A toast to the best of buffet breakfasts

Whatever happened to our ­traditional hot breakfast delivered through the motel hatch in the requested 15-minute interval?

Speaking of home, whatever happened to our ­traditional hot breakfast delivered through the motel hatch? Picture: Emma Brasier

A few weeks ago I was here in the Departure Lounge ­designating Berlin as my favourite destination. I talked about the German capital’s powerful sense of history and a remarkable capacity to reinvent itself, but I didn’t mention what clinched the deal on my most recent visit: breakfasts at a small hotel in the Prenzlauer Berg district of the old East Berlin.

How a good breakfast sets up the day when you’re travelling, especially if you have a busy sightseeing ­itinerary and are uncertain about the when and where of lunch. If you’re at a place on extended stay, by all means linger over that second coffee, pore over the local paper (in whatever language) and watch the passers-by. But if it’s an up-and-at-em day a bountiful buffet (no waiting, no delay) is just the ticket. And this is where the Berlin hotel was Prussian perfect. Hot and cold dishes, currywurst, herrings with onions on fresh bread, meatballs with capers, cabbage rolls, fried potatoes, potato salad, sauerkraut, dumplings and, yes, cereals and yoghurts, fresh fruit and coffee (delivered to the table). Blessed ­relief, not a tasteless honeydew melon in sight.

This appreciation, by the way, is from someone who, workdays, eats two Weet-Bix standing at the kitchen bench peering through the window at the day ahead. However, I’m shocked by people who can tackle the day on an empty stomach. My all-time movie wince scene is Glenda Jackson in A Touch of Class (1973) selecting an old mug, spooning in instant coffee and filling it from the tap, before taking a gulp and heading out. My need for “real” coffee I leave to the professionals.

In the US, I love starting the day at a traditional diner, which is becoming as hard to find as an Australian milk bar. Sit at a stool at the counter, tuck your feet over the rails and enter an Edward Hopper painting. Find yourself ordering fried eggs “sunnyside up” or “over easy”, cover hash browns with ketchup, or smother a stack of pancakes with maple syrup. Hear your “thank you” met with “You’re welcome, I’m sure”. And the coffee? Well, it’s ­bottomless, but dream of the proper stuff back home.

Speaking of home, whatever happened to our ­traditional hot breakfast delivered through the motel hatch in the requested 15-minute interval? Such fun it was ticking boxes the night before (cereal or compote of fruit?). These days, motel breakfasts are handed over at check-in (two slices of limp white bread in their separate envelopes and a mean selection of jams and spreads in their sachets) and the hatches are bolted shut. Like a ­recycled petrol station or a bank, you can never disguise a hatch, although one place I stayed at recently had turned it into a recharging point for mobile devices. Nice try.

Back to Berlin and being set up for the day by those breakfasts. About an hour or so into sightseeing, we ­encounter a bakery with a tempting selection of pastries and a black forest cake, slightly out of region, but with my name emblazoned on it. Is it Morgentee time yet?

Susan Kurosawa is on leave.