France 1 England 0

Orcines, France

Head waiter or no head waiter, self-service breakfasts now appear the rule wherever I stay. It is rare to have anyone take an order at the beginning of the day. Apart from the French, who invariably ask if I would like tea, coffee or chocolate the moment I arrive in the breakfast room, reluctantly deliver my chosen drink and then ignore me until the following morning. For them, our truly next door neighbours, and with whom we have argued for generations, I have to be on my best behaviour. I clear my throat, gargle perhaps, to be sure I can properly roll the letter R on demand. As I place my order, I watch as an exasperated Frenchman, well normally Frenchwoman, realises I can speak little of her lingo, turns on her heel and returns moments later with something unidentifiable in a cup, jug or even bowl. Who was it that decided it was sensible to drink coffee from a bowl? All I seem to experience are burned fingers and lips, plus a large dollop of caffeine on my shirt, tie, or even lap.

Judging by a recent stay I made in the tiny French village of Orcines,  the combination of glass bowls for coffee and a shiny tiled floor means that most mornings hotel staff have to sweep up shattered glass. This is the result of sleepy fumbling by hotel guests who regularly drop bowls, thanks to their minds being anywhere other than the here and now. It is astonishing how far coffee can spray when dropped on a tiled floor. On one occasion it went halfway up the wall. Shattered glass goes even further.

As for food, there may be a cursory note scribbled by a disinterested attendant when you declare your desire for a full English breakfast - forget even that in France - but the modern thrust is that everyone helps themselves to whatever they wish for the first meal of the day. Enter self service. That is, of course, where the trouble begins, as sleepy-heads find it impossible to make up their minds so early in the morning. Not only are coffee-laden glass bowls being dropped by the seeming dozen but indecision is the order of the day. You find the sleepy heads gathered in hesitant, somnolent groups barring the way to the self-service counter, or table, or sideboard, whatever has been chosen by those responsible for tempting the dozy guest to start their day.

Anyway, what is it about the English breakfast that seems to surprise the rest of the world? The non-Brits appear not to understand it. Yet there is something supremely pleasant, but guilt making, about tucking in to a pile of greasy eggs, sausage, tomato, mushroom and anything else the imagination allows as your first waking act of the day. Any hope of a diet goes right out the window and yet somehow I find it impossible to say no. It may be something to do with history as the so-called full English has existed since the 13th century.  It was supposedly a means of demonstrating your wealth and something confined to the gentry. It then trickled into general society and by the late 18th century’s Industrial Revolution the working classes took it on, too.

The self-service counter is also where an international crisis can begin. The other day, again in Orcines, I was in one incredible rush. As usual I was late. I am generally late for my next engagement from the moment I wake up. Between me and the well-stocked self-service counter was a very, very, very large lady. She was clad in the tightest Lycra ever seen, made even tighter by her overall shape and evidence of many years of doing battle with self-service breakfasts. Beside her, to her left, was an equally large male. I could not work out whether they were emotionally paired or, perhaps, he was a bodyguard hired specially for the occasion. Either way, as a team, they occupied significant volume. They were having a long debate, in rapid-fire French, about whether she should have two prunes or three. This was clearly a major dilemma and they appeared unable to reach a conclusion. They had been there for at least ten minutes before my own arrival and had become stuck beside Prune Central. It was clear they were going nowhere in a hurry and the prune debate would continue for at least a fortnight. Neither seemed in the least bit awake.

The trouble was that the strawberry yoghourt, my absolute favourite and occupying a bowl sufficiently large to float an ocean liner, was positioned immediately beside Prune Central and there was no way through for a hapless Brit. I went left, darted right, tried dummying in both directions, but the tag team would not shift. I even tried sneaking a spoon between them - the bowl of blissful yoghourt was barely an arm’s length away - but that failed when the largies clashed hips, jamming my forearm between them. My spoon clattered to the floor to join the glass fragments from a sequence of shattered coffee bowls and the pair parted. I glanced upwards to see their expressions as best I could as I was unsure whether their achievement had been by accident or design. Their combined expression said all – there was triumph written on both faces. France 1, England 0 and I had still not made it to the yoghourt.

