Dear gods of Portland,
We come before you today humbled.
Not regular humbled. Portland humbled. The kind of humbled where a city that once believed it was destined to redesign capitalism has now been brought to its knees by the arrival of a breakfast sandwich.
Because somehow, against all odds, Eggslut is coming to Portland.
Do you understand what this means?
We Have Been Chosen
We have been chosen.
Los Angeles looked upon us and said, “You know what? Give them the egg sandwich.”
This is our moment.
And I am begging everyone in this city: do not fuck this up.
Please.
For once.
I don’t care what your cause is. I don’t care what injustice you have uncovered. I don’t care what the sandwich represents within the broader historical context of brunch.
Put it away.
We have an Eggslut now.
There will be time for accountability later.
We do not need somebody standing outside on opening day screaming, “BREAKFAST IS A COLONIAL CONSTRUCT.”
Not today.
Today we eat.
The American Dream, With Eggs
Alvin Cailan has done everything America supposedly wants people to do. The man built something from nothing. He worked his ass off. He made incredible food. He created a business. He became successful.
And, most importantly, he figured out how to sell eggs to rich white people for enough money that they will photograph them first.
That is the American Dream.
Do you know how difficult that is?
Eggs used to be the thing your grandmother made because there was nothing else in the refrigerator.
Alvin said, “No. Put brioche around it. Give it a provocative name. These people will wait 45 minutes.”
That is entrepreneurship.
That is innovation.
That is what the Oregon Trail was about.
Those people did not die of dysentery so their descendants could argue on Reddit about whether a twelve-dollar breakfast sandwich is “problematic.”
They died so we could have luxury eggs.
Portland, Behave
And Portland, I am asking you as a friend.
Behave.
We cannot have Eggslut here for six months and then suddenly the windows are plywood because somebody discovered the yolks have privilege.
We cannot have a neighborhood association meeting about whether the smell of bacon constitutes violence.
We cannot have a man living in a stolen Subaru catalytic converter tent village walk through the front door, unplug the register, declare himself assistant manager, and somehow have the city say, “Well, this is really a complicated jurisdictional issue.”
Not this time.
The sandwich must be protected.
I want security around this restaurant like it contains the nuclear codes.
You want to protest?
Fine.
But you protest around Eggslut.
There will be a designated First Amendment zone two blocks away between a vape shop and a Subaru dealership.
Go nuts.
Free Palestine.
Free Tibet.
Free Britney again if circumstances require it.
Free every human being currently imprisoned on Earth.
But from 7:00 a.m. until 2:00 p.m., the Fairfax sandwich is neutral territory.
This is culinary Switzerland.
Portland Needs This
Because Portland needs this.
We have spent years telling the country, “No, no, you don’t understand us.”
Well, now we have a chance.
We can show America that Portland is capable of maintaining one nice thing.
Just one.
Nobody is asking us to host the Olympics.
We are not building a functioning subway system.
We are not solving homelessness.
We are not even asking everyone to agree on what homelessness means.
We are asking the city to successfully host an egg restaurant.
That is the bar.
It is on the floor.
And yet I am terrified.
Somewhere, Someone Is Researching Alvin Cailan
Because somewhere right now, in a studio apartment illuminated entirely by Himalayan salt lamps, someone is researching Alvin Cailan.
They are going back.
They’re reading interviews.
They’re examining Instagram posts from 2014.
They’re zooming in.
“Enhance.”
And I’m begging you.
Stop.
Whatever you find, I don’t want to know.
Unless Alvin personally burned down an orphanage, I am eating the sandwich.
And even then, I’d like to see the evidence.
Because this man has brought us eggs.
Beautiful eggs.
Soft eggs.
Eggs nestled lovingly into bread like God intended before we complicated everything.
Portland does not need another struggle session.
Portland needs cholesterol.
A Final Prayer
So, gods of the Willamette Valley, hear our prayer.
Protect Alvin.
Protect the cooks.
Protect the brioche.
Protect the potatoes.
Protect every upper-middle-class couple waiting in line wearing $280 Arc’teryx jackets despite having never encountered weather more severe than mist.
Let them photograph their sandwiches.
Let them tag the location.
Let them say, “Honestly, it’s actually worth the wait.”
Give us this.
We have endured enough.
And if someone inevitably decides that Eggslut represents late-stage capitalist breakfast exploitation, please grant them the strength...
...to go to fucking Denny’s.
Amen.