Breakfast, at least that’s what I’ve been told over and over again by newspapers and magazines, always quoting some doctors from lesser known universities, is the most important meal of the day, if you skip it you’ll die an agonizing death or you find yourself out of the job for performing badly any time soon, and although I can’t prove it with any medicinal facts, neither has my hair’s shine improved nor did I have fewer problems with learning Chinese, I do subscribe to that point of view as it is the only meal that includes a boiled egg. I love boiled eggs. My grandmother had them with French mustard, moutarde à l’ancienne, or im Glas, which is actually two boiled eggs with some spices served stirred in a glass, no stem, a tumbler, I’d say, and to anybody who like literary connections, like those who can’t eat a madeleine without quoting Proust, rambling on about their transporting smell and one’s childhood and all of that, I recommend Klaus Mann’s brilliant novel “Mephisto”, Eier im Glas for breakfast play a small but dramatic part in it, but I seem to digress, my eggs are mostly eaten pure and simple, some salt, some crushed white pepper, that’s it, as long as the spoon is made from mother-of-pearl and the egg cup is to my liking.
Sometimes, I find myself staring at the bowl in my kitchen where I keep fruit and vegetables that don’t like the fridge. Everything looks so good. Beautiful, really. Little works of art. Colour, form, texture, all is so amazingly well executed. I just can’t take my eyes off. Artichokes, for example. Why would you wanna hide them? You’ve got to cook them anyway. Or peaches. Beware of putting these in the fridge! I once took a bite of a peach from the fridge… Boy, did that hurt! You can’t use that much Sensodyne to protect your teeth from icy cold peaches. Especially when your fridge’s temperature is almost near zero. But bananas really don’t like the cold. There was even a Chiquita commercial about it, in the 1940s, with a song sung by a banana dressed like Carmen Miranda: …but bananas like the climate of the very very tropical equatooooor, so you should never put ba-naa-naaas in the refrigeratooooor, oh no no no! But wherever I store fruit and vegetables, they don’t last long either way. They get eaten up way too soon to really care, isn’t it a shame?
There are days when nothing goes right. Even though your favourite actress at the moment has won the Oscar for her part in The Favourite, a film that made you smile and laugh and sit in awe at the cinema, but still, that damn coffee machine keeps annoying you in the morning by spilling first water then coffee—never buy a Krups!— and the bus is late again and there’s another grey hair mocking your vanity and, well, you know what I’m getting at, don’t you? One of these days where really nothing bad happens and still you feel like life itself was a bit overrated—until you have dessert, that is. The moment you have some yummy and ever so spongy cake to be washed down with a Sauternes, bottled at a time when grey hairs were not yet an issue, then your day starts to be real’ fine. I mean, really!
This morning, I felt very French. Very, very French. So, instead of having my usual toasts with tea, I had to leave the house to get some Franzbrötchen at my local organic bakery. They are not really French like a croissant, but the Franz-part of the word comes from the time when Germany was occupied in the early 1800s, when Napoleon had just invaded the country, and he was definitely a Frenchman, a Franzos’. Nothing lasts forever, and the Russians made him go back to where he came from—later the French got sick of him, too, and sent him far off to St.Helena, an island so secluded nobody really knows where it is. Anyway, Franzbrötchen are part of the culinary leftovers of that time and I do enjoy them a great deal: a buttery, crispy, cinnamon flavoured delight to have with your coffee in the morning, and, in my case, François Truffaut’s masterpiece “The Last Metro”. As I’ve said, I felt very, very French this morning.
There are books that just won’t let you go, you find yourself turning page after page—I guess, this is why they’re called page-turners—and all of sudden you faint from hunger. You’ve had no meal since breakfast which was, wow!, ten hours ago. No reason to get alarmed though: this is why snacks were invented. You see, you just can’t eat spaghetti with a book in one of your hands. It’ll end as a disaster. Snacks, however, demand much less attention while eating them, you probably won’t miss a word of the book you’re having with them. There’s just one thing to be aware of: The more stylish the protagonist of the book, the more stylish your snacks should be.
I love a good müesli. It’s probably the best the Swiss ever invented. Of course, there are their Rolexes, Patek Philippes, Vacheron Constantins, and such, too, but let’s face it, there’s a limit to any timepiece, isn’t there? They tell us what time it is and that’s that. A müesli, however, makes you strong and supplies you with wonderfully nutritious nutrients and charms you out of bed each morning with its promise of heavenly delights, with the taste and smell of cream and cherries, or milk and raspberries, or any dairy product and berry you like. It doesn’t look too good on a plate, though. Once you stirr it all up, it all becomes a mess. But one can’t have it all, can one?
Quarkbällchen, curd balls, are best when dipped in hot coffee. They soak your morning blend all up, mine is an organic single origin from Ethiopia at the moment, and the sugar coat sweetens it ever so crispily. It’s really the best start in the day. Just make sure to be alone when you take your breakfast like that. Eating them like that, one tends to look like a toothless old caveman. It’s not very becoming. If you want to get rid of your partner though, you better start a curd-ball-coffee-dipping-diet right away…