Mickey's Diner was the last place on earth for an old-fashioned, American breakfast.
The kind where the eggs are cooked in tubs of butter and bacon fat and the overweight cook knows you by name; a small enough hole-in-the-wall to keep the riff-raff and tourists at bay, the kind where the menu is written out by hand using a cheap BIC pen on paper snugged in a clear, plastic sleeve. The last place to enjoy a cigarette in peace.
Mickey’s Diner was the place where a crime-fighting super-soldier and his longtime, arch-nemesis could grab a cup of coffee and not be disturbed.