Served from noon till 3am, when hunger knows no schedule
Pancakes darker than the void between stars. The syrup changes flavor based on what you fear most. Bacon sourced from... well, best not to ask.
Three eggs that stare back at you, hash browns that whisper, and meat that remembers. Toast cut at angles that shouldn't exist. Surprisingly filling.
A cast iron vessel containing ingredients that shift when you're not looking. The sizzling sound forms words in languages you don't recognize. Delicious though.
Three pancakes. Normal. Ordinary. Nothing unusual about them at all. The syrup is just syrup. We promise.
Berries that only ripen under moonlight. The whipped cream forms shapes. Don't stare at them too long.
French toast made from bread we found in the back. It's been there since... when did we open? The cinnamon spirals move.
All omelets contain three eggs. We're certain they're eggs. Served with sides that remember being potatoes.
Ham from pigs that dream, peppers that grow in the dark, onions that make you cry for different reasons
Vegetables from the garden behind the diner. We don't remember planting them. They grow without sunlight.
Various meats. Don't ask what kind. The cheese melts at impossible temperatures. Satisfyingly unsettling.
Coffee that's been percolating since we opened. Or before. Time is fluid here. Decaf is a lie.
Orange juice squeezed from fruits that grow in moonlight. Tastes like sunrise, burns like regret.
Flavors shift with your mood. The foam forms patterns. Don't try to read them.
Bourbon aged in barrels that remember better times. Served with ice that never fully melts.
Gin infused with herbs that grow only in shadow. The olive stares back. Some say it blinks.
Mezcal, blood orange, and something we can't name. Tastes like lucid dreams and forgotten memories.
Our signature cocktail. Rye whiskey, cherry bitters, and liquid moonlight. Glows faintly in the dark.