You see, hesitation in the morning is fine but not at a self-service counter. How often have I seen it? A sleepy-head’s eyes moving slowly in all directions, as if scanning some distant horizon when the target is all of a metre away. A forefinger rubs a cheek in contemplation and you can almost hear the thoughts as gluttony does battle with guilt.

As a fellow self-servicer, I can almost hear the sleepy-head’s thoughts. “I shouldn’t. I should. One spoon, maybe two? OK then, I’ll go for three.” The ponderer turns to look for a friend, or partner, or even a confused passer-by. “Someone, anyone, please help me with my decision.”

“Go on love,” I encourage, although generally via telepathy than speech. “No one will notice. You only live once. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, you know.”

“Oh how wicked,” thinks the sleepy head in reply. “But yes, I can always leave it on the plate if I change my mind.”

So before even I have time to blink, out flashes sleepy-head’s hand and another pile of sticky carbohydrate has joined the already heaving load that threatens to fall from plate to floor.

That seems to be the way to clear the counter for a quick eater like me. You do not have to say a word, just think it. Think so hard that somehow your thought force field makes the hesitator ponder no further. When the breakfaster is standing largely motionless before the counter and may, for all you know, be planning on remaining there until the turn of the century, other than physical violence there is only one way of moving them on. Think it, think it hard, and I wager they will shift. The fact they are pondering, reflecting, delaying, dithering, generally means that guilt is at play. Deep within their heart they really want that food, it is simply a receding conscience that prevents them from leaning forward, helping themselves, moving on and clearing a path for you.

And then there is the layout, which I am sure is a matter of great science. There are acres of text devoted to it.  If you place the cereal over here, the honey over there, the fruit in the far corner and the cooked food nearby, or whatever your planned arrangement may be, the guest has the best chance of being greedy but with less chance of discovery. Bottlenecks are a complete disaster as Orcines showed so well. Getting anywhere near my morning saviour - coffee - was almost impossible as the management had somehow thought to stick the stuff in a corner. I watched one guest spend at least 10 minutes deciding whether she wanted a small espresso-sized cup, a mug, or a soon-to-shatter glass bowl before eventually selecting the bowl. By the time she had made her mastermind decision there was a line of at least seven other coffee addicts behind her. You could almost hear the cheer when she selected the bowl, slid it slowly under the tap of the huge coffee urn and shifted the black lever forwards, then backwards, then forwards once more. The result? Nothing. The urn was empty and had not been recharged. I am prepared to wager that World War III, should it ever arrive, will start from a coffee urn at breakfast.

Some of the breakfasts I have seen appear to be distributed over massive distances, so huge that you need a map and compass to find your favourite dish. There are a few layouts where certain elements of the day’s first meal simply escape you. You reach the end of breakfast and have never found that critical item that has been hiding behind a broad pillar down the far end of the dining room all along. Spoons and bowls are the classic. How many times have I identified the cereal, or yoghurt or oats or, yummy of yummies, strawberry yoghourt but unsuccessfully searched high and low for the bowl it needs? And the spoons? Forget ‘em. They will be somewhere peculiar for sure.

I wore a pedometer at breakfast on one occasion, not in Orcines, and got through an astonishing 800 steps by the time I had made it out the door and headed to my day’s work. Maybe that is how they do it? I mean is that how these hotels save on food? They simply make it impossible to discover, or spread dishes over such a wide area that their guests become too exhausted trying to find it so they give up and go away? Now there’s an idea. Maybe in my next life, hospitality should be for me.

i https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orcines
ii http://www.englishbreakfastsociety.com/full-english-breakfast.html
iii http://www.hotelsuccesshandbook.com/tips-and-ideas/hotel-breakfast-greatest-asset-or-biggest-downfall/