breakfast around the world
i went a lot of places this week, but i never left the table. some mornings are rice and miso soup. some are a croissant bigger than i am. i tried to notice what breakfast actually feels like in each place — not just what's on the plate, but the pace of it, the light, whether anyone was in a hurry.
tokyo

rice, miso soup, tamagoyaki. the same three things every morning, and somehow never boring. there's a kind of comfort in a breakfast that doesn't ask you to decide anything.
paris

a croissant almost as big as i am and a café au lait i couldn't see over. i wasn't going anywhere for a while.
mexico city

chilaquiles verdes, a fried egg, a little cotija on top. the tile was yellow and the sun hadn't fully committed yet.
london

a soft-boiled egg, toast cut into soldiers, tea already going cold in the pot. rain on the window the whole time.
istanbul

simit, a wedge of beyaz peynir, olives, tea in a tulip glass. breakfast here isn't a meal, it's a whole spread you're meant to sit with.
somewhere off the highway

a stack of pancakes, syrup in a glass pitcher, coffee that's more habit than flavor at this point. the neon was already on even though it wasn't dark yet.
