  With my battery recharged I was eager to record my last few minutes at the restaurant. After examining the omelet, I asked for a container to put it in and take it home. What they had served me had to be further examined and photographed. Mama Jiorles son, Richard, gave me a disbelieving smile when he saw I hadn’t taken a bite of the omelet. “We coulda wrapped it for you in the kitchen if all you wanted was a takeout.” I matched his smile and told him that I had just received a call that there was a minor emergency at home so could I just get a container? I didn’t have my cell phone with me and there was no ‘minor emergency.’ Richard reached for my plate, I held up my hand. “I’ll just do it myself, if you would just get me the container. I’m kinda in a hurry.” I didn’t want him alone with my omelet. I opened the Styrofoam container and there it lay. Yellow egg folded over once, the now-darkened green avocado, the brown of bacon, a slightly less appealing glob of sour cream, and hardened yellow cheese.
On a television commercial this would all look delicious. But this was no commercial. I suppose the cold coffee put my senses on alert. Something, my palate told me to be aware, on the lookout. I grabbed a fork from a kitchen drawer, for inspection, not eating. Now I knew I was right to be wary. As I lifted the edge of the supposed omelet, it came up hard, leaden. This was not egg. It was something synthetic, perhaps toxic. An odor rose up. Glue or melted plastic!
I leaned back. I was nonplussed. Confused. The rest of the ingredients seemed real, though I had no intention of setting them on my tongue. I had no idea what I was dealing with or what in the hell Richard, Mama Jiorles, had intended. I stared at the open omelet. My mind reeled. This was quickly turning into a police matter. 
