I walk down College Street, struggling against the throng of Torontonians moving briskly in the opposite direction to try and escape the cold weather. As I get within sight of Fran’s diner I only have one, pervading thought: it is time to eat.

As I walk in the front door, before I even have a chance to unzip my jacket, a gruff voice sounds:

-    Just one?

Without even waiting for a response she takes a menu and motions for me to follow her to a booth near the window. She is everything I hope to encounter in an experienced diner waitress: An overweight, stern mistress of her craft with hair pulled back as tightly as her follicles will allow. She even looks at me suspiciously as I stare at her to put together a profile. Perfect.

But wait a second; far from severe, as I would have thought, she stops by a moment later.

-    Hi love, can I get you something to drink before you get started?

I order a drink of water while I mull over the menu, which she hands over quickly,

-    Here you go honey.

served with a wedge that must be a quarter of the lemon. I squeeze the lemon into my glass and as I suck the juice off of my fingers a blue-collar worker comes in to eat. I am pleased to see he wears a large dusty salt-and-pepper moustache below his strong features. When asked how he’s doing he answers simply,

-    Hungry.

and smirks, ordering a burger with a coffee. When she finishes taking his order she returns to me and I take full advantage of an all-day breakfast menu by requesting an Herb & Cheese Omelette – a three egg affair that makes use of feta cheese to accompany the plethora of herbs: basil, dill, cilantro and parsley. She takes my order and after I thank her she says,

-    You’re welcome, sweetie!

effectively peppering me with three sweet pseudonyms without repeating herself once. She continues to dart up and down the aisles, appeasing all ten of her tables – it is the dinner rush and she has her hands full.

The entire restaurant is a tribute to the city, proudly showing scenes of Toronto on its walls with cheerful servers, old aluminum fans, big disk lights and comfy pastel-coloured booths, a glass display at the entrance containing old hats, fliers and memorabilia outlining the history of the diner, all creating an ambiance that’s about as honest as you can get.

As I finish taking in my surroundings, my omelette is placed delicately in front of me, handily beating the ten-minute mark – home fries and toast swarm the fat omelette that jockeys for space after a liberal stuffing of feta. I decide to order a beer with my meal because honestly, nothing beats eating breakfast with an oat soda at 6:30pm on a Monday. My waitress brings it to me in a chilled glass after warming up some coffees.

The omelette is incredible, but saturated with cilantro, so beware if that isn’t your particular herb. The semi-dry edges are also worth mentioning, a problem I constantly run up against in my experience with omelettes. Fear not Fran’s! I will one day come up with a solution and spread the word! Though I must say... dry edges aside, this is one of the best damn omelettes I’ve ever had in my life. The feta cheese beautifully compliments the herbs and the presentation is fantastic – a few slices of toast and the mountain of home fries tie the meal off nicely. Even the ketchup bottle I use has no corporate brand but proudly shows off the Fran’s logo instead, their tradition standing up against changing times.

As I wait for the bill to be rung through a woman with tightly coiled orange hair walks through the entrance accompanied by a shout from inside the restaurant. My waitress rushes forward to give this woman a warm welcome, complete with bone crushing hug and a kiss on the cheek. The orange haired woman bears the welcome well, grinning as she sits in her section and is brought a glass of red wine along with some conversation, catching up on what must have been a prolonged absence.

My bill arrives with a few mints, a slogan printed on them that sums up the diner in a way that I can’t do better myself: “Welcome Home to Fran’s”. I sign my cheque with a flourish, a smile and then begin packing up my things to be on my way, lingering to soak up as much of the room as humanly possible before leaving.

Fran’s Bill:

1 Herb and Cheese Omelette (with toast and home fries): $8.99
1 Bottle Molson Canadian: $4.55
TOTAL (tax included): $15.40

As I walk around the corner onto Yonge Street I see a few places that physically make me cringe: A Hoops sports bar and a McDonalds. I am not just asking but begging you that if you are in the area, spring the extra few dollars and go to Fran’s. Forego the fast food and go to a place that welcomes you with character and charisma. Seriously a good move.

...

Days later I force myself to wake up at a reasonable hour and get ready to leave, arriving at Queen’s Park Station before 11:30 and hoping that the Café la Gaffe serves breakfast until noon – I’ve already been to this place once before but brilliantly arrived for their dinner menu, ignoring the fact that unless specifically advertised a restaurant never hosts an all day breakfast. Trying to beat the clock I rush to the café and after a server greets me I ask if they are still serving breakfast, receiving a devastating headshake.

