Covenant Community Church, Cleveland, USA

Prayer Breakfast
Covenant Community Church
3342 East 119th St.
Cleveland
Ohio
USA

by T.N. Toost

The morning started badly. I’d only gotten a few hours of sleep and, in my grogginess, I had trouble choosing clothes. On the one hand, I wanted to show respect and not under-dress, but on the other I wanted to be comfortable. What if I was in jeans and a t-shirt? Would they turn me away? I half wanted to tempt them to do so, to then ask, What Would Jesus Wear?

When I did get there, my clothes didn’t really matter; it was my skin above the collar and below the cuffs that stood out. As I’d suspected, the congregation was entirely black. Well, aside from two middle-aged white women sitting in the front. I immediately thought of Fight Club, of Jack branding Marla a “tourist.” These women weren’t there for the right reasons. They were there to observe, then go back to their middle-class white suburb feeling like they’d been adventurous, intercultural; like they’d gotten something out of it. My motives, of course, were pure.

We were called to breakfast, where women served small portions of eggs, grits, hash browns, bacon, sausage and a half-Danish. I took my plate, got some orange juice and suddenly realized that women surrounded me. One carried my juice three steps to a table and introduced me around to the women already eating, telling everyone my name and saying that we were family. They referred to me as “brother,” and I thought of a third way, one Derek Zoolander had not anticipated: not as an actual brother, or the way that black people mean it, but as siblings to Jesus, and God’s children. I’m not sure which is more meaningful.

The eggs were astounding – rich, buttery, creamy. A woman found me to put a slice of American cheese on my grits, which was something not everyone got, apparently. The cheese was rubbery and gave some resistance to my teeth, in contrast to the otherwise mushy grits. The Danish was average, the sausage small and dry, the bacon gristly and the orange juice reconstituted.

It was good that there wasn’t much food, as there wasn’t much time to eat before we were called to the central hall. We flooded in, almost choreographed, and I was seated by the organizer in the front. The row of girls across from me started dabbing their eyes daintily just as the program started. It was as if they were pretending to be so moved by what was happening and what was said that they had to make a big deal of it. I thought back to Mark Twain’s descriptions of congregations and imagined them at a tent revival, feeding on the spirit – that is, if the white folk would have let them join in.

The talk was abbreviated. Aaron Hopson, the speaker, only quoted a few verses: Genesis 3:8-9, Peter 5:8, 1 Corinthians 6:12 and 10:23. He mostly talked about drinking, doing drugs and chasing tail. Then, when he was in Daytona Beach, Florida for spring break, drunk and stoned, a man walking down the beach stopped and prayed for him. Hopson started hearing sounds and voices, and had visions of angels and demons. Even in my fatigue it sounded ludicrous.

At first, every time I saw someone stand up to applaud, I did the same, assuming the whole church would join us. That’s what would happen in a white churchgoing audience – like sheep, a critical mass would force everyone to stand and applaud. At this church, though, one person standing meant nothing, nor did fifteen. Some people didn’t even applaud when others wept in jubilation. My girlfriend later told me she always assumed that when a black audience didn’t applaud, they were being rude; I thought they were being honest. Standing ovations are a dime a dozen – I read an op-ed once that called for fewer standing ovations at symphonies, saying they were too cheaply granted. Here, applause had to be earned.

Hopson went through some of the common sins to be guarded against – sins on television, pornography on the internet, smoking, drinking, drugs. Then he said, “Some of you are sleeping with other peoples’ husbands. Some are sleeping with other peoples’ wives." “What?” I thought, glancing around. Some people were nodding, while some had blank looks, as if trying to avoid detection. I was in a den of sinners, and, really, I was far from innocent myself. Suddenly I realised that the problems in my life were not based in the outside world – they were part of me, the result of my own actions and weaknesses. And suddenly, salvation was within reach, provided that I changed my ways. When, normally do we recognize our own faults? It’s human, I think, to believe that we’re perfect and others are full of flaws; isn’t that what Jesus was talking about, with the beam and motes in eyes?

Is this why people go to church?

The organizer said that the breakfast was “not about eggs and grits; it’s about souls.” The food, certainly, was not worth $10; the servings were tiny and, except for the eggs, mediocre. However, I was shaken. The experiences of others were my own. They had their own secrets and shortcomings, and I had mine – shortcomings which, no matter how prominent, I always manage to overlook or excuse. For a brief moment, I had to face them, to realize that we’re all guilty, all tainted, all fallible.

