In honor of my last full day in Lisbon, at least on this trip, please join me for my usual Portuguese breakfast. If it's not breakfast time when you read this post, you may, if you like, come back later. But of course, breakfast can be eaten at all times of the day, or night. I've taken you to my local pastelaria, and taken the liberty of ordering you a galão de máquina (milk with a shot of expresso, preferably though not always served very hot), and a torrada (thick toast, cut into sticks and dripping with butter). I encourage you to follow my ritual, pacing the galão so that you have some liquid for each toast stick, with a bit remaining at the end to wash it all down. I prefer to eat the sticks on the end, those with more crust, first, followed by the softer sticks in the middle, but you may of course choose your own eating strategy. While you eat, I will tell you a breakfast story, or is it a parable?
The other day, I walked into my usual breakfast place - I'd been going there for two weeks already, so I considered myself a regular - and my usual server was not there. I was a quarter of an hour later than normal, it was hard to find a seat (I don't normally stand at the counter except at lunch), and the man who took my order was, well, a bit distracted and a bit ditzy. It made me ill-at-ease. But then, my food arrived, and it was perfect; the torrada not too dark, not too light, with enough butter (and I have the grease stain on my trousers to prove it - the phrase 'dripping with butter' here is not a metaphor); the galão also the perfect shade, and really, really hot. Just the anticipation of indulging in such a repast turned all well with the world again. Yes, living proof of the power of breakfast.
I hope you've enjoyed it...and next time, may I suggest breakfast at your place? I look forward to whatever will be on the menu.