The Usual
Author’s Note: I had the pleasure of being part of a special taping of the 50th episode of the CBC This Is Ottawa Podcast, which was recorded in front of a live audience at in Ottawa. Guests were invited to share a personal story answering the question: When did Ottawa surprise you?
I’m grateful to have had the chance to be a part of it. You can listen to the episode (and subscribe to the podcast) on , , or .
The start of my story takes us back at least 15 years. To a weathered brown pleather booth beside the bus bin at Mellos Restaurant.
For those of you who may not know, Mellos was a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner tucked under an oversized marquee on Dalhousie between Clarence and Murray streets on the edge of the Byward Market.
Mellos and its iconic marquee are gone now. The windows are covered in opaque frosted vinyl. The concrete stoop leads to a door that no longer opens. The space and the stories it holds subsumed by a cannabis dispensary that has since opened next door.
To call Mellos, and Leisa — the waitress who worked there most days — Ottawa institutions, would be an understatement.
Back then I used to work for a nonprofit, and our office was on the second floor of the building across the street from Mellos. The marquee was all I could see when I looked out my window. At least once a week one of us would pop our heads out into the hallway, seeking either inspiration or distraction, and simply ask, “Mellos?”
Having quorum — at least 2, often 3, and sometimes 4 — we’d jaywalk across the street, swing the door open and grab our usual spot by the dish-bin. If it was taken, we’d settle for the drafty booth up front by the door and across from the display case that taunted us with slices of carrot cake and coconut cream pie, plated individually, under plastic wrap.
“To keep ’em fresh, and the fruit flies off ‘em,” Leisa might have said.
So many grant applications, board meeting packages and evaluation frameworks came together over breakfast at Mellos. Between sips of tepid Folger’s Coffee or weak Red Rose Tea. Over the sound of yolk-stained dishes and utensils being tossed into the bin beside us. As the smell of home fries and grease from heavily-buttered toast seeped into our clothes. Our conversations competing with the chatter of customers and Leisa’s barbs from behind the counter — the most caustic of which she reserved for her regulars.
Leisa was large. Both in stature and in personality. She took up a lot of space in that tiny diner. Breakfast at Mellos when Leisa was working wasn’t just breakfast. It was theatre.
She called most of her customers hun, and had nicknames for some. There was Fat Cat — also known as Tony, the Italian landlord who owned the building where our nonprofit rented space. He’d often pull up in his “mid-life crisis mobile” a two-seater convertible with vanity plates.
“For a guy who’s loaded, he doesn’t tip very well,” Leisa would say behind his back.
I remember once, a man who said he was in town on a business trip was sitting alone at the counter. After skimming the menu, he tried to order pancakes. Leisa shot him down with a glare and said “Oh hun, don’t order the pancakes, they’re terrible. You’ll have the French toast instead.”
He didn’t have a choice.
One morning as I walked in ahead of my colleagues to snag our spot, Leisa yelled out at me as she refilled someone’s coffee at the counter.
“Hey Hot Lips, the usual? And is it just you today, or are the ladies coming too?”
The nickname and the order stuck.
Hot Lips.
Cheese Omelette. Home Fries. Brown Toast.
The usual.
I can’t count how many times I had breakfast at Mellos over the years. There was something simple, almost sacred about it. The ritual and the routine.
While my order never changed — a lot of other things in my life did. The nonprofit I worked for lost its funding and I was suddenly out of a job. The marriage to the mother of my children also ended. In fact, I remember sharing the news about my separation with my new boss over breakfast in that drafty front booth at Mellos.
Cheese Omelette. Home Fries. Brown Toast.
The usual.
My breakfasts at Mellos became less frequent as time went on. The new job was across town, the kids’ hockey schedules and a new relationship brought different rituals and routines to my life. The fact that my new partner was a man — and a younger man no less — was a gossip-worthy topic of interest for many people in my life — especially those on the periphery.
It’s funny how people feel like they have the right to interrogate you when things change. To ask you so many questions and to know the intimate details of your life.
Have you ever had that feeling of dread when you run into someone you haven’t seen in a while? Like a former colleague, a neighbour who moved away or a now distant relative — someone who was, for a time, a big part of your life, but now, for whatever reason, is less so?
That moment when you get caught up in the existential angst of deciding how much of yourself you’ll share, what questions you’ll answer, what lies you’ll tell. And what judgement you’ll face.
I felt that dread a lot during that part of my life. As a newly separated queer who had bounced from job to job, I learned pretty quickly that coming out wasn’t just something that happened once. I had to come out over and over and over again. At work. At the dentist’s office. To hockey parents during a kid’s tournament in Laval. And face all those questions — not just about being queer — but also about the split. The kids. Our custody arrangement. My work situation.
I heard about your separation…
Where are you working now?
Who’s this boyfriend of yours?
Were you always gay, or is this new for you?
The drama. The usual.
A few years go by. At least three or four. One morning I’m in the market running errands. Walking up Dalhousie, I spot the Mellos marquee. I see Leisa behind the counter and decide — either by instinct or by habit — to stop in for breakfast.
Alone this time, I grab a seat at the counter. I take off my jacket and look around. It’s exactly the same. The brown pleather booths. The worn formica counters. The slices of carrot cake and coconut cream pie in the case. Leisa slides a cup and saucer in front of me and fills it with Folgers. Without offering me a menu she asks…
“Hey Hot Lips. The usual?”
Years had passed. But she remembered. Both me and my order. With all that had changed, all that I had been through, there was something wonderfully surprising about that moment.
No interrogation. No “hey hun, where’ve you been?” No questions, no triggers, no need to explain —
Just Hot Lips.
Cheese Omelette. Home Fries. Brown Toast.
The usual.
