Every now and again, the FT publishes a letter from a bemused reader asking if the paper’s weekend columnist Tyler Brûlé is actually an elaborate hoax. But I’ve seen him on Bloomberg, so he must be real. This is real gem of food-related pseudery from a few months ago, courtesy of my Dad:
Breakfast is a finely tuned, precision operation in our household. While the menu alters slightly depending on where it’s being prepared, it’s almost always assembled by Mats (though my mother occasionally stands in when she’s visiting) and it tends to be a spare, brisk affair. Last weekend in St Moritz breakfast involved cappuccinos served in cosy yellow Dibbern mugs and Gipfeli (German Switzerland’s less buttery and more fluffy answer to the croissant) with apricot jam served on maple plates from the Tokyo retailer Play Mountain. When we’re in Sweden it’s cappuccinos in white Iittala mugs and egg, chive and Kalles kaviar open-face sandwiches on toasted Finnish rye bread served on small rectangular teak plates. With a bit of luck all of this is consumed on the jetty in the morning sun followed by a dip in the Baltic.
On Wednesday the breakfast routine in London started with coffees served in mugs from One Kiln ceramics in Kagoshima but there was a problem in the kitchen. The Poilâne bread that had been purchased the evening before at our local branch of Waitrose was still mushy in the middle and started smoking in the toaster. This caused a minor fuss but Mats and Mom managed to salvage some end pieces and breakfast was saved. As far as I was concerned the episode was over and I headed off to work.
continues ad infinitum ad nauseum