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Eating the World Every Morning

Blood for Breakfast Is Wasted on the Young


Blood for Breakfast Is Wasted on the Young

by Katie MacLeod

Black Pudding in the Outer Hebrides

Never tell an 8-year-old what they’re really eating, especially when their breakfast involves a mix of pig’s blood, oatmeal, beef suet, and onion.

In the islands of Scotland’s Outer Hebrides, Stornoway Black Pudding is a traditional breakfast ingredient that, over the years, has evolved from rural island staple to in-demand delicacy, with the same E.U.-protected status as Champagne, Roquefort, and Parma ham.

Horrified at the thought of blood in my food, I didn’t touch another Stornoway Black Pudding for 20 years. By the time I was brave enough to try again, it was too late: I was preparing to move to the other side of the world, to a country where the marag dhubh, as we call it in Gaelic, is banned.

Returning home to the Outer Hebrides after 18 months in New York City meant rediscovering the marag dhubh I had abandoned years before. Where once I had barely noticed it, now it seemed as if black pudding was everywhere, on menus up and down the spinal chain of islands.

Of course, I saw it in Stornoway, the small harbor town that gives the breakfast item its name. I paused in one of the town butchers, admiring the fat lengths of marag hanging on the back wall where they swayed slightly above the counter tops. The debate about which butcher produces the best marag dhubh is a contentious one, even within the same family: one person might prefer Willie John’s, another Charlie Barley’s or maybe MacLeod and MacLeod.

Stornoway Black Pudding now accompanies everything from burgers to freshly caught scallops, but I learned that it’s still best for breakfast. After a road trip through the length of the Outer Hebrides, my family and I were circling our last destination in the car, looking for sustenance after an early morning arrival on the ferry. We found it at Barra Airport, which at times is used more frequently as a café than an airport, given the tidal nature of its white-sand beach runway. With no intention of getting on a plane, I placed my order: Stornoway Black Pudding, bacon, and potato scone on a roll, a classic combination.

Served without the skin that holds it together in the frying pan, the slice of marag was firm enough to retain its circular shape, but just crumbly enough to yield to a generous bite. Its strong peppery taste—a clue about which Stornoway butcher it came from—paired perfectly with the salty bacon rasher, the crispy, fried potato scone, and the fluffy, white bread roll.

My 8-year-old self would have been horrified, but I was in my element: the blood-infused breakfast combination was everything I had hoped it would be. I didn’t see the plane land while I ate my breakfast, but I didn’t mind: my taste buds were making up for lost time, after all.

Five Different Breeds of Goat and a Peacock Just For Good Luck


Five Different Breeds of Goat and a Peacock Just For Good Luck

by Jake Emen

Breakfast in Havana

There are many different reasons one would want to travel to Cuba. Food generally comes on the lower end—if at all—of a long list that usually includes rum, cigars, classic cars, and architecture.

But some people are trying to change that. I’m visiting Vista Hermosa, in Havana’s Guanabacoa municipality. Misael Ponce runs the show at this finca, one member of a 68-farm collective, following in the footsteps of his great-grandfather, who started the operation.

They have, well, just about everything here. There are five different breeds of goat, there are chickens and rabbits, turkeys and pigs, guard dogs keeping watch and ranging farm dogs hanging out, and peacocks, just for good luck. There’s a tropical fruit cornucopia, with banana, guava, mango, tamarind, cherry, avocado, and soursop. There’s sugar cane and sweet potato, and there’s the mamancillo, a fruit I’ve never heard of, which you eat by first biting off its hard shell and then proceeding to suck out the gooey, tangy-sweet fruit hidden within, spitting out the remaining seed.

I’m strolling through Ponce’s farm, trying a bite of this fruit or that one, but I’m starting to struggle. I’m roasting in the brutal, humid heat of a Havana summer morning. I haven’t had any caffeine yet. Somewhere along the line, I’ve stepped in cow (goat? horse?) shit. And the small bites of sumptuous, sticky fruits are simply reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything else.

But a late breakfast bounty awaits. The farm produces a range of cheeses and cured meats—startlingly styled in Italian and Mediterranean fashion—including their riffs on pancetta, lomo, and salami, along with mozzarella, ricotta, and pecorino. If you’re lucky, you might be able to try a bite at the farm; otherwise, you can sample their fare at several high-end paladares back in central Havana, such as Mediterraneo Havana.

I arrive at the restaurant, wide-eyed in expectations of the meal that awaits. If I close my eyes and take a bite, I don’t think I’m actually in Florence or Rome or Sicily. But I sure as hell feel a world away from the touristy Cuba many people see.

The more visitors a finca such as Vista Hermosa attracts, the more they’re able to invest into their burgeoning food production capabilities, and the more interest they should, in turn, generate. And locals are slowly starting to take note. “Food is the most expensive thing in Cuba,” my guide, Javier, explains to me. “But it should be cheaper… the cheapest! People didn’t know about [a place like this], so they didn’t care. Now some do.”

