There are certain fundamental debates that define a person.
Tea or coffee?
Ford or Vauxhall? A subject that ruined many a 1990/early noughties hot hatch enthusiast’s weekend!
Pineapple on pizza?
Now, I am firmly, unapologetically against pineapple on pizza. But I know for a fact that topic has split entire families straight down the middle. Fortunately, my own household holds the line, we are a united, fruit free pizza zone… and, in a similar vein, fruit in cheese… I don’t want cranberries in my Wensleydale, oh gosh, I’m digressing so early into this article… it doesn’t bode well… Outside those four walls, though? It is a minefield, so we shall speak no more of it.
However, on this subject, I have been on a course this week, not one that has any benefit or relevance to my specific role, nonetheless, I feel like I’ve wasted valuable time by not being available to do my own work… anyway, I was chosen, on my table of five, to be the one who stood up and give a two minute talk on a random subject. I chose pizza… well, specifically pineapple on pizza… not that I am an expert or anything, I googled it there and then as I didn’t want to speak about by actual hobbies or life… I felt that my talk was engaging, I got shows of hands when I asked for them and a couple of laughs… but, the Hawaiian pizza, invented in 1962 by a greek chap, Sam Panopoulos, at his restaurant, the ’Satellite Restaurant’ in Ontario and was named after the brand of tinned pineapples that went on to it…. That is possibly the quickest derailing that I have done to myself in any of these articles. Back to it…
As for tea versus coffee, it’s a matter of trust.
I will never, under any circumstances, accept a coffee in uncharted territory. A machine you don’t know in a café you have never visited is a gamble with your morning… if I know it’s a good machine and a decent roaster, I’m in… but, if it’s a rental machine and a dubious roaster… I turn into the coffee snob that everyone knows I am. Even being offered a cuppa at a friend’s or relative’s house can be dicey depending on their brewing standards. In unfamiliar waters, tea is the only safe harbour. Or, if the vibes are truly off, nothing at all… I have never accepted a brew when I’ve been with a service user at work, sometimes for other reasons above anything I’ve already mentioned, but also… it’s too much paperwork, declaring that I’ve received a gift whilst working, it really isn’t worth the hassle.
But the debate that regularly consumed my working life for years is far more practical: When does breakfast stop being breakfast, and officially become brunch?
When does breakfast stop being breakfast, and officially become brunch?
When I was an engineer and working on building sites, a lot of people had their actual breakfast before 0700 in the brew cabin and then at 1000, when we had a morning break, some would have a snack, others would have their weetabix or a sausage bacon and egg barm… I guess then, there were other factors affecting things, weather, manual labour… that sort of stuff, you could almost justify two ‘breakfasts’.
My current colleagues and I never actually see eye to eye on this.
My alarm goes off at 0450 most mornings. By 0700, I am at my desk and my working day has begun… well, usually that’s 0630, but officially… you get the drift… By the time most people are considering their first caffeine hit, I’ve already broken my fast.
Because that’s what the word actually means, Break-fast. The literal act of breaking the fast created by sleep. The clue is right there in the name, it is practically a cryptic crossword answer in plain sight: “Morning routine ends night’s fast (9)” BREAKFAST…
For me, 0700 is an acceptable breakfast time. 0800 is pushing it, but acceptable… often I will have my actual breakfast at my desk just before 0800.
Our working routine usually revolved around early visits. We would be out on the road first thing, seeing clients or service users while the rest of the world was still rubbing the sleep from its eyes. Once those early morning appointments were done, the message would go round, in the mobile phone application that we are banned from using… that’s another story…
“Fancy popping somewhere for breakfast?”
Colour me intrigued, “Yeah, go on then. What time?”
“About 0930?”
And right there, the illusion is shattered.
Because 0930 on a weekday isn't breakfast. Worse still, by the time everyone actually gathers, decides on a place, gets through the door, and actually gets their act together to order, 0930 has quietly morphed into 1030.
At 1030, you aren't even near the border anymore. You’re deep into Brunch Territory, borderline lunch. 0930 is just brunch wearing a fake mustache and pretending that it hasn’t been awake for half the morning. By then, emails are flying, the day is in full gear, and true breakfast left the building hours ago.
