At Oddfellows, the afternoon light is lovely, and the breakfast panini—poached eggs, bacon, tomato, smoked cheddar, and Gruyère—is pretty good. The bread's a little white-bread-squishy for my taste; denser bread would stand up to the onslaught of the egg yolk better, too. But the problem is the tomato. No one should put fresh tomatoes on anything at this time of year. They are all terrible: pale, mealy yet hard, tasting like a tomato's phantom limb, an approximation of what a tomato ought to be. In winter, tomatoes should be a memory and a hope.

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