Mom’s Restaurant

We revisited Mom’s at 4816 N Dale Mabry Hwy on 4 August 2012. Last time we were here was over two years ago. That’s like a million years in breakfast time. Mom’s is the kind of place where you can drive your classic v12 Jaguar and still get treated like a regular Joe.

We did not all dress alike on purpose this morning. This is a classic example of the thousand monkeys chained to a thousand typewriters for a thousand years.

Marek and Ivo are like a Breakfast Recon Team, infiltrating the pancakes.

Inside Mom’s is unchanged since we were last there. And maybe since forever. This is the way we like it.

We spent a lot of time talking about this car and what kind it may be. We never did come to a conclusion, though it probably spent a lot of time at Ronnie Setser’s.

Ivo wasted no time making a mess. He’s decreased his TTM (that’s time to mess, for technical folks) by 51% since last time he popped one of these creamers when I wasn’t looking.

The menu is exactly what you’d expect for a classic greasy spoon mom-n-pop diner.

Me and Marek, we’re having our coffee. Have you noticed, dedicated TBB fans, how Marek has grown out of looking like a little kid and into looking like a little person?

Ivo demands coffee, too. I think I’m going to start him on decaf, though.

Can’t you just imagine sitting with Marek over a slow Sunday breakfast and coffee, just talking about the news and the weather and how Grandma’s doing these days?

Every toddler ought start out this way, mainlining black coffee.

Marek of the future, read back to 2012 and this picture. When you and I are arguing over if you can take the hovercraft out for a date with your robot hybrid girlfriend and you’re mad at me because I just don’t understand, I’m going to pull up this picture and remind you how we used to be such good friends.

New tattoo. The original hand is Marek’s when he was two. Last week we got Ivo’s. Which is a bit larger than Marek, at the same age. We’re predicting Ivo will grow to be the size of a horse.

Breakfast came like Operation Vittles, a plane-load of chow. Marek is now, as of two weeks ago, on a sausage patty kick.

Pancakes this morning: Not Mom’s finest work. I mean, they were fine, but very small. We’ve encountered a lot of pancakes in our career, so I know a small pancake when I see one.

Ivo has perfected the use of the fork to deliver chow to his lap, where he then uplifts it to his maw by hand. Perfect aristocratic table manners have to start somewhere. Not here, of course.

This bacon, what tiny bit I got of it, was good. I like it just over the edge of being done plus one. This was happy bacon for all of us. The look on Marek’s face needs a caption, though.

Enough chow to feed us all, coffee, Marek coffee, and Ivo coffee all added up to a bit over 12 clams. That’s about right for a good, filling breakfast in Tampa Bay. Bacon was great. Eggs just right. Hash browns were nice. Pancakes, a bit small but otherwise OK. Sausage was a winner. And the coffee was tops, by the way. Mom’s has a great rhythm, where all the wait staff circulate the whole room and refill everyone every five minutes. That’s the way it ought to be done.

Marek and Ivo negotiated. Ivo would pay the bill, Marek would bring the change back.

This appears to be some sort of bartering about the bill.

A crowd gathered to watch the young financial wizards.

And … another Breakfast Job, well done.

The boys came away with pops when they paid the bill. That’s always awesome! Also, the 370z behind them was almost the new Pancake Mobile, but there’s no back seat at all. At least the FR-S has this thing that looks like a scale model of a back seat so I can fake it and fit them in. But not the 370, no sir.