John Miller has been coming to brunch at the Pfister Café every Sunday with his family for the past eight years. It’s a post-church tradition that has continued to grow, along with with his family.

Henry Miller (the superhero-in-training, not the author) is 16 months old and Max is an outgoing and precious four. Superheroes are all the rage in their household. His brother Max led the way with his Spiderman fixation. “He pretty must just does what his brother does,” says John.

All the waitresses were cooing at Henry,  playing with his wiry curls that shoot off his scalp like springs on a mattress. His Batman cape, carefully clinging to his tee-shirt with two fraying pieces of Velcro, has obviously been through a few rescue missions before.

Henry Miller and his father John

Henry Miller and his father John

He’s like a little celebrity at the café, aloof and unencumbered by the attention. The other Sunday regulars all know him too – they wave and comment on his growth and development.

Max sees me working at my computer and approaches to ask if I will take his picture too. I most certainly couldn’t deny him, so he races down the ramp, through the lobby like a true superhero responding to the call of duty, to pose with Dick and Harry, the gilded lions at the bottom of the stairs.

If you happen to be at brunch on Sunday morning, you might see them keeping a watchful eye over the cafe. Afterall, it never hurts to have a pair of superheroes around.

 

Max, Henry and John Miller

Max, Henry and John Miller