The Sunday Morning Power Breakfast

My Sundays needed a rebrand. A revamped philosophy for just how I would spend the only day absent from work or amusement. For years, I subscribed to the belief that Sundays were for rest. I’d sink into my couch, generally a little weak from the weekend revelry, and lock into a few films or 7 hours of commercial-free football. However, upon entering the workforce, I became confronted with the looming fear of mortality a mindless desk job can conveniently provide. I realized Sundays were too finite to spend in a dark living room and instead began accomplishing tasks I had put off for months. My weeks became more organized. I, in turn, became more civilized. Sundays became the life hack every time management book preaches it can be. But the fulfillment my newfound productivity provided soon became addictive. Just how many more tasks can I complete? Just how much doper will my pad look if I put my fruits and snacks in glass jars? Well, guess what? My pad does look dope. But I have spent the majority of my recent Sundays sweating in parking lots, viciously u-turning on Venice Boulevard, and coordinating 7 loads of laundry in and out of my building’s sole washer/dryer unit. I began to feel like my own personal assistant. Andy Sachs and Miranda Priestly all at once. Tasked with making my life increasingly convenient - I realized I wasn’t making it any easier. So I woke up last Sunday ready to re-imagine just what the day could become. I wouldn’t abandon errands altogether. Maybe I’d pick up that can opener from Home Goods but leave my dry cleaning in the trunk for next weekend. I’d find balance between productivity and wellness. My Sundays would once again become my own and I knew exactly where to begin. 

Breakfast. 

The Pluto of meals. Shunned by both science and culture. A demilitarized wasteland, gutted by intermittent fasting and refrigerated oats. Secretly, however, we all know a long and robust breakfast has certain healing powers. I felt confident that a Sunday morning feast would soon become religion amongst everyone I knew. But I’d have to lead by example before any disciples followed. So that Sunday, it would just be me. I took a nice walk through the neighborhood to The OP Cafe in Santa Monica. Once seated at the small countertop, I ordered an Americano and bacon omelet. Obviously, I went with potatoes as my side (I don’t pay restaurants to dump cold fruit on my plate). I felt comfortable at the OP Cafe. It’s a unique establishment where the rapid coffee-refill-culture of an East Coast Greek diner collides with the selective menu and rustic surfer aesthetic of the pleasant Los Angeles breakfast joint. The food is great, L.A.’s only two radio genres - mariachi and Tik Tok - don’t piss through a terrible Bluetooth speaker, and service is chummy yet diligent. It was a near-perfect joint for my newfound power breakfast. However, my greatest discovery wasn't the location but instead how much I enjoyed power breakfasting alone. I was in search of a time to exhale, recollect, and reconfigure. All I needed was a place where nobody knew my name. I ate great food and sipped on two cups of coffee. I skimmed through the free local paper and some articles on my phone. For a while, I even just sat there doing absolutely nothing. It was a spa with bacon - no sharing allowed. So while I imagined my Sunday Power Breakfast would be a practice you’d all like to join me in, I’ve updated my proposal. If you find yourself at The OP Cafe on Sunday mornings, I politely ask that you keep your distance. I’ll be there on my Solo Power Breakfast and I suggest you do the same. But if not at The OP, find a corner bistro in your neck of the woods. A joint that’s nostalgic yet new - like The OP is for yours truly. Then find yourself a table for one. Finish the crossword. Indulge in some pig-slaughtered bacon and that second cup of coffee. Take a moment to communicate with you and nobody else. Most importantly, be a stranger in a crowded room, if just for a moment on a Sunday Morning, at your Solo Power Breakfast