Bet you didn’t know American Breakfast translates to scrambled eggs served with slices of pink hot dog, right?
Yeah, neither do we, but we settle in for Le Foyer’s balcony breakfast under a blazing morning sun, totally refreshed after the longest night of sleep ever, hungry to make up for a lost dinner. Last night, we attempt to know the specifics of breakfast, for here, Graham often finds it wanting, little more than a snack on our way to either an early lunch or breakfast número dos.
So, now, here we are, toasty warm and actually excited to eat an American Breakfast, naively optimistic that it might actually resemble eggs and bacon and biscuits, trying to silence and stuff the pesky little voice that assures us it will most definitely NOT be an American Breakfast, at least, not a North American Breakfast and most definitely not a United States of American Breakfast.
Fresh jugo and a dried cafe later, we try not to eat both our portions of pull-apart bread and pineapple jam, certain that every egg breakfast is best accompanied by a square of bread, and yes, oh my, an eternity later, our hostess appears with a plate of thin omelettes, two stacked on top of each other.
Graham and I peer closer for inspection, curious as to what those pink grey circles are, hopeful it might be sausage, but … oh, no.
I take a bite, and well, it’s edible, and before long, I’ve eaten almost half while we wait for the second plate to arrive, confident that this must surely be a single serving, right? Wrong, the hostess’ absence our answer to the question, and lucky for us, the other half makes it down Graham’s gullet before his gut eats him alive.
American Breakfast, my ass.