Even on holiday, I cannot break this internal clock. I am physically incapable of sleeping through the hotel breakfast window. I’m always down early, watching the drama unfold. Because every hotel breakfast room at 0958 is a kin to a war zone. You have the early risers who have already read two chapters of a book and are making the most of the free orange juice and pots of tea, and then you have the late arrivals, people wandering in wearing yesterday’s clothes under a coat and odd flip flops, loading up four plates of bacon as if they’ve just received word that the buffet is being decommissioned forever and they need to stock up on food to cover them for the rest of their stay.
When you find yourself sitting down in a café at midmorning, there is only one logical food choice: The BLT.
The Engineering Perfection of the BLT.
The BLT is the ultimate border crossing sandwich. It sits right on the demilitarized zone between morning and afternoon.
It’s also an accidental masterpiece of food science.
Now, I need to make a quick point here, generally speaking, I despise useless abbreviations. The modern obsession with turning every three word phrase into a lazy acronym drives me mad. Half the time, people type random capital letters expecting everyone to know what they mean, leaving the rest of us staring blankly at the screen wondering what on earth they’re talking about. If you’re that lazy when typing, let autocorrect finish the word for you.
So, I rarely defend a shorthand. But as someone who previously wrote about the history of "OK", which we all now know, famously started as 1830s slang for oll korrect, I can make a rare exception for a truly historic, ultra efficient acronym.
The BLT earns its pass because saying, "I'll have a bacon, lettuce, and tomato, please," sat in a noisy greasy spoon cafe, on a main road next to the chirps of a jack hammer in the back ground, just sounds… weird and a little long winded maybe?
Whilst the concept of putting those three ingredients on bread dates back to late Victorian tea sandwiches, the name "BLT" didn’t actually take off until after World War II. When American supermarkets exploded in the 1950s, holding steady supplies of fresh lettuce and tomatoes all year round, diners across the US needed a rapid shorthand for the orders flying into the kitchen. Enter the acronym, B.L.T.
It has survived the test of time when hundreds of other fad sandwiches have died out for a very specific reason, balance.
You have the rich, smoky saltiness of the bacon.
The cold, structural crunch of the iceberg lettuce.
The sharp, acidic sweetness of a fresh tomato.
Held together by toasted bread… yes, I will accept a sourdough toast here too…
And a quiet layer of mayonnaise acting as moisture insulation, the glue holding it together if you will.
It doesn't need poached eggs, an avocado that’s been smashed to within an inch of its life, or a microgreen garnish that costs an extra five quid. It is simple, efficient, reliable and blinking tasty!
The Running Joke.
We used to try different cafés depending on where our client visits took us, but wherever we ended up, my order became an absolute certainty.
Whilst everyone else stared at the menu like they were attempting to decode a second cryptic crossword, “Midday meal confused by small chop (5)” LUNCH, my choice was already locked in.
Before I could even look at the chalkboard, the banter would start,
“What is Phil having, let me guess, BLT again?”
“Phil, is this a late breakfast or an early lunch today then?”
The BLT became my unofficial tool of gauging the cafes and restaurants. It was reliable, predictable, and gave us something to laugh about before diving back into the rest of the day's work.
Things change, as they always do. With shifting team dynamics and the nature of the job evolving, it has been a long while since we all went out for a team breakfast after an early call. The routine has faded a bit, and I genuinely miss it, the debate, the mid morning pitstop, the banter, and, of course, the sandwich itself.
Maybe breakfast isn't entirely about the numbers on the clock. Maybe it’s about the people you share it with while waiting for the day to settle down.
But if we ever manage to get the team together again at 0930... I still maintain that it is brunch. And I’m still ordering the BLT… unless I’m in the mood for Shakshuka of course… But then we are getting into poached eggs, skillet logistics, and artisanal sourdough… Frankly, I've derailed this article enough already for one day.
What about you? At what point on the clock does your breakfast officially cross the border into brunch and more importantly, what's on your plate when it does?
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