Breakfast in Sacramento.

On the corner of 28th Street and Capitol Avenue is a bland colored building that features large windows. The patio area is filled with simple chairs and small tables, above which is a red neon sign that reads, in all capital letters, “Monkey Bar”.

Immediately next door to the bar of primates is Cafe Bernado, whose sign lacks the ostentatiousness of Monkey Bar. Inside the well lit cafe are numerous tables and chairs, along with some booths that feature dark green vinyl on the seats. Patrons can see the cooks preparing the food over the low counter: the clipped sound of eggs cracking, the repetitive thuds of knife blades hitting the cutting boards, the hissing sounds of fresh food making contact with heated oil. Even if one cannot see the cooks working, the blossoming fragrances of cooked food extend their invisible tendrils throughout the open space.

The Amaretto French Toast is comprised of two large, elliptically-shaped slices of French bread dipped in eggy batter. The slices are lightly fried such that the outer surfaces are pleasantly crisp—it is satisfying to hear the bread lightly crackle between one’s teeth—and the light and fluffy bread within remains chewy and soft. The entire plate is adorned with a dusting of powdered sugar, which dares not pill on the bread, and coarsely chopped almonds. Although delightful alone—the palette can easily discern the mingling flavors of the mildly bitter almonds, confectioner’s sugar, and faint, evaporated alcohol—the dish is nicely enhanced with maple syrup at a window-side table on a crisp, sunny morning.

Lunch in Berkeley.

The throngs of people sitting on the front lawn of the southern branch of the Berkeley Public Library is more curious than disconcerting. They are mostly young people, reflecting the diversity of university students in California: There are the preppy women, wearing low-waisted, boot-cut jeans and flowered tops, their straight blonde hair falling just past their shoulders; here be the tall men with long sideburns, overgrown curly hair, faded tee-shirts with obscure logos, dark green tattered shorts, and bare feet in Birkenstocks; see the clean cut, studious types in unwrinkled polo shirts with understated stripes, clean jeans that resemble slacks, and frameless glasses that, from a distance, seem to hover upon their faces.

Then there are the people that fondly remind me of some of the young people in Seattle: The multicolored mohawks, the ornate tattoos that weave along the entire length of an arm, the skin-tight jeans that are rolled up to reveal boldly striped socks and tired Converse shoes, the multiple piercings (eyebrow, tongue, nose).

It’s known as the Thai temple brunch (at Wat Mongkolratanaram). Behind the whitewashed temple gilded with gold and sporting red highlights is a large concrete patio, where numerous people of Thai descent stir large vats with big spoons, toss rice and noodle dishes with chopsticks in their nimble fingers, and ladle steaming soup into mismatched plastic bowls. They will not handle any money; all food is purchased with silver tokens.

There are numerous lines: Over there is the line to exchange currency into the play tokens. Over there is the line for the Thai iced tea, whose warm, orange hue is reminiscent of burning incense or the robes of Buddhist monks. Over there is the line for soup, and there, for pad thai. There are several lines for the rice and curry dishes, as well as lines for dessert (mangos and black sticky rice or fried coconut milk topped with chopped green onion). Near the food stations the lines coalesce into shapeless mobs of people, though the lines eventually distinguish themselves as they trail out of the patio, onto the lawn, along the curb, and into the street.

There are hundreds of people eating Thai food in and around the temple. The clinking of silver tokens hitting plastic containers eventually fades into the background.

Dinner in Seattle.

There is significantly less traffic—both in cars and on foot—on 15th Avenue East than on Broadway Avenue, though these two streets are known for their eats in the neighborhood of Capitol Hill. Palermo quietly occupies the corner of 15th Avenue East and East Thomas Street. The windows are decorated with artificial vines, wine bottles, and red and green lights.

It’s not really a “nice” restaurant; it is fairly informal with its simple wooden and metal tables and chairs, though the napkins are cloth and the silverware are uniform in size and design. The pizzas are freshly made, topped with a variety of options, and baked in a wood oven.

The sandwiches, however, are underrated. The loaves, though toasted, are not flaky, and maintain their structural integrity, despite the fact that they are overstuffed. They arrive hot at the table and ooze flavor and good taste—but not a lot of oil or meat or veggie trickles. The “half” sandwiches are large and could constitute a meal in of themselves. The “Rustic Mediterranean” is an excellent option for those who desire a vegetable sandwich; the filling consists of broiled eggplant, artichoke hearts, tomatoes, goat and mozzarella cheeses, and garlic, all drizzled with Italian dressing. Be warned, however, that the sandwich features a liberal amount of garlic; do not be surprised to wake up the next morning and both taste and smell a reminder from this delectable sandwich.