When I was young, Christmas meant gathering with loved ones and exchanging presents, but my loved ones are easier to love without the gathering, and the presents, both given and received, are usually unwanted. Eventually, I resigned from Christmas, and since then I’ve mostly ignored the traditions, expenses, and assorted rigmarole of the holiday season. Ignoring it is highly recommended.
Instead, my habit for many years was to see a first-run movie on Christmas, alone, since most years there was no-one to invite along. But that tradition has ended too, since Hollywood stopped making movies worth seeing, and the art-cinemas are all closed on Xmas.
Now I do nothing, and December 25th is simply an ordinary day, spent sprawled in my recliner, watching old movies on my laptop, surfing the net or reading a book, same as the 24th and 26th.
I walk a mile daily, though, and Christmas qualifies as a day, so where would I walk? My own neighborhood is a bore, so I like to ride a bus to someplace more interesting, walk the walk, and then ride a bus home.
This morning, not for Christmas but just for the food, I decided to combine the walk with a restaurant. Scanned the internet to find which eateries are open on this so-called sacred day, and found two on California Avenue, across the street from each other, here in West Seattle.
The plan, then, was to non-celebrate Christmas by riding the #128 bus a mile past Alaska Junction, then walk back, and at the last minute, depending on mood, I’d choose between Great American Diner and Puerto Vallarta. I’ve been to both, and both serve good food, but Great American has a fleet of big screen TVs in the dining area, while Puerto Vallarta has no such insults. Most likely, then, my choice would be Puerto Vallarta. I began fantasizing about fajitas and enchiladas and such, while reserving the right to change my mind and go to Great American, if I had a last-minute hankering for a burger and fries or an omelet.
Being Christmas, my bus driver was wearing a Santa cap — you know, bright red with white trim and a big fluffy white ball. “Merry Christmas,” he said as I came about and flashed my bus pass.
“Happy Thursday,” I replied, because it’s so much kinder than “Bah, humbug.” Translates the same, though.
Six other passengers were on the bus, and three of them were wearing Santa caps. At the next stop, a woman came aboard, also wearing a Santa cap. That’s five out of nine people on the bus wearing Santa caps. And one of the cap-heads and one of the non-cap-heads were wearing Christmas sweaters.
Trying not to be annoyed, I turned my head and looked out the window, just as a young couple walked by, holding hands and both wearing Santa caps.
At Cali & Admiral Way, I stepped off the bus, and the driver shouted, “Merry Christmas!” I said nothing, and began my long walk back to the restaurants.
Along the way, four other sidewalk walkers came at me one-by-one, one of whom was walking a dog. Three of them, including the dog, were wearing Santa caps. Two of them said “Merry Christmas” to me, and I cheerfully replied, “Good morning!”
Walks are weird. The recliner is my natural habitat, and I have to force myself to walk, but while I’m actually walking the walk I love it. Clears the head, and sometimes an idea pops in there, though not today.
Over the last half block, I mentally conjured up Puerto Vallarta’s menu, and decided I’d order the huevos rancheros, because a guy ate that in a novel I read a while back, and he said it was good.
Walked into the place licking my lips, but nobody was there. They open at 8AM, and it was 8:45, the door was unlocked, but no employees were in the front lobby. I wandered into the dining room, and it was empty. Walked all the way to the back, peeked into the kitchen, but saw no-one. Went back to the front lobby and waited a minute, then hollered “Merry Christmas?” louder than I’d intended, which only yielded an echo of myself. Waited another half-minute, and then I left. Wasn’t angry, but I don’t want to be the guy who discovers the staff’s hacked-up bodies piled in the back.
So breakfast was at my second choice, Great American Diner. Again, like my first visit, I was greeted and seated immediately, this time by a man who looked about 50 and was wearing a Santa cap. Soon as he’d left, a waitress approached, also wearing a Santa cap, and she said “Merry Christmas!”
“If you say so,” I said, but I tried to say it with a smile, which faded as I looked around the place. Last time I’d eaten here, I’d counted three big-screen TVs, but this time, in a booth at a different corner, I could see six screens.
Of course, same as my dislike of Christmas, my dislike of TV makes me an oddball, but … does anyone go to a restaurant hoping to see six big-screen TVs?
One was showing a CGI-made Christmas cartoon that looked dark and ugly and kinda creeped me out — Polar Express, I think. On the other screens, your choice of an NBA basketball game, a CGI kiddie-show even uglier than Polar Express, a black family visiting Disneyland or -World, a sports recap show with two jocks in suits reciting all of last night’s scores, and in the distance, on a screen above the kitchen, Polar Express again. I harrumphed up and sat down on the other side of my booth, where I could see only three screens and out the front window.
The sound was off on all the TVs, thank you newborn baby Jezus, but Christmas music was playing at about 150% of the volume I’d want. Not that I’d want Christmas music at all, but it’s the 25th so there’s no escaping it. Cripes, though, turn it down, please.
Ah, well, I’m here for breakfast, and I’m gonna enjoy it even if it’s Christmas in an ocean of big-screen TVs. I ordered the french toast combo ($17), which includes eggs (scrambled, please) and choice of meat (ham), and a cup of coffee ($4), plus a blueberry muffin ($5) on the side.
Always a book is in my jacket pocket, so as the waitress walked away I whipped it out along with my cheaters, but same as my first visit to Great American, it was borderline too dark for reading at my table.
Every aspect of breakfast was fine, though, taste-wise. The french toast was thick and cinnamony, the ham was generous, tasty, and gristle-free, the muffin was steamed and hot, and the coffee was quite good and frequently refilled. The eggs were hot and fluffy, but on the same plate as the french toast, and I hate syrup on scrambled eggs. Luckily, the muffin came on a plate of its own, so I transplanted the eggs to that plate.
Woulda sworn I was hating the Xmas tunes, but as the waitress approached with another coffee refill, she said, “You’re liking the music, aren’t you?” And tragically, I realized she was right. I’d been bopping my head to “Melee Kalicky Maha,” as performed by Burl Ives or Perry Como, and damn it, enjoying it.
The tab with tax but before tip was $27-something, which seems steep, but I blame Trump and his tariffs, and also, the muffin I’d ordered on the side.
Afterwards, waiting at the bus stop for my ride home, about ten bites of breakfast came back as sudden barf on the sidewalk. That’s not a reflection on the chef, though. It’s my belly. In old age, my stomach has shrunk, and I simply can’t hold as much food as even a few years ago. When I’ve overstuffed myself, some of it comes up again, so I should’ve done without the muffin, and really need to stop ordering sides.
The bus came as I was wiping puke off the front of my jacket, and yes, the driver was wearing a Santa cap. “Merry Christmas,” she said as I stepped aboard.
“Merry Christmas,” I replied.
12/25/2025
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