“Now I want to start by telling you something right off the bat,” Ron Highet begins, leaning in from behind a timeworn oak desk to shake my hand. “This is the best breakfast joint in Oregon.”
Though Highet is seventy-six and moves a step slower since his brain surgery, I get the sense he could yank my paw clean off my wrist if he felt the urge. “No, I take that back: it’s the best breakfast joint in the United States. And another thing … ”
Highet has spent thirty-seven …
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