I don’t often have breakfast and rarely brekker in bed. A cup of strong coffee suffices. Recently this routine was interrupted by Robert bringing me a muffin with egg and bacon at an early hour.
I chucked the top of the muffin and ate the rest – unexpectedly enjoying it and, of course, feeling slightly sick afterwards. I am not a Breakfast Hero; The Hon Charlie Mortdecai gets the laurels in that department.
“What I found was a sort of bar advertising in its window something called the Old Oklahoma Cattleman’s Breakfast Special. Who could resist it? Not I.
The OOCBS proved to be a thick steak, almost raw, a hunk of salt bacon the size and shape of my fist, a pile of hot sourdough biscuits, a tin pot of ferocious coffee and half a gill of rye whisky (sic). Now I am a man of iron, as you will by now have realised, but I confess I belched. I was trapped, for the barman and the short-order cook were leaning on the bar, watching my future career with considerable interest as it were, their faces grave and courteous but sort of expectant. Britain’s honour lay in pawn to my knife and fork. I weakened some of the coffee with some of the whisky and drank it, suppressing a gagging shudder. I found strength after this to try a hot biscuit, then some more coffee, then a corner of the bacon and so on. Appetite grew on what it fed upon and soon, to the amazement of myself and all beholders, the very steak itself fell to my bow and spear. ‘Tis from scenes like this that Britain’s greatness springs. I accepted a free drink from the barman, shook hands gravely and made a good exit. Not all Ambassadors sit in Embassies, you know.”
Don’t Point That Thing at Me, Kyril Bonfiglioli.
Odd that he belched at the beginning of the meal. Did he blanch at the end?