“Can I get the ‘Impeach Bondi Then Eat Eggs Benedict Florentine,’ please?” I ask our waiter, who nods, expression unchanged. My fellow brunchgoer across the table follows suit: “And I’ll do the ‘Good Work Krasner! Berry Good French Toast.’” A wise choice, nestled just between the equally spirited “Impeach Noem” pumpkin pancakes and the “Shapiro 2028” sausage gravy and eggs.
Morning Glory’s unapologetically political specials are just one slice of its charm. The rest lies in its warmth manifested in antique floral wallpaper and the aroma of brewed coffee. We’re seated in the diner’s narrow front corridor within full view of the grill—its line cooks frying up something delicious, flipping, whisking, and chuckling between long sips of joe. Sun pours through the windows, catching the metal of the counter and the backs of chairs.
The rattle of plates and idle conversation floats in the air as I stir cream into my own cup and glance toward the patio. Sitting there, in a faded lawn chair, is a life–sized Donald Trump doll—dressed in an orange jumpsuit, wrapped in chains, a straw sombrero sitting on his equally orange head. He’s joined by a small chorus of other relics: a hand–drawn image of “Donny Pooper Head,” the crude outline of a hanger crossed out with “Never Again” scrawled above it, a lineup of weather–bleached protest posters, and Josh Shapiro campaign signs leaning against the wall like sentinels.
Sam’s Morning Glory Diner, a local institution in its own right, was founded in 1998 by Sam Mickey and ran under her direction until her death in 2012. Her mom, Carol Mickey, has kept the place alive ever since. “She was one of those people that did everything,” Carol Mickey says, laughing at the memory of suggesting Sam attend restaurant school. “She said, ‘If they called it anything but school I’d go!’” She recounts the diner’s early days, when her daughter painted the walls herself and tested every recipe by hand. Sam Mickey, who was severely dyslexic, taught herself to cook by writing out each recipe by hand until she understood them.
According to Carol Mickey, South Philly didn’t look a whole lot different in ’98 than it does now—a little more grey, but still stitched together by corner bars, awful parking, the soft hiss of a grill, and the sweet smell of onions and bread. Mickey laughs, “When she said she was going to open and what her menu was going to be, they said, ‘No french fries, no cheesesteaks. You’ll never make it.’” And so Morning Glory was born, a sunny breakfast spot serving banana bread french toast and original sausage gravy, preceding other local brunch fixtures like Sabrina’s and Honey’s—the first of its kind in the area.
Decades later, the place has hardly changed: the same cooks in the kitchen, the same regulars. There’s an easy permanence here, and from Mickey’s wry, unstartled disposition, it’s clear this place is a kind of chosen family. She tells me about a kid who started working at 12 and still comes in every Sunday with his wife, about the three brothers who’ve held down the back line for years, and about her own grandchildren who now pick up shifts behind the counter. “We just keep it in family, keeping [Sam’s] memory alive.”
Food is served—a heaping plate of french toast and two picturesque poached eggs with spinach and yellow hollandaise. It smells warm, like salt and butter and something slightly lemoned. The benedict is accompanied by a side of herby, golden home fries, and I’m quick to slather my plate in the house hot sauce. I drag my fork through the yolk and watch as it runs down its bed of grilled ham and buttered toast. The first bite is bright, then heavy, and insists on a second.
I’m nearly halfway through my breakfast before I eye the towering plate of french toast before me. It could pass for cake—a generous helping of whipped berry cream cheese, thick as frosting, between two thick slices of grilled challah. The compote on top is a deep, sticky blue, oozing down the crust in ribbons. It tastes exactly how it looks: dense, warm, sweet. The cream cheese catches on the roof of my mouth, subtly sour, cutting the sugar just enough to convince me it’s breakfast. I reach for the salty side of bacon before resigning to my food coma. The diner’s chatter lowers to a contented hum.
Despite its loud personality, Morning Glory wasn’t always the firebrand it is today. When asked if the diner’s stance was deliberate from the start, Mickey replies, “It started in 2016.” Her answer needs no further explanation. Despite the semi–recent turn, it wasn’t long before the diner’s bravado caught the attention of the state.
“We just got louder and louder,” Mickey says. “And then we got a phone call: It was the attorney general’s office. At the time, we had a big cartoon of [Jeff] Sessions, who was the federal attorney general. And I said, ‘I’m not taking my cartoon down.’” Shortly after, Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro caught wind of Morning Glory’s reputation and decided to visit the diner to oppose a proposal by the Trump administration jeopardizing employee tips. “After the press conference, I said to him, ‘Why us, out of every place in Pennsylvania?’ He said, ‘You have the biggest mouth.’” Mickey chuckles. She knows it’s true and shows no signs of stopping—despite how much flak the diner takes from the neighbors.
“We had a big giant area sign [saying] ‘Vote the Fuckers Out!’ on Tenth Street. Some guys came over and said, ‘Did you have to use that word?’ I said, ‘I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t fit “motherfuckers,”’” she laughs. “I thought he was gonna have a stroke.”
She goes on to describe several other skirmishes, from the friendly fellow who patrols the diner’s street early each morning to scream obscenities at its window to the anonymous crusaders who hacked the diner’s website and tanked its social media accounts. In the hum of that backlash (and the rather colorful décor that surrounds us) I can’t help but wonder if that’s the reaction she counts on. “When you get to a certain age, you don't worry what others say,” Mickey says. “I am who I am. We make a lot of money. People are coming, they don’t come—we’re doing fine.”
Morning Glory’s fortified longevity lets it take such a strong stance; the hate just fans the fire. If diners once symbolized a neutral, apolitical Americana—chrome counters, black coffee, and an unprovocative quiet—Morning Glory reshapes that mythology. There’s no mission statement, according to Mickey, but a public space adopted for conviction is just another version of activism. “You have expectations of what that diner is going to be,” she says.
It’s a philosophy that sits somewhere between inclusivity and defiance—the diner is its own self–defined entity. After a while, the slogans and dangling effigies, even the menu’s callouts, begin to feel more like scenery.
“When people visit Morning Glory, what message do you want them to walk away with?” I ask, finally. Mickey’s answer is simple, a sly smile pulling at the corner of her mouth: “That they found a new place to have breakfast.”
TL;DR: Politically charged classic brunch food—what more can we say?
Location: 735 S. Tenth St.
Price: $
Hours: 8 a.m.–2 p.m. Monday–Friday, 8 a.m.–3 p.m. Saturday–Sunday
