Where Is It?

Why can’t I ask a simple question and get an equally simple answer?  Kellie said we were going to meet her mother and brother for breakfast, and I simply wanted to know where.  It’s a reasonable inquiry, right?

“Kellie, where’s the restaurant?

“It’s on the coast highway?

Now, for those of you who don’t live on the West Coast of the U.S., I need to point out that the Pacific Coast Highway, as the name implies, runs along the Pacific Coast from Mexico to Canada.  Telling me the restaurant is on Pacific Coast Highway is like telling me it’s on the moon.  I was not going to spend my Saturday morning trying to get there.  Kellie was hungry, so I assumed that the establishment in question was probably not too far away, most likely somewhere between San Diego and our home in Oceanside, a span of about 40 miles. In an attempt to narrow down the location a bit further, I began tossing out the names of a few towns along the coast.

“Is it in Encinitas?” 

“No.”

“Is it in Carlsbad?”

“No.”

“Come on,” I pleaded, “how are we going to get there if you don’t even know the town?” 

“We were there before.” 

“I don’t see how that helps us if you don’t remember where it is now.”  

At this point, I was beginning to feel like I had entered the Twilight Zone, although, I must admit, it’s a place I have frequented often since meeting Kellie.  Here comes the unhelpful, irrelevant, and rambling description:

Kellie continued, “You remember, it’s that little restaurant with the surfer theme.  It looks all tropical; there’s bamboo everywhere.  Old skateboards are mounted along the top of walls and there are a few old wooden surfboards scattered about too.  Some of the tables are even made from old wooden surfboards.  One wall is covered with a huge beach mural; it’s very pretty.  The bathrooms have a cool ocean theme; they’re pained blue with colorful fish and sea creatures.  When you enter (the restaurant, not the bathroom), they give you coffee. We sat on large curved benches, sipping coffee,  while waiting for our table.  I made you give up your seat for an old lady.  Last time we were there I had a veggie omelet with home fries and whole wheat toast.  It was so yummy.  I tried to get you to share an entree because the portions are so big, but you had to get your own big stack of pancakes with butter and syrup.  You should make a healthier choice this time, maybe an egg white, veggie omelet with whole wheat toast and jelly, no butter.” 

I don’t need to make healthier food choices.  My demise will not be the result of cardiovascular disease, diabetes, or obesity; those ailments take time to develop.  However, I suspect that I could succumb to a ruptured brain aneurysm at any moment.  Besides, I need pancakes; I periodically require a carbohydrate induced serotonin rush to take me to my happy place.

"KELLIE!” I shouted. (You can tell I was shouting form my use of all capitals.)   “I don’t recall asking you for a damn description of the place.  I just want to know where it is.”

Kellie growled. “You know, sometimes I just want to punch you.”

“Yes, dear, I know the feeling well,” I replied.

She obviously knew exactly where the restaurant was located because she eventually drove directly to it.  The correct response to my initial inquiry was: The Longboarder Cafe, 400 Mission Ave, Oceanside, CA 92054.  I would have given full credit for, “On Mission, in Oceanside.” Only four words – why was that so hard?