Bangalore: 

WHOLESOME: The first meal of the day is the most important file pic

It is one of those rare coincidences that actually allow me to relish what's advocated by doctors, dieticians, generals and chefs: the hearty breakfast.

For as long as I can remember, I have always looked forward to that first meal of the day. The lunch and dinner in diminishing importance. My day has no meaning, no fibre unless it is built on an edifice of a cooked breakfast.

It probably has to do with one's own childhood. My home being one where breakfasts were big meals. And so when I read about people going to work on a mug of coffee and a biscuit, I balk in terror. Where on earth do they find the wherewithal to sustain them through the day? Surely by about eleven in the morning, they must be faint with hunger and ratty in the bargain too!

I chanced upon a description of an English house-party in the 1870s: "There would be a choice of fish, fried eggs and crisp bacon, a variety of egg dishes, omelettes and sizzling sausages and bacon. During the shooting season hot game and grilled pheasants were always served, but of course without any vegetables. On a side table was always found a choice of cold meats. Delicious home-smoked hams, pressed meats... The guests drank either coffee or tea and there were invariable accompaniments of piping hot home-made rolls and still-room reserves of apple and quince jelly. The meal usually finished with fruit course of grapes or hothouse peaches and nectarines.'

Now this is the school of thought I subscribe to. Naturally it goes without saying that such indulgence could be possible only if one had several servants and an informed sense of guilt.

For what time would one begin a breakfast such as this? What time did one finish? Did one go to work thereafter or did one loll with the newspapers and the spaniels? And lunch. Did one skip it or eat it? And if so, at what hour? The entire day could weigh heavily on breaking the fast.

Much as I detest travelling, one of the few joys is the hotel breakfasts. Not the coffee, toast and preserve of the pension but the loaded islands of five star hotels. A friend tells me that she calls in for room service when she is in a hotel. "I wouldn't ever miss an opportunity to breakfast in bed!" She has a point, of course.

But what I dislike about breakfast on a tray is not being able to dither over the multiple choices available.  I think it is a true test of character to see how one emerges post such an experience. Very often I find myself battling greed (to load my plate with familiar favourites or not?) against the desire to try something new [churros  with chocolate or the hominy grits or the conjee with stir-fried veggies?]. Decisions are the last thing one ought to have to make at breakfast time.  Nevertheless it is a compulsive need. To be routinely baffled and perhaps even defeated by choice.