On Sunday breakfast

Over many years of experimentation, I believe I have at the age of 34 devised a Sunday breakfast ritual which is ideally suited to my own personal aesthetic sensibilities.

I am a gregarious sort of person, with socialist tendencies, and so from time to time I do enjoy a collective breakfast in a hotel dining room, canteen, refectory, mess tent or in a cabin rented for a long weekend in the Catskills. But when I am at home alone on a Sunday morning, this is how I prefer to break my fast. There are many excellent foodstuffs on which to breakfast, such as bacon, kippers, grits, figs, porridge, pancakes, beans, croissants, bubble and squeak, a single panfried mutton kidney, but I prefer to reserve these items for the less holy days of the week. On Sundays, I limit myself to one soft boiled egg, accompanied by toast cut into those thin strips that have been known since about 1965 in Britain as soldiers.

Let us begin with the egg. I am fairly particular about my eggs but certainly not as fastidious as some. When I am selecting eggs at the supermarket, I always look for the endorsement of an animal welfare organization, the more zealous the better. In the United Kingdom, I seem to recall seeing the logo of the RSPCA on some egg packaging, while in the United States, the ‘Certified Humane’ label is backed by 70 humane groups including the ASPCA. While there are supposedly nutritional benefits to eating eggs from pasture raised chickens, my reasoning is purely ethical. In order to maximise the enjoyment of my Sunday egg, I must be reassured that it was laid under the least possible duress. I do not require organic eggs, however. In fact, I have been told by an editor of a scientific journal that organic eggs are more detrimental to the wellbeing of the poultry than the non-organic variety. I have not conducted extensive independent research into the matter. For me, the mark of the humane society is the main thing that salves my egg consuming conscience. This humane egg should be of medium size. The colour of the shell is unimportant to me, but usually it is brown. I lower the egg carefully with a dessert spoon into a saucepan of water at a rolling boil and leave it there for four minutes. I then take one or two slices of the highest quality white bread available in the pantry and put them in the toaster.

While the egg is boiling and the bread toasting, I should touch upon the equally vital subject of beverages. Here I confess I am somewhat torn. On a normal Sunday, the perfect accompaniment to egg and soldiers is Yorkshire Tea, brewed strong but without being stewed, the edge taken off with a splash of semi skimmed milk, no sugar. This I prepare in my Queen Elizabeth II Silver Jubilee 1977 mug, or any other commemorative royal porcelain. I alluded earlier to my socialist tendencies, but these do not in any way impinge on my ability to derive joy from kitch ephemera of the monarchist variety.

Tea, served in this manner, is quite satisfactory for a normal Sunday morning. But on high holy days or when I really want to push the matutinal boat out, something stronger is in order, namely a screwdriver and a potent black coffee. A screwdriver is an excellent morning tonic traditionally composed of vodka, orange juice and Galliano. I am no vodka expert, but I operate on the principle that one should use the best vodka one can comfortably afford. Here in Brooklyn, we tend to stock Tito’s, a highly regarded vodka crafted from yellow corn, as opposed to wheat or potatoes, in Austin, Texas. If I could lay hands on a premium Polish brand such as Wyborowa or Luksusowa, I would happily do so. The orange juice should be freshly squeezed if possible. The final ingredient, Galliano, has been made in Italy according to a secret family recipe since 1896. In a pinch, a drop of vanilla extract can be used instead. I like to combine the ingredients with ice in a cocktail shaker, give them a good stir and then pour the concoction into a frosted champagne flute. It is a terrific idea to prepare this drink first of all and sip it occasionally throughout the breakfast preparation process. The coffee I use is Kimbo, which is grown in Central and South America and roasted in Naples, where it is a popular standby. I prefer Caffè del Professore, but to the best of my knowledge it is not exported out of Italy. Either way, the grounds should be made into espresso using a moka coffee pot or espresso machine.

The toaster has popped and the toast is golden brown. Butter must not be applied to very hot toast so that it instantly melts into the crumb. Rather, the toast should be allowed to cool a little, permitting a generous layer of white butter to survive on the surface. This layer must be of real butter, not margarine and certainly no product whose marketing intrigue relies heavily on a profound sense of incredulity that it is not, in fact, butter. French butter is good, but care must be taken in the selection of it, because the French often leave their butter unsalted. This will not do for soldiers. Irish butter is eminently acceptable. Once buttered, the toast is sliced into strips of between half an inch and three quarters of an inch in width. In recent times, novelty cutters that produce toast in the shape of realistic human soldiers have become available, but these categorically must not be bought, used or in any way encouraged.

Finally, the various elements must be brought together. The egg should be presented in a cup designed specifically for this purpose, namely an egg cup, though in dire straits a shot glass will do. The final items are an egg spoon – which, in case you have never come across one, is considerably smaller than a tea spoon – and a salt cellar with which to season the egg interior once its top has been carefully removed. The Sunday breakfast should be eaten at a leisurely pace in abundant sunlight, even al fresco if meteorological conditions allow. It is inadvisable to listen to the news on the radio or TV. All too easily the reporting of an unpleasant event, such as a Conservative by-election win in Norwich North, could spoil the serenity of this golden weekend moment. Instead, I set the mood with light classical music or an old episode of Just a Minute from 1969, featuring Clement Freud, Kenneth Williams, Derek Nimmo and Geraldine Jones.