Go Get Em Tiger first popped up on my radar a few years ago when people started declaring that GGET made the best iced lattes. (They also raved about GGET’s house-made almond milk, which is actually a macadamia/almond milk sweetened with dates — or something like that. I’m not a fan of alternative milks; they’re too thin in texture with sour notes and lack the richness and fat content of dairy.)
The iced lattes here really are very good, but it’s the eggs I come for. They do a proper soft scramble, and I learned my current way of scrambling eggs from them — they simply drop whole eggs onto a hot, oiled (or buttered) pan and scramble them quickly with a spatula, breaking the eggs up in the pan, no extraneous bowls needed or pours of cream or milk or water, just a pinch of salt maybe. The eggs are creamy and rich and delicious, and I’ve taken to scrambling my eggs similarly, melting a generous chunk of butter on low in my small saucepan, cracking in whole eggs, and using a rice scooper to break them up and mix them together until they’re a uniform pale yellow. I add a pinch of salt, give them a few quick turns, and turn off the heat when my eggs are just barely set, still looking more liquid than solid, and I let them sit in the hot pan half-a-minute or so longer until they’re just set.
(You like my soft-scrambled eggs. We’ve been eating them straight out of my saucepan, spooning them onto thick slices of buttered toast, while standing at my stove.)
We’ve probably talked more about eggs than we’ve talked about anything else because it’s my go-to food. Do you want eggs? I ask in the morning before you go for a run, when you’re toweling your hair dry after your shower, when I’m hungry in the middle of the afternoon after writing all day, in the evening before we go to dinner to stave off hunger, after sex when we’re lying in bed, chatting quietly in the afterglow.
Do you want eggs? I ask as we stand at the counter, and it’s mid-morning, and we’re here for coffee and a snack.
Did we not come here to eat the eggs? you ask, confused, half-talking to the barista, half-talking to me. The eggs and the waffle? The one with ricotta and honey — and can I get a double espresso? You want the iced latte?
Sure, I say and let you finish paying while I go grab us seats, opting to stay inside instead of going out onto the patio. There are high stools lining a counter against the wall, and I like the light and the windows and the vine-covered wall across the way.
This place is too hip for me, I say, and you laugh.
Same. You said you come here a lot, though?
Not a lot. Often-ish? Homestate next door has bomb breakfast tacos, and Kismet’s a few doors down, and they have flaky bread.
It’s fucking amazing. Hard to describe, you just have to eat it. It comes with this crushed tomato sauce and this intense garlic sauce and a poached egg, and it is so good.
Guess I’ll have to come back. Soon.
Last night you called me your XX-friend, let it slip on the phone when you were talking to your best friend, and I was scrambling eggs and making toast. I think I looked up when I heard you say it — yeah, I’m in LA for a few days, taking a mini-vacation, staying with my XX-friend — and maybe our eyes locked for a second, oh shit expressions probably mirroring each other’s, but I don’t really remember. The moment passed quickly, and we went over it like it was a natural, normal thing, nothing to question or freak out about, even though I was freaking out in my head. We ate our eggs and toast, watched some Netflix, went to bed. I think you kissed me harder, held me tighter, but who knows.
There are some people in the world who might argue that it’s just a label, that it doesn’t really matter what someone calls you because it’s how they treat you and regard you that matters. I thrill when I think about it, though, because I find pleasure in it, in that kind of assurance that you’re thinking of me a certain way, that I can reciprocate and think of you that way, too. I hate playing guessing games, and I like knowing where I stand with people, and I love that, as we’re leaving the cafe, walking across the patio and down the steps to the street, you reach over to lace your fingers through mine and say, You make your eggs better.