The full breakfast has been declared dead many times. But this time reports of its demise are, perhaps, not exaggerated
In the 1980s, there was only one meal that mattered to me: Sunday breakfast. A break from monotonous cereal or toast, my dad’s full breakfast was the highlight of the food week.
True, his signature dish (naturally, this was the only time he cooked), would not have flown at the Wolseley– or any self-respecting high street cafe, for that matter. He had taken this originally conspicuous symbol of Victorian prosperity and pared it back to an ultra-convenient, cut-price pleasure. Who needs bacon when you can fry luncheon meat with your eggs and serve that with hotdog sausages and tinned tomatoes enriched with semi-skimmed and Kwik Save No Frills cheddar? “That is not a full breakfast,” you may cry, “that is child neglect.” But to a man who grew up in postwar Salford (and me), it seemed like heaven. With extra fried bread.
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