There was a restaurant in LA where I used to eat breakfast. I'd get the corner table and, if I didn't have a business meeting, I'd spread out the morning newspapers just like I did at home.
I didn't have to order, I always ate the same thing. The staff–whoever was on duty, usually a woman named Kathy–knew to bring coffee, orange juice, and a dish they called, Eggs Wolferman.
I ate breakfast there for years. I came to know the staff and they me, each about as much as each of us wanted to be known.
One morning, I asked Kathy for an espresso instead of my usual coffee. “And would you mind turning down the music,” I asked.
“That's Billie Holiday,” Kathy said.
“I know it's Billie Holiday,” I said. “I like Billie Holiday a great deal, but not this early in the morning, and especially not at breakfast.”