The alarm goes off at 6 a.m., the average temperature of your comforter is 50° while it's close to -2 outside. The day involves 8 hours work plus overtime, which is clearly a must since your colleague has called in sick and is hibernating in his bed, cared for and pampered by his wife who won't let him lift a finger for fear of a relapse. So you go out, full of enthusiasm, defrost your windshield and off you go. Something, however, catches your attention: the bar. Ah, the bar. So let's imagine the two possible scenarios.
You enter, the sweet scent of croissants fills your nostrils, the newspaper is already on a clean coffee table, the bartender greets you with a smile. You order your cappuccino and wait: the saucer is placed in front of you, the spoon to your right, a chocolate next to it. The milk is whipped, the freshly ground coffee is ready, so you are hit with a mountain of hot foam. Your friend behind the counter adds a little decoration to that mound of snow just to crack a smile, which indeed comes out spontaneously. So cappuccino and croissants, quick reading of the headlines and you slip through the door followed by a pressing 'Have a nice day!" from the person who just served you.
But here the scene comes to a drastic halt a la sliding doors. Let's go back five minutes.
You enter the bar and hear the floor below you creak from the numerous crumbs strewn on the floor. You approach the counter as the one beyond intimates that you should pay before ordering. That said, you return with your receipt. Without any enthusiasm, the sequence I'm-preparing-yet-another-café sequence is automatically triggered for the bartender, who is left to cool while the milk is horribly brought to a simmer. Without too much care you are served a scalding lattelatte, complete with a drop that descends inexorably onto the saucer, the taste of which could at least be sweetened by sugar, except that the spoon has an obvious halo of detergent that would at best help to perform the gastric lavage useful in clearing your stomach after swallowing such crap. 'Brioche will save me,' you think, it is sure. But alas, there are still those who dare to serve the previous day's because they profess to be world peace heroes in the style of 'We can't throw away food while people are starving.' How selfless! So pay up and run away even if no one seems to have noticed your exit.
I have experienced both scenarios, though not at 6 a.m., but I am always convinced that a good breakfast eaten in a familiar place where they are not blasting power hits blaring in your ears can help you start your day better. Of course it won't get your colleague out of bed, but at least you have enjoyed a great cup of coffee while he has certainly settled for an herbal tea of lime, rosemary and who knows what other medicinal herb that does-so-much-good but has a definite characteristic: being exquisitely tasteless.
