Sometimes Munch tries to bring you the newest hot spot, the out-of-the-way treasure you wouldn't find on your own, something spicy and ethnic and deviant. And other times we take you to the place that's well-worn and well-known, meat-and-potatoes, like a comfortable shoe. Munch is unpredictable like that.

This week Munch is here to talk about the comfortable shoe, and if we had to compare What's Cookin' at Casey's in Oakmont to one shoe in particular, it would be the old pair of Saucony running sneaks that we wear when mowing the lawn. Snug, reliable and, thanks to a hole in the toe, a bit drafty.

Yeah, if you go to Casey's in the dead of winter, you're gonna want to bundle up. The draft is vicious. When Dear One Of Munch (DOOM), swaddled in a wool coat, asked the waitress to turn up the heat, the response was: It's as high as it can go.

What's Cookin' at Casey's is at 608 Allegheny River Blvd., Oakmont and is open Monday to Thursday from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m., Friday and Saturday from 8 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. and Sunday from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m.; 412-826-1400 or www.whatscookinatcaseys.com.

So Munch and DOOM burned some sugar packets for warmth. And that's how the fire started.

Just kidding! No, really, it was charming, eating just like the Eskimos do. We felt a bit like that Travel Channel adventure eater who immerses himself in the locale as well as the food. No, not Anthony Bourdain. The fat one. Who eats the bugs.

Where were we? Oh, right, At Casey's. In Oakmont. A little two-room storefront, right there on the delightful split-level business strip, diagonally across from the Cafe Monaco, a half mile from The Mighty Oak Barrel, two blocks from the Oakmont Tavern and just around the corner from the Elk's lodge, supposing you're into that sort of thing. And if you are, how would you feel about sending me $100 to join the Benevolent Protective Order of the Munch (BPOM)?

Casey's is known best for its Italian dishes, made from family recipes said to be passed down from the maternal ancestors of Rose Henry, who owns the place along with husband Bill and two relatives. Family is a running theme at Casey's, as the menu is painted with old family photos (or perhaps these are photos of strangers lifted from wallets and picture frames; we can't be certain).

In any event, Munch and DOOM were there for breakfast, not dinner. Munch had visited Casey's once before, and the eggs benedict were dee-lish. The rest of the menu looked tempting, too: eight types of omelettes, pancakes, Belgian waffles, and something called the Brent sandwich (egg, bacon, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and mayonnaise on wheat toast, $4.55).

DOOM was pleased with the fluffy, not dense, blueberry pancakes ($4.15). The blueberries were fresh, DOOM noted, not gelatinous. A side dish of two fried eggs ($2.60) came with Mancini's Italian bread (in case you weren't aware, Mancini's bakery = awesome.)

Munch was going to order half a grapefruit and an English muffin, swear to God, but somehow, as Munch opened Munch's mouth, out came the words, "I'll have the cinnamon swirl French toast with chocolate and vanilla icing on top and a side of home-fried potatoes, please."

Weird, right? Freudian slip, I guess. But Munch's inner 5-year-old, who still mixes Golden Grahams with chocolate milk from time to time, was thrilled at the development. Faster than you can say "sugar coma," all five slices of the French toast were gone. (Although we must say, Munch has been to France, and we don't recall them ever serving toast in this manner.) The home fries were surprisingly grease-free, and not too salty.

Because there was still a little bit of room in our gullets, Munch and DOOM ordered two dinner salads to go. Munch's, the lemon chicken salad ($9.75), came garnished with kiwi slices (flimsy) and walnuts, and the "lemon" chicken was actually an unremarkable chopped chicken breast, with lemon Dijon dressing on the side. Next time we visit, we'll stick with the Italian food.

Decor? Striped wallpaper, wicker baskets, wooden booths, ceramic roosters, lots of lattice work, a dinner plate autographed by Phil Mickelson. You know, the usual.