I'm a fan of traditions and personal rituals. There's something debonair about a person with a regimen that I admire. While I've had little opportunity to create a lasting tradition, I do religiously eat my breakfast and relish that ritual.
I noticed that my breakfast composition is changing with time, reflecting the different places I lived in. The first one was prescribed by my mother when I was in primary school: half-boiled egg, still in its semi-solid state, and a dollop of fish oil. True enough, it was not the best breakfast in the world. Every morning, I refused to eat my breakfast and would try to run away from the raw egg and its fishy stench, sometimes in tears, to no avail. My nanny's strong arms would catch me in the end. She'd corner me inside a tall sofa and pry my mouth open with a giant spoon full of egg yolk. I would yelp, pinch my nose close and choke on the raw egg. (It was that dramatic...) By the fifth spoon, I had surrendered to her persistence and would willingly swallow a spoonful of fish oil.
I started liking eating breakfast when I arrived in Guangzhou, China at the age of twelve. Unfamiliar with my neighborhood food options, I quickly became attached to a small Cantonese eatery outside my school gate. The place sold breakfast chang fen with eggs and ground pork, Chinese curlers, congee, sticky rice and bao. Hot steam covers the front of restaurant where they cook their bao and chang fen. Locals waited in line with their bikes and leave carrying small plastic bags containing bao. I too was part of the line and overtime learned to curse at the person who try to cut the line along with the other customers. From a classroom, I watched people empty their seats and the morning pandemonium subside. The restaurant cooks would eat lunch at noon and close the place down at two.
Similarly in Paris, I got my breakfast on my way to class. There's a boulangerie one step away from a major street with a beautiful two-window display. They made amazing madeleines that I snuck into class from time to time. On days I had to work at a bookstore, I start my day a little later and pick up coffee and croissant from Paul and spend the rest of the morning reading at a small park in St. Germaine. Sometimes, I'd wait until the bookstore opens and fetch coffee with my then co-worker Jasna. We'd walk slowly to Eric Kayser and swap gossip over a lemon tart.
I was very skeptical about the food in London and didn't even try to eat breakfast. I'd come to work in the morning and slide into the cafeteria on the second floor of my building. I'd prepare two cups of Earl Grey - one for me, one for my boss - bring them to my office and have my tea with a wheat cookie. Suffice to say that was my breakfast for most mornings, but it would be unfair to not mention the flip side of London breakfasts. On Saturdays, I'd take the subway to Kensington and eat the full English breakfast - sausage, eggs, hash and beans - under a leafy shade of green while watching people pass. Modest as it was, it felt very grand and indulgent.
I rarely had the same breakfast experience twice in New York. A budding foodie, I was determined to acquaint myself with the Saturday brunch scene before settling on one place. I never found that one place I was going to settle on, but did end up visiting a few great ones: Maialino, ABC Kitchen, Ella Cafe, Locanda Verde, Union Square Cafe, Balthazar, oh the list goes on! I love my poached egg, my bacon, my bread, my lemon pancake, my cleverly maneuvered salads in the morning. That said, the real breakfast in New York for me was the coffee. I know the best coffee every ten-block radius in New York and there's nothing as joyful as a decent coffee in the morning after a week of crappy school coffee. The first place I stop by when I arrive in New York is Joe the Art of Coffee in Grand Central Station. Eyes still full of sleep, I count on the coffee to bring me back to life.
Jakarta has been a disappointment after New York. There's virtually no breakfast culture in the city and I'm too busy to go out for food in the morning. So to start my morning, I'd toast two slices of bread and make a cup of Sumatra coffee (Sumatra Mandailing from Anomali). In the car, on my way to work, I'd sip my hot coffee and observe the moving traffic. And for the next half an hour, I'd find myself once again in that quiet and peace of breakfast.
It was never about the food.
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