Breakfast Doesn’t Have to Be the Best, It Just Needs to Be Your Favorite


Breakfast Doesn’t Have to Be the Best, It Just Needs to Be Your Favorite

by Karen Gardner

Fried eggs in Millvale

Sliding into a booth at P&G’s Diner, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of butter. P&G’s is an institution: a diner, pharmacy, and gift shop that anchors the town of Millvale, near where I grew up. Millvale lies across the Allegheny River from Pittsburgh, stretching from the river bank up a steep hill. The town is old, industrial, and a bit beaten up, but residents have plenty of local pride.

Pamela Cohen and Gail Klingensmith opened the first Pamela’s P&G Diner in Pittsburgh in 1980. Pamela cooked, Gail ran the business, and a friend helped out. As the diner grew in popularity, they were able to hire staff and expand, eventually running six diners in the Pittsburgh area. The chain’s diehard popularity spread outside Pittsburgh as well. In 2009, the Obamas invited Pamela and Gail to make pancakes for the Memorial Day brunch at the White House. The diners each remain locally owned, either by Pam and Gail, their family members, or former wait staff.

The P&G Diner in Millvale is the least fashionable and well-known of the chain. It’s a place where brunch is still about eggs and grease rather than mimosas, where it’s ok for everyone to call everyone else “honey,” and where tables are moved as strangers become friends over plates of french toast.

At P&G Diner the food is great, the prices are low, and there are key chains, postcards, Band-Aids, and cough drops for sale. The old-timey clock above the entrance, the cozy booths, the waitresses with names like Flo, Patty, and Tammy make it feel familiar and nostalgic. It’s just another diner, but one infused with memories.

I remember sitting inside on cold weekend mornings with my family. My brother would order corned beef hash and I would mix ketchup into my potatoes to make our meals look the same. I remember when Hurricane Ivan hit Millvale in 2004 and the whole neighborhood flooded. The legend is that Pittsburgh’s underground fourth river shot a geyser up through P&G’s kitchen. Whatever the truth is, the diner was shut down for half a year. I remember the town in shambles, and then how Millvale picked itself up and rebuilt.

I order the Big Lincoln: two fried eggs, Lyonnaise potatoes, bacon, and two hotcakes. The eggs are soft with runny yolks, the bacon perfectly crispy, the potatoes cooked, diced, and then fried: a middle ground between hash browns and home fries. The hotcakes are thin and the size of your plate, with crispy edges. I like them rolled with a filling of sour cream, strawberries, and brown sugar. With bottomless coffee, it’s a decadent and filling breakfast, impossible to eat in one sitting. I’m tempted to say that it’s the best breakfast in the best place, but it isn’t. It’s just my favorite breakfast in my favorite place.

What, You’ve Never Had Bright Red Foam on Your Drinkable Oatmeal Before?


What, You’ve Never Had Bright Red Foam on Your Drinkable Oatmeal Before?

by Allegra Ben-Amotz

Atole rojo in Oaxaca

It was my first time with a tour group. I’d come to Cuajimoloyas, in the northern highlands of Oaxaca, to forage for wild mushrooms during Mexico’s rainy season. Instead of navigating the forests alone, I joined a band of women and their local guide, a man named Celestino, for the town’s yearly Regional Wild Mushroom Festival.

We’d spent the previous day hunting, trying to collect the greatest variety of edible and non-edible toadstools. We woke up early the next morning for the announcement of the winning team by the fairgrounds at the base of the mountain.

I’d packed poorly for the July chill, and wandered the booths proffering various mushroom-based dishes in search of something to warm my bones. I spotted Celestino huddled under a tent, blowing on his hands as he waited for his breakfast. He was having atole, a traditional corn-based beverage thats something like a drinkable oatmeal. It sounded perfect. I ordered my own and we waited at the sole vinyl-covered table under the tent, elbow-to-elbow with an elderly Mexican couple.

When Celestino’s aunt, the woman running the booth, brought over two brown ceramic bowls brimming with bright red foam, I tried to tell her this was not what we’d ordered. “You’ve never had atole rojo before?” Celestino asked. “It’s for special occasions.”

Flavored with a powder of toasted corn, cacao beans, and brick-red achiote paste, the atole was steamed and then frothed on top to create a crown of festive bubbles. I dunked a strip of pan criollo (rich, eggy local bread) into the biggest bubble on top, tasting the icy foam. Celestino held his bowl in his hands, slurping it like a mug of coffee. I followed suit: the bowl was hot to the touch, the initial chill of the top layer giving way to an earthy, slightly-sweet molten drink.

Celestino poked my side. “That’s us, second place!” he said, and I heard the judges repeating our names. We went up to accept our prize, still clutching mugs of our celebratory atole in our hands.

