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This morning, beneath the soft hush of an early Nashville sky, my family and I found ourselves at First Watch—a place where the ordinary is touched with something finer, something nearly sacred in its simplicity.
The Eggs Benedict, which I chose, came gently nestled atop a toasted English muffin, its hollandaise as golden as sunrise. When the yolk broke, it spilled like light across the plate, mingling with the smoked ham in a harmony so natural it seemed composed by the land itself. The seasoned potatoes, crisp and warm, felt like the sort of nourishment one might receive after a long journey home.
Across the table, biscuits sat blanketed in turkey sausage gravy—savory and spiced just so—reminding me of kitchens long gone, and the kind hands that once stirred pots on early mornings. There was the SoCal Hash, too, full of brightness: vegetables, avocado, bacon, and chicken—a bowl that seemed to gather the warmth of the West and serve it without pretense.
In my hands, a simple cup of black coffee—strong, unadorned, and quietly bold—offered the perfect companion to the morning’s fare. It warmed me in a way words seldom can, like a familiar voice at dawn.
But perhaps the sweetest note was struck by the Tri-Fecta, chosen by my daughter: a golden waffle, eggs, and crisp bacon. She smiled with each bite, and in that moment, the clatter of dishes and the hum of morning voices melted away.
First Watch is more than a breakfast place. It is a reminder that the small, well-done things—a meal, a table, a morning together—can linger in the heart longer than grander occasions. We left with full stomachs and quiet joy, as if the day had already given us its finest hour.