A hymn to breakfast.

I can easily skip lunch, lunch is the most overrated meal in the history of mankind, it’s only purpose is to give the working class a break, just a short one, though, I blame the trade unions, breakfast, however, I love, it was invented by people with lots of time on their hands, the time it takes to season your egg with seven different spices, salt not included, or to sip your tea in a gentlemanly manner, the second brew of the day, you’ve had your first one in bed, your early morning tea, to read your paper, turning those pages in slow motion, one cannot read a paper swiftly, only when looking if your last wrong doing made it to the front pages, that’s how it’s shown in films anyway, it takes even more time to choose what marmalade it is to make it on your toast or croissant, orange, quince or grapefruit, on these croissants you had to pick up at your baker first, you did enjoy that little stroll down the street, always running into a neighbour, exchanging thoughts on the forecast weather and last Sunday’s sermon at church, lemon curd it is, you’ve just realized you only had orange marmalade yesterday and were somewhat disappointed with the texture, your dog awaits a walk, he’s so transparent, be cruel, have another cup of tea, nobody not even your dog should ever rush you, sounds familiar, all of that? Of course not, we devour our croissants while on commute, wash’em down with some office coffee and can’t wait for lunch, the only time in the day where we can let go, for a minute or two, while nodding along our colleague’s reflections on the shortcomings of conference room B, waiting for another of his desperate little sighs, soundtracking his checking the time again, poor fellow, but damn, how long can it take to serve some pasta, we all endure it so very bravely – all by looking forward to our Sunday breakfast, the one day we are allowed to have one.

Paris for breakfast.

There are days when you don’t wake up in Paris, those normal days at home, in your very fine yet so very ordinary sheets, when you suffer from the same old view from your bedroom windows, the same old soap in the shower, that same old boring Diptyque soap instead of the hotel branded stuff that screams you’re abroad, far away from home, on the loose, free, it’s not so much branded with some hotel logo, but with the far more prestigious emblem of your very own liberty, whether it’s a place in the Himalayas, the Australian outback or, in my case, Paris, Rome, Helsinki, St.Petersburg or Edinburgh, as, with me, nature is almost always replaced with architecture, preferably from before 1900 AD, that late massive Finnish art nouveau and the exuberance of Brussels art deco are an exception, anyway, thank heavens there are days when your parents return from France, bringing you Proustian madeleines in form of Paulian croissants, those real ones, with that inimitable taste, au beurre, crispy as hell, as if they just came out of the boulangerie on rue de Rennes, not your father’s suitcase, and however German your homemade Sunday coffee is, you’re transported to the streets of Saint-Germain immediately. This way, thanks to fine parenting and modern transportation, your life in exile from any place abroad is worth living after all.