg of you. Can't one neighborhood gem remain hidden?
Well, might as well put our name in. We're here, right? I'll go ask how long it is. You look for parking.
An hour and a half? An hour and a half. F*ck. On a Thursday? God, the nerve of these people. We want that picturesque avocado toast for ourselves. Or maybe THE plow. There's nothing as good nearby, is there? Or really, anywhere?
No? God, an hour and a half is so long though. For breakfast? I'm hungry. Let's bounce. Next time we'll come back at 8. Those lemon ricotta pancakes have been mine before, and they will be again.
A heck of a looker, with a sexy poached egg on top. If you can get it, you should.
Just order all the carbohydrates here. There's really no way to go wrong. Don't want to give you too much guidance, FOLLOW YOUR HEART.
Eggs. Meat. Pancakes. Potatoes. Basically the Beatles of Breakfast-time. You can guess which one is Ringo. It's potatoes. The potatoes are Ringo.
The pancakes are Paul. Kind of a teenybopper pick, but still pretty awesome in the end.