I'm certain there's a fine breakfast downstairs. It's just that it's too late.
On weekends, breakfast starts late. Yeah, that's me. I don't want to chow down, and then step into my work. All that belching and farting just gets in the way. Of course, there'll be someone in the restaurant who wants to talk to me about all sorts of exciting mess, and that conversation is forbidden until there's a lot more coffee in the system.
OK, there's never that much coffee.
There's also the matter of facing yet one more breakfast buffet, but that's a piss and moan from a bird in a gilded cage that I'll forego.
Besides, a 5 A.M. alarm suggests first breakfast towards 6, and that means, especially on the weekend, that we'll be waiting a couple of hours to eat, and that won't do.
Here's my solution.
Yes, I often travel with peanut butter, and that cannot fly in the cabin, which means a checked bag is common for me. This time, my two first breakfasts of PB sandwiches cost $25. Delta served breakfast, I suppose.
And yes, Grandpa has peculiar ways.