-    We don’t have breakfast, we serve lunch now.

So are you serving omelettes? My subtext is desperate – I can’t keep coming back to this place! – but this time mercifully they nod, narrowly averting an unnecessarily close call.

-    We have one omelette today: A western served with smoked salmon and vegetables.

Well that is what I’m here for, so I say sure, receiving a final nod. Did I just officially order? It would appear so as I am told to sit in any seat I wish without any motion towards a menu, so I choose a small window table. As I wait I am brought a glass of water and a basket of bread.

A large white, yet shallow bowl arrives with my omelette accompanied by a noticeably poor salad – I see that some of the leaves are quite brown. I take a tentative bite and although they’ve added just the right amount of olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette to veil the taste of dying leaves, they should not be serving dying lettuce at all. So I turn my attention to the omelette still steaming with heat and boy, it’s a monster – the height easily spans an inch when folded and these fluffy eggs smell excellent. I take my first forkful and perplexed, open the omelette to look for the cheese. Oh it’s there, the cheddar just added in minimal quantity and certainly nowhere near the edges. I take another forkful and salmon slaps my tongue, smoked but nowhere near fresh. The vegetables are well cooked – peppers, onions and scallions accompany the thoughtful addition of leeks, a vegetable I have had few previous encounters with, but I can’t even taste most of them! Even the green onion, a distinct favourite of mine, is effectively masked by the overwhelming presence of salmon. I am actually struggling to finish – the portion is large and overpowering and when I eat through the centre and look at my other edge I know I’ll be left without enough cheese to merit another bite.

The two servers at the café chat the whole time, alternatively refilling my water. The first is a tall, friendly student fretting about exams on the horizon, wearing a pink top and brown leather boots while her counterpart is older and thin featured, an overall disagreeable woman wearing a white apron over her jeans and a white top under an orange shirt, her lip upturned in constant irritation. As I look around the restaurant she aims a gaunt, angry scowl at the floor that causes me to avert my gaze in alarm, but she notices anyway and, covering her features with a look that appears to be agreeable, strolls over to ask if I’m finished my meal. I tell her I am and she walks away, sitting down in plain sight. Her eyes glaze over; she slumps down in her seat and utters a single syllable,

-    Oi..

officially giving up on her day.

I wait patiently for my orange shirted server to bring me the bill but she keeps her seat, unaffected by my inquisitive glances. Pink shirt comes forward and I am asked for a second time if I am finished – I bluntly say yes and that I want my bill. She seems to understand I haven’t had the best experience and cautiously answers,

-    Sure…

She takes my credit card and finally moves Orange shirt who rings it through, the bill clattering on the table when she thanks me with a pout. I sign the cheque and leave, even though I need to wait for Katje who’ll be arriving in ten minutes. I’d rather wait under some cover in the rain than stay in a small room packed with negative vibes.

Café la Gaffe bill:

1 Large Omelette: $9.75
TOTAL (tax included): $11.02

...I feel a little ripped off.

...

The next day I stay in and make my own omelette, which I am proud to say vastly exceeds Café la Gaffe’s offering and is at least comparable to Fran’s, without the appealing addition of feta that is. I have added as much mozzarella that can fit, making sure to include cheese in the edges. I have modest toppings, using only baby spinach and broccoli fried up with olive oil and a blend of spices I picked up from the grocery store –  Indian Masala, one step seasoning! My omelette falls apart slightly as I guide it off the pan but hey, I don’t need any fancy presentation for a meal of my own and I think in the process I’ve found the key to a successful omelette: more cheese than you know what to do with.

I am really disappointed in Café la Gaffe… while my first experience was great the subsequent one ruined it entirely. I will not officially give up as the soup was phenomenal on my first visit, exceeding Fran’s in that one respect alone, but I will surely not return before the summer – apparently their patio is worth it. The entire meal just felt like a lifeless contender trying to compete with the surrounding restaurants; the café just seems out of its element. Happier staff can turn a restaurant experience around completely, which is all I can hope for Café la Gaffe. On the other hand, Fran’s cannot do any more for me. The food at Fran’s is good but I’ll return for a piece of Toronto’s history, the ambiance and the good vibes more than anything; nothing that happens around my meal is overtly negative and the servers are really on the ball – definitely an eatery you can truly rely on in the years to come.