This morning I was struck with the idea that I could really use a Husky Breakfast. For those of you that aren’t Canadian, Husky is a chain of gas stations across Canada that always have sketchy diners attached. I have had many a breakfast at the Husky Diner and I miss it. The burb that I live in now has all these hole-in-the-wall cafes that serve healthy vegan meals (if you can call it that) by hippie students. Sometimes you just need to be greeted by a 55-year-old lady that looks like she has been working there for 70 years. She will always be quick to flip your coffee mug over and start pouring whether you want some or not. She will be ready to take your order before you even sit down because chances are you read the specials on the way in and have perused the menu/place mat as you were taking off your coat. She is quick to kindly double check your order by asking, “Ya's guys don’t want no tomadas right”. Finally, on the way back to the kitchen she tops off the coffee because you’ve had a sip and gives you the wink with a fading “It’ll be out in a jiff hun”.

It’s the strange familiarity that makes it feel so welcoming. That’s why all McDonalds look the same; to promote familiarity. I’m not exactly certain how they get the same lady to work at all the Huskys across Canada but I’m pretty sure that one of the job specifications is that they have an odd number of incisors.

Husky's Breakfast Club Sandwich is the way to go. It’s a toasted triple-decker made from 2 eggs, ham, bacon and cheese served with hashbrowns. It’s that specific kind of gluttony that is welcomed at the Husky. You can go there without being judged because everyone is there for the same reason: Grease, coffee and gas…and maybe the washrooms located outside and around the corner so don’t forget to get the key from the attendant.

I’ve eaten there to celebrate a victory, nurse an ego and often to just say you did. “What’d you do last night?....I went out and ended up at the Husky….Dammit I wish I went to the Husky” is a pretty standard conversation in Northern Ontario. Sure, it might be the 8 coffees (with a pound of sugar and a litre of whole milk) that make me feel so happy afterwards but I think that it’s the whole experience. You can be a NASA engineer, big game hunter, drunken punk or broken hearted teenager and the Husky always has what you need; I steady hand pouring the endless coffee, a familiar face that you’ve never seen before, gravy that could fuel a medium sized aircraft carrier and a meal the would clog an orca’s arteries.

I’m sick of these cafes and their granola and yogurt (no offense Aiva). I’m eating at a gas station this weekend. Wait a sec, I don’t have a car. Well, I’m walking to find one just to say I did.