A Breakfast Fit For Magellan

Chapter 1

Armed with a commission from Her Majesty (otherwise known as a $100 room credit and an urgent need for an I-94 stamp by Monday), our two salty sea dogs emerge from the Bermuda Triangle of Rum Swizzles, Dark and Stormys, and $37 fish and chips.

Washed up on the jagged rocks of the Hamilton Princess hotel, and famished, we encounter a sight our crusty eyes can barely believe: a pre-pandemic oasis of plenty, stretching across the silver shores of the dining room: a breakfast buffet.

The sheer expanse of breakfast options is at first overwhelming. But with the precision of two seasoned mariners we begin to plot a course.

Chapter 2

In 1519, Ferdinand Magellan led a Portuguese expedition to the East Indies - discovering an interoceanic passage and finally, after his death, resulting in a near circumnavigation of the globe.

My ship's mate and I quickly sketch out a similarly ambitious voyage. Beginning in familiar waters - the sausage and bacon station - steering our plates by instinct like a pilot in their own canal, we assemble a Full English as our port of departure.

But just as many a sailor has stood on the Southampton Solent and yearned for distant shores, we are pulled out to sea by an irresistible current. Noting the continental options on offer, and the French Toast and maple syrup waffles, we plot a Magellan-like course across the channel, to the Mediterranean, then across the Atlantic to the Americas.

Chapter 3

Our self-assembled Full Englishes prove to be worthy vessels. More of a P&O ferry than a Cutty Sark - without flair or standout ingredients, but solid and workmanlike: scrambled eggs runny enough to not be American, decent sausages, and very serviceable baked beans. Only the bacon is a dead giveaway that we are only a few hundred miles from that savage tribe of reprobates that would put turkey in its sausages given half a chance. Finally, as tomatoes and mushrooms are absent, some cooked spinach makes a guest appearance and prevents us from getting scurvy.

Lumbering over the channel and grabbing a second plate, we prepare for our European port of call. A small croissant for me and a Danish for my fellow culinary privateer; we stock up on cheese and charcuterie and hastily assemble some lifeboats: mine