Tom & Joe’s has the best Breakfast Mess. Ever.
There, I said it.
Now if you happen to be the skeptical type that has to see eat to believe, then you can hop on The Pennsylvanian (with an empty stomach) from the Amtrak concourse at Penn Station, get off fourteen stops later in Altoona, walk three and a half blocks to Tom & Joe’s, do what you have to do, walk back to the train station, jump on an eastbound Pennsylvanian, sit down, and loosen your belt. When you arrive back in New York City about six hours later, you’ll still be full.
Two eggs, scrambled. Home fries. Ham. Bacon. Sausage. Onions. Green peppers. Cheese. Toast on the side. That’s the Breakfast Mess with everything. I don’t need my bacon in strips and I certainly don’t need my sausage in links. Just throw it all together, cook it up, pile it on a plate, and hand me a fork.
Tom & Joe’s is the gastronomical heart (clogged arteries and all) of a dead downtown in a dying railroad town. Tom & Joe’s opened in 1933. Tom & Joe’s doesn’t open for you. You come when Tom & Joe’s is open (8 am to 2 pm, usually). Tom & Joe’s didn’t move to the strip mall. Tom & Joe’s doesn’t wear khakis. Tom & Joe’s won’t let you date its daughter. Tom & Joe’s takes credit and debit. Reluctantly. Tom & Joe’s likes your kids. Bring them. Tom & Joe’s deserves a visit from Guy Fieri. Scratch that. Tom & Joe’s doesn’t need Guy Fieri’s bleached spikes and backwards sunglasses and SoCal cool.
So here’s to the next 77 years of getting all of your daily allowed caloric intake at breakfast, hot black coffee, white buttered toast, mixed berry jam packets, and waitresses with more attitude than hair spray. Almost.
