We walked around the cemetery across the street. Somewhere nearby was the town’s namesake, a natural spring that periodically disappeared into the ground. We didn’t bother looking. Probably during one of its retreats it was paved over and a plaque put in its place.
Tomcat does not fret about appearances. Each table comes with a plastic container of UNO cards and a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. Pop icons are venerated on the bathroom walls.
The menu is a phone book. Every possible combination of two dozen ingredients is listed with its own name (usually a song, movie or TV title) for each of the following categories: wraps, omelets, scrambles, sandwiches, crepes, pancakes, french toast. Then there are specials, and special specials, and special-special specials, and sides.
It’s ridiculous.
More absurd are the portion sizes, which make the all-you-can-eat buffet look like a promising model for self-restraint. No retiree or office worker should attempt to eat half of what they’re served at Tomcat. It’s indecent.
Indeed, I bet the cafe could save a ton of time, money and food by (a) cutting the portions in half, (b) cutting the menu in half, (c) cutting the styrofoam to-go boxes out completely. In the process, diners might think about how good their food is rather than how much they’re trying to jam down their throats.
But the Tomcat yawns and licks itself. It doesn’t care.
http://www.tomcatcafe.com/menu.html
