There was a restaurant in LA where I used to eat breakfast, frequently. 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 was 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, not at breakfast.