Yesterday was a sad day for humanity. Copper Kitchen, everyone’s favorite greasy breakfast spot, opened for the last time, so I went there at 8 a.m. to enjoy a final breakfast. Having the emotional fortitude of a teaspoon, I couldn’t help but get teary eyed when, upon entering, the waitress told us that everything on the menu would be free and that they’d only be accepting tips. (Awwwww.) As I sipped my coffee, I looked around the room to see a refreshing mix of appreciative Yalies and New Haven regulars, one of whom talked to television cameras about how Copper Kitchen was a community of friends, a place he could go to talk and feel at home. I overheard the waitress say she didn’t have any jobs lined up.

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My garden omelet was exceptionally tasty, and I was delighted when they said there was no wheat bread left — only white — which is what I secretly wanted anyway. My homefries were crispy, and the ketchup, abundant. What a perfect meal.

I had always heard tales of people getting sick after eating at Copper Kitchen but had always dismissed their complaints as sensationalist bullshit. That is, until yesterday, when, shortly after my meal, I felt like a highly-energetic baby was throwing a temper tantrum in my belly. Eeeeh. Oh well — it was worth it. My breakfast had been damn delicious.

Copper Kitchen, it’s been a good run. Thanks for the memories, the satisfying grub, the extra pudge, and the occasional nausea. You won’t soon be forgot.