I wake up from some shenanigans the night before kinda hung over. I stumble into the living room and am surprised to find my friend Calie laying on the couch looking dead. She’s not moving, her eyes are wide open, the dog is growling at her like something is off.

Oh crap. What did we do last night? Did I accidentally kill my oldest friend in the world in some sort of drunken rage? Was “The Invention of Lying” THAT bad? (yes. it was.)

“HEY! Calie you ok?”

“Wha? Who! Where am I?”

I love Calie. I’ve known her since I’m 4, and she’s pretty much been a confused septuagenarian since pre-K. She likes to leave her contacts in when she sleeps. This leads to her eyes not closing all the way, which in turn causes her to look dead when dreaming. It never ceases to freak me out.

We throw on some clothes and go get our hang-over medicine: diner brunch.

My favorite hangover spot is La Bonbonierre. In case you don’t speak french, La Bonbonierre is French for “greasy shithole.”

I mean that with all the love in the world. If you haven’t figured out by now shitholes hold a special place in my heart. The dirty, worn seats and floors. The bathrooms emanating a thick urine mist. The graying and sticky silverware. It all means a long and storied history of people enjoying this place.

And more important than any ambiance bullshit, this place makes kickass food. Fast, cheap, greasy and big ass portions, BonBon cuts the brunch crap out of the way and gets you where you need to be- full of eggs, coffee and some sort of breakfast meat.

The 60 year old waiter who hates every newly local hipster that walks in asks me what I want.

I’m feeling like a sweet toothed dandy and want pancakes… Banana? Blueberry? Both? Weeeeee! I’m an adult! I get to eat cake for breakfast!

My foppish ambivalence is pissing him off.

“I’ll have both,” I say in my manliest voice. “And throw in some bacon.” Their bacon is crispy like hot smoky thick-cut potato chips. It’s amazing.

Calie orders something eggcellent (trademark Batman, 1977), and we proceed to do our little friendship ritual that we’ve had since we’re kids.

“I’ll trade you some of my blueberry pancake for some of  your spinach, feta omelette?”

It’s just one shade off from “i’ll trade you hydrox cookies for shark bites,” but without the secret booger wiping going on under the bottom of the table.

We fork each other some breakfast foods and try to decide who got the better end of the deal. I think I did. She thinks she did. I blow milk in her face. She gives me a purple nurple.

The waiter comes over and asks with disdain in his heart if we’d like more coffee.

Weeee! I’ll have more coffee!! I’m an adult I can have as much caffeine as I want! Yaaaay!

But Calie’s smarter than she looks. Once I’m distracted by the waiter’s pouring she wipes a booger on my leg the size of a wedding ring and it’s official: Her feta and spinach omelette was the winner of breakfast.

I’m not mad. We’re good old friends. So next time she falls asleep at my place I’m going to fart in her eyes.

La BONBONnierre: 28 8th Ave. btwn Jane st. & 12th st.