French breakfast.

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 he went 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 feel very, very French this morning.

Becoming a fine snacker.

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.

Swiss nutrition facts.

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?

Dipping goals.

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…

The world’s most reliable baker.

Our baker is the strangest baker on this planet; his brötchen never taste the same, nor do they ever look the same. One day, they’re almost burnt, the next day, they’re white as a geisha. When you buy them, you never know whether they’re crispy outside and airy and light inside or deplorably squashy inside and out, you never know if you will enjoy your breakfast or not. Why that is, we have never found out. It seems as if the only consistency in his life was being inconsistent. The same goes for his bread by the way. He’s consistently inconsistent here, too. I hate reliable people, I really do.

These mornings when you need a friend.

You’re tired, you miss your bed the minute you get out of it, then you don’t want to leave the shower but of course you get out of this comfort zone, too, you get all styled up and into the kitchen, you pour yourself a coffee, and you look at this mass of vitamins and nutrients and beauty boosters you keep washing down with it and you ask yourself if it’s all worth it — and then there’s that very important beagle person who tells you everything will be fine. God bless him.

Imperial breakfast.

For years and years, I’ve thought English marmalade was the best. I’m not known for admitting mistakes easily, but Boy, do I stand corrected. The best marmalade in the world is definitely French and not from a supermarket but from the Ritz on Place Vendôme in Paris. I wonder if they still have people stay in their suites of if they don’t have to rent out rooms any longer as they should be making a fortune with their grapefruit and clementine jam by now. It’s best spread on fine pâté, by the way, trust you me. Bon appétit!