Ephemera

My stay at Burnham Beeches concluded this morning with breakfast. I was shown to a table for one set in the window, looking out over the front lawn. These lonely breakfasts are a feature of working away that many must be familiar with. You get used to it after a while and I've never been uncomfortable with my own company, so I shared a few pleasantries with the jolly waiter, ordered coffee and toast, and went off to fill my plate.

By the time I returned, the lady who had been breakfasting alone on the other side of the bay window had finished and left. The waiter was in the middle of resetting the table. With a practiced flick and a polish of clean cutlery all trace of the previous occupant was removed. I downed my juice in one and turned my attention to the plate of eggs, beans and hash browns.

A few minutes later, having checked out, I walked around the front of the hotel on my way to the car park. Glancing in through the bay window I noticed my table had been expertly reset now too and it was I who no longer had a trace. The ephemeral nature of hotel breakfast hit me. The good natured production line that greets, welcomes, explains the routine to the unfamiliar, takes the order, serves the toast and coffee, replenishes the cup if required, bids good day and then efficiently erases the event in preparation for the next visitor. Hour after hour, day after day, plate after plate. No-one was ever remembered for the hotel breakfasts they ate.

The other word that occurred to me as I drove away, along with 'ephemeral' was 'unhealthy.' This is something so deep-seated in my psyche that I'm sure it would take a huge effort of will to break. Faced with a table laden with a fabulous array of healthy food, fruits without number, cold meats and cheeses, crusty bread and fruit juice, yoghurt and prunes, what do I choose? A large dollop of scrambled eggs, an even larger dollop of baked beans and some hash browns. Oh and a rather nice herby sausage. And toast and marmalade. And coffee. What do I normally eat for breakfast? Either nothing, or a bowl of cereal. Just the one bowl. No cooked food and no toast to follow. But stand me in a hotel dining room in front of a row of heated trays containing breakfast items and all conscious thought leaves my head. On a kind of culinary autopilot I lurch from tray to tray spooning this and ladling that until my plate is full.

I'd like to think that if I worked away from home often enough I'd get bored with it, or a subliminal message would filter through that I don't always have to fill my plate (or my belly) at every visit. Hasn't happened yet though.