Breakfast in Kashmir is So Good, They Have it Twice


Breakfast in Kashmir is So Good, They Have it Twice

by Sophia Ann French

Czot in Kashmir

It was my first time on a houseboat and my first trip to Kashmir. Standing on the deck of the boat, I was excited to start working on my first film when Ajaz, the owner of the houseboat, brought me a cup of tea. It was the first time I tasted Kashmiri nun chai. We Indians love our chai with milk, sugar, and, at times, I add a dash of cardamom seeds to make a Mumbai-style masala chai, but nun chai wasn’t like any other tea I’ve had. It was pink, and salty. (It’s usually served with milk, but I had it without.) I took a reluctant sip and was surprised to enjoy the unusual flavor. Over the three months we spent in Kashmir, nun chai became a staple at every breakfast.

The union of bread with tea is an age-old tradition, and a Kashmiri breakfast pairs the savory tea with fresh-baked loaves from a kandar waz—these bakeries are found in every neighborhood across the valley and the bread is baked in a wood-fired, clay tandoor. On the first morning, Ajaz served us czot and lavasa. Czot is made by mixing refined white flour with water and kneading pieces of dough into thin rectangles. The kandar makes impressions on each piece with his fingertips before putting it into the oven, so the bread has ridges across the surface. I’d smear dollops of butter across its auburn crust and dunk it in nun chai. Lavasa is an unleavened flat bread with a blistery surface. I didn’t enjoy its stretchy texture when dipped in tea, so a Kashmiri colleague made me a delicious roll by stuffing the lavasa with barbecued meat and chickpeas.

The Kashmiris love their bread and chai so much they have it twice every morning. The film’s crew would leave for reconnaissance soon after breakfast, but I stayed back on the houseboat to interview the locals about militancy in Kashmir. The valley has been disputed territory between India and Pakistan for decades. Kashmiris who cross the border into Pakistan and return to India to fight are called militants. Ajaz, like many young Kashmiris, didn’t go the militant way, but is caught between the crossfire between the militants and the Indian army.

In the middle of his interview, Ajaz excused himself for a few minutes and returned with a tray of the pink tea and bakarkhani, a round bread that looks like puffed pastry. It’s brown and crispy on the outside with soft fluffy layers on the inside. I’d never seen this at breakfast, and Ajaz explained that the Kashmiris have specific breads for specific times. Bakarkhani and nun chai became part of our 10 a.m. ritual, when Ajaz and I ruminated over the differences between Kashmir’s past—when it was a center for Sufism and Shaivism—and its fraught present.

If Nothing Else, This Experimental Utopia Has a Pretty Good Café


If Nothing Else, This Experimental Utopia Has a Pretty Good Café

by Ranjini Rao

Bagels in Auroville

With the blaze of the August sun in our eyes and yet a lightness to our step in Pondicherry, India’s beloved, dreamy beach town, and an erstwhile French colony, we set out for Auroville to have breakfast at the Auroville Bakery Café.

Our host—a dear friend who had grown up talking, breathing, and eating all things French in Pondy—had raved enough about it for us to want to sample the food there.

Auroville is an ambitious utopian living experiment, courtesy of the vision of philosopher-guru Sri Aurobindo and his colleague Mirra Alfassa, aka The Mother. Founded in 1968, it was designed as a village-for-all, governed by multicultural harmony, where people from all over the world are welcome.

The foundation for the bakery was laid by an Austrian banker, Otto, who moved to Auroville in the 80s and collaborated with bakers in the area for a while. The café in the back is a recent addition to the bakery, we were informed. The bakery was created by several eager hands, trying and testing recipes ranging from brioche to knackebrots to provide an excellent patisserie for Aurovilleans in the 90s.

The café’s newest crew—a German, a Ukrainian, a handful of Indians, and a couple of French nationals—came aboard in the 2000s, and decided to offer beverages, too. They started the café out small, with a few vibrant chairs and tables assembled under the trees in the backyard garden, but they were determined to serve big, satisfying breakfasts.

The menu was handwritten on an overused blackboard, and didn’t seem too exciting at first. But on closer inspection, we saw the items of which we’re sadly deprived in Bangalore: bagels with cheese, salads loaded with proteins, fresh fruit platters, wholewheat sandwiches with fresh cheese, quiches, tarts, croissants.

We ordered a bagel with cheese, a fresh fruit platter, and a grilled vegetable and cheese sandwich to share, plus juice, tea, and coffees.

The bread in the sandwich was a far cry from the supermarket variety to which we’re accustomed, which is softened and aerated with additives. This bread was crusty, substantial, with a nutty, earthy taste. The cheese was fresh, thick-cut, and refreshingly light on sourness and saltiness, unlike the aged cheeses sold outside, preserved with chemicals. It was a delicious morning.

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