At the end, Hopson held up two copies of his books to show the audience that they were for sale, then came down off the pedestal, handing one to the organizer and one to me. I thought they were to be passed around, so I handed it to the woman behind me and headed off, shaking hands, patting backs and praising my way out.

I was halfway down the block when a man’s voice called out. “Hey! You left your book!” I ran back to him and took it. As he stretched out his hand, I thought of the Sistine Chapel.

Then I thanked him, turned around and was gone.

Mon P'tit Chou, East Dulwich

Mon P'tit Chou
53 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
SE22 8EP
020 7564 3800

by Malcolm Eggs

Hello, my little cabbage. Sit down for a moment: I want to tell you a story. Well, alright it’s not exactly a story - it’s a breakfast review, and is lacking much in the way of plot and character.

Ten years ago I found myself at the opening event for Mon P’tit Chou. We stood on a small raised area, drinking champagne and crunching on bruschetta and it all seemed very exciting, this suave chamber of Gallicism wedged between the optician and the kebab shop.

These days it’s still out of place, but that’s because the bread basket contains mere baguettes, which is plain retro on a high street that offers so many £3 artisan sourdoughs that if you bought them all and placed them end to end they’d stretch from here to the Moon. By Moon I mean the Half Moon pub in Herne Hill, but you see my point. The tabletops are all embedded with black and white photographs of New York reminiscent of the 'arty' section of a Hallmark outlet, which also feels retro but in a way that harks back to a past that, when you think about it, never actually existed.

My old friend Martha and I each ordered the smaller version of Mon P’tit Chou’s full English. It exemplified the “one of each” or “all the talents” approach and was £5.95. The sausage – compact, hot, vivid - was best; the rasher of bacon and ample beans were no-fuss but cooked with, well, decency; the eggs were available any way we liked as long as we liked them scrambled and overdone.

It was a nice, normal breakfast, substantial yet completely ephemeral - like a Sebastian Faulks novel. We ordered some smoothies and then nothing else interesting happened, which is where we feel glad that I said very early on that this isn't a story.

Prime Burger, New York

Prime Burger
5 E. 51st. Street
(Between Madison & 5th)
New York, NY 10022
+1 212-759-4730
www.primeburger.com

by Dee Caff

If you ever find yourself wandering the streets of Manhattan in need of a breakfast fix, go to Prime Burger. As the name might suggest, it’s pretty unassuming from the outside (in a Baker’s Oven rather than a Fat Duck kind of a way), but the array of somewhat faded press clippings plastered to its glass doors give an inkling of the greatness lurking within.

We found it by chance. It wasn’t in our guide books, and we’d have walked straight past it, had it not been for the beady glare of my travelling companion, whose penchant for French toast saw her eyeing every potential eatery with an air of crazed expectancy. I wasn’t convinced – frankly it looked a little shabby – until we got closer and I peeked inside at what can only be described as a quintessential American diner.

On entering we found it not to be the sort of twee, contrived affair I despise, but more of a mystical time warp, a portal into early 60s New York - complete with beige leather seating, deco light fittings and shining wood chip walls. We took a seat at the long bar and fawned over the laminate menu which revealed that Prime Burger is the proud owner of a prestigious James Beard award for ‘Classic American Restaurant’.

Living the American service dream, we waited mere seconds before the Peruvian waiter glided up to us in his starched white waiter suit and dickie bow. It wasn’t long before we were swigging on coffee and OJ, looking like we were in the middle of an Edward Hopper, tummies rumbling in wait for our first, and most important meal of the day.

And then came the main event. Two plates piled high with glistening, golden French toast – dusted lightly with icing sugar and accompanied by some of the saltiest, crispiest, crumbliest bacon I’ve ever tasted. I must have poured about a quarter of a jug of maple syrup on mine too, savouring the novelty of drenching my food in runny sugar. I’m not normally one for sweet things in the morning (give me a full English over a continental any day of the week) but, somehow, this was an almost obscenely delicious exception to the rule.

So next time you’re swanning it on the other side of the pond, don’t bother with the Lexington Grill (as recommended by ‘local experts’ in the Time Out guide), its nonchalant ‘we’re in all the guidebooks’ service and overpriced pancakes. Go and talk to the boys from Queens and eat French toast. Or do as I did, and have a burger for breakfast. A Prime Burger.