I hesitated to tell the tattooed counterman at Good Eats he had a body odor problem. Someone should’ve pulled him aside long ago and mentioned the invention of deodorant, or the low cost and efficacy of soap and water. When he delivered my pancakes and sausages with another whoosh of stank, my appetite fled. Seated beside me, my buddy Carmine savaged his eggs Benedict. When he turned and asked about my food, moving his bloated face too close to mine and causing my eyes to water and my jaw to twitch, I realized that I had egregiously misjudged the counterman.
Salvatore Difalco lives up Toronto way.