For six days of the week I'll just scoff a breakfast bar or two in the mornings. I don't really class them as a proper breakfast but at least it keeps me ticking over. The problem is these specially formulated snacks don't have the same happy memory and ritual associated with them like the nations most prized of traditions: the full English breakfast. I've certainly never been lured out of a warm bed by the unwrapping of a breakfast bar.
This morning I was treated to a breakfast at Bristol's Source food cafe. A decent cafe and an amazing deli. It sources local produce and feels like the way things should be.
I had my usual - actually not an English breakfast, although it's damn fine there - instead I had haddock with a poached egg. Always beautiful, it comes with two slices of toast and a thin creamy sauce garnished with chopped chives. The fish has a strong smokiness balanced by the delicate accompanying sauce. It's good, really good.
The ambient aromas elevated this eating experience and on a Sunday morning those are the best kind of stereo aromas (not sure what that means - think I made it up!). Brewed coffee, freshly made toast just buttered, baked beans - a nation's favourite - black pudding, eggs and of course bacon.
At church, as a child, I remember being able to smell the bacon we were going to eat after service as we hit the psalms. This was the point where my attention would sadly dwindle. After church at home, I'd help load the grill enthusiastically, rashers clambering over each other to get premier position for the ensuing grillage. My rind had to be brown, black was acceptable , translucent was not welcome.
I sat in the cafe and felt good. The smells didn't take me to different places visually, it was a more powerful experience. I simply felt nice inside, inspired to seize the day ahead.
Sunday is my favourite breakfast day with a personal history written on satisfyingly emptied plates. I hope it's yours too.
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