Walk, Don't Run

I was having breakfast at 12:30. On a Wednesday.

My God, I love a late breakfast. Is there anything worth enjoying before nine in the morning? Not by me. Of course, I know this road leads to a cruel reality: sooner or later, I’ll be back to dry toast and scorching coffee with my eyes closed at 6:30 a.m. Inevitably. But for now, we’re in the “Walk, Don’t Run” kind of mood.

Literally — that’s the café. A bit Japanese, a little posh, like most things in Armadale. Everything on the menu is “activated” or “cold-pressed,” the Melbourne gospel of health.

I never bother with either. It feels rebellious enough to order plain eggs in a place this pure and polished.

My companion, admittedly trendier than me, chose the porridge — quinoa, almond milk, poached pear, rhubarb, pomegranate, goji berries. Seventeen dollars and a halo.

I’m not judging. I just hope we can stay friends after that.

And maybe, on the way out, I’ll ask for a deconstructed coffee — if only to smooth over the quinoa between us.