If You’re Not a Fan of Breakfast, History Agrees With You

It was, therefore, with equal parts disdain and fear that I looked through Italian Breakfast from Ferran Adrià’s Bullipedia project. Disdain for the reason above; fear because it would be foolish to spar with his laser-sharp culinary intelligence. Would he change my mind?

The book is seductive. There are lots of witty images among its 416 pages, including a portrait of Adrià as a mad scientist that appeared in a 2014 calendar for Italian coffee empire Lavazza. (The chef has collaborated with the brand for years and describes this guide as “joint study and research work.”) The picture is a reference to his culture-changing restaurant El Bulli, the gourmet Shangri-La on the Catalan coast, which he ran for close to a quarter-century.

Initially, the book’s history of breakfast reinforced my predilections. Human beings, it turns out, do not come naturally to the meal. Prehistoric and pre-urban people ate when they could, mostly in the latter half of the day. The great civilizations of Greece and Rome had little that fit the description of the meal we consume regularly today. The morning meal was reserved for the old and ill or the newborn and growing—or for people heading out to work in the fields. Basically, you ate breakfast if you had to.

Read more: Ferran Adrià’s New Book Attributes a Rare Trait to Paleo Man: Taste

That all changed in the sixth century, when St. Benedict of Nursia (no, not the originator of the egg dish) set out his rules for monastic life. These included the morning reading of the life of desert hermits, mostly from a book by John Cassian called Conlationes. Meaning “conference” in Latin, the word eventually became the Italian name for breakfast, colazione. This perspective is distinct from, say, the French and Spanish, where the words dejeuner and desayuno, respectively, derive, like the English word for it, from the concept of an end to hunger. Colazione percolates with community and conversation.

In the ensuing centuries, European prosperity transformed breakfast. Wealthy families who once looked down on eating in the morning began to use the occasion to display their riches. Sweet treats became status symbols, because sugar was a luxury, as was chocolate. The buttery croissant, according to legend, was invented in Vienna (some say Budapest) after the Habsburgs faced down the invading Ottoman army in 1683. Its Italian doppelganger, the cornetto, emerged soon after. Cappuccino was introduced that year, too—along with the opening of the first coffeehouse, in Venice—and thus began an unending affair with a beverage introduced by the Turks.

These novel elements required money. Coffeehouses were gathering places for the elite to discuss politics (and plot rebellion) in between invigorating hits of caffeine. The drink didn’t become widespread until the 20th century, when it was distributed to soldiers in World War I. At roughly the same period, Italian technology gave us espresso. Between the wars, Benito Mussolini introduced the word “barista,” to be rid of the English “barman,” popularly used for the owner of a coffee shop.

The anchors of an Italian breakfast today are coffee—either espresso or cappuccino—and a cornetto, which kick-start the brain and body with carbohydrates, fat, sugar, and a stimulant. But it’s more than that. They’re almost always consumed standing at a bar as part of a communal yet commercial experience, one that is on the go but rooted in sociability.

That’s the sly proposition of Italian Breakfast, which is both a meditation on and an examination of the business, management, and human dynamics involved in the variety of breakfasts in Italy. It’s distinct from homebound versions in the U.S., with their out-of-the-fridge and -cabinet meals, or the protein-rich repasts of the U.K.

While I was reading the book, I realized that I do eat in the morning. Here in London, the workday prevents me from doing it first thing, but around 10:30 or 11 a.m., I head up to Catalyst Roasters & Cafe on Gray’s Inn Road, where I sit with a croissant and plain black coffee, making conversation with the baristas Luke, Millie, and Kofi; the owner, Alex; and Alex’s brother Haris, the roaster. After soaking in the atmosphere and company, I head back to work. It isn’t breakfast. It’s colazione.

And then I skip lunch.

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