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Don’t Mess with My French Toast!
How breakfast grounds us
When it comes to exotic cuisine, I’m no wimp. In Japan, I’ve eaten sashimi so fresh it was still squirming. In Iceland, I braved harkl, rotten shark. But when it comes to breakfast on the road, I prefer a simple omelet or my childhood favorite, French toast, or that old backpacker standby: banana pancakes.
Sometimes, finding an American breakfast requires resourcefulness. In Afghanistan, I brewed my morning coffee using an improvised French press, precisely measuring the water and grounds like some sort of mad scientist while a group of young Afghan men stared incredulously. Usually, though, I can count on some enterprising expatriate who has tapped into this hunger for an all-American breakfast. One of my favorites breakfast joints is the wonderfully named Ric’s Kountry Kitchen in Qatar. The blueberry pancakes are divine — or maybe just taste that way because of their geographic incongruity. It doesn’t really matter.
Apparently, I’m not alone in my breakfast parochialism. A friend recently explained how every morning the staff on a cruise ship laid out three distinct breakfast choices. There was the European section, with bread and cheese and fishy fish. There was the Asian section, with rice and noodles and dumplings. And there was the American section, with heaps of bacon and sausage and pancakes. My friend, no culinary wimp by…
