Breakfast when I was a child was a simple affair. There was toast. There was nearly always toast.
Toast, of course, was less a food than a rescue operation for bread that had gone past its best. A slice that could no longer be trusted in a sandwich was placed under the grill, burned slightly at the edges, and returned to the table with a new sense of purpose.
On Sundays, things became more exciting. Bacon and eggs might appear, confirming that it was the weekend and that the family finances were holding up reasonably well.
Then breakfast cereals arrived.
Cornflakes had been invented by a man called Kellogg, who apparently believed that bland food would aid digestion and discourage impure thoughts. This may explain why my mother was so enthusiastic about them. Every morning, we were presented with a bowl of golden flakes and sent out into the world pure of heart, regular of bowel, and thinking of absolutely nothing. I suspect Mr Kellogg was also trying to rid the world of children because his cereal boxes contained gifts of little soldiers made of lead!
In winter, corn flakes were sometimes replaced by porridge. Porridge looked like wallpaper paste and, as far as I could tell, differed only in that wallpaper paste probably had more flavour.
The box usually featured a fierce-looking Scottish Highlander in a kilt, standing proudly in the mountains as though porridge had prepared him to invade England before lunchtime. Our porridge never inspired such ambition. It mainly encouraged us to sit quietly and wait for it to cool.
As the 1960s progressed and families became slightly more affluent, eggs began appearing on weekdays. I still enjoy a boiled egg, complete with bread soldiers for dipping into the yolk. My adult children find this hilarious, although they will happily pay fourteen euros for smashed avocado served on a piece of toast.
Breakfast has changed.
It is now a dining experience.
People actually go out for breakfast. Those unable to get out of bed early enough call it brunch, which is breakfast served perilously close to lunchtime and at roughly twice the price.
Brunch has its own language. Eggs are no longer merely boiled, fried or scrambled. They are Benedict, Florentine, Royale or poached on sourdough with wilted spinach and a light drizzle of something mysterious.
Scrambled eggs now contain crème fraîche, chives and several ingredients that would once have required a passport.
Fish have also forced their way onto the breakfast table. Salmon, kippers and kedgeree are all available for anyone who wakes up in the morning and immediately thinks, “I could murder a haddock.”
There are breakfast bowls containing seeds, grains, fruit, nuts, yoghurt and various substances usually sold in health-food shops by people with excellent skin.
Porridge has also been rehabilitated. It is no longer served plain in a bowl. It now arrives topped with blueberries, toasted almonds, honey, chia seeds and perhaps a small branch from a nearby tree. The Scottish Highlander on the box would not recognise it.
Cornflakes, meanwhile, have evolved into granola. Granola is essentially cereal that has joined the middle classes. It comes in a glass pot, layered with yoghurt and fruit, and is eaten with a spoon too long to fit comfortably in the container.
Then there is French toast, covered in fruit, chocolate, cream or maple syrup. Pancakes arrive in towers, often so high that planning permission should have been sought.
Thankfully, the full Irish breakfast survives.
It has even developed a smaller relative: the small Irish breakfast. In many establishments, the small Irish breakfast contains two sausages, two rashers, two eggs, black pudding, white pudding, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, potato bread, and toast. It is considered small only because the plate has a visible edge.
Despite all the fashionable alternatives, I remain loyal to the Irish breakfast. I want bacon, sausages, an egg, and toast.
And the toast must come with butter.
Not one of those tiny foil-wrapped portions that has been kept in the fridge until it reaches the consistency of a roof tile. I want proper butter, soft enough to spread, and plenty of it.
Breakfast may have become an international culinary experience, but some standards must be maintained.
