“One of the realest meals there is in the so-called developed world is a hotel breakfast. I say this for a simple reason: no one – unless they are close to expiring – refuses it. You may stagger back to your chipboard hutch, which fronts on to some godawful bypass, at 1.30am, swearing never again to drink with colleagues/clients/long-lost siblings, but the card lying on the bed still gets you salivating.”
“Because the whole point about the hotel breakfast is that it’s included: you’ve paid your £65.99, so you may as well have it. It’s not only included in the hotel bill, it is also, by extension, inclusive of all the guests. Good morning, Britain! Good morning, all you munchers and crunchers and belchers – wherever you may be. Speaking personally, the novelty of having breakfast served to me in my room has long since palled. I find the whole experience of staying in hotels alone alienating, and the mornings are worst of all: lonely Onan, in his pants, caffeine-jittery and staring at the traffic coursing by the unopenable window like so many steely worry beads on a tarmac string.”
Read the rest of the latest Real Meals column at the New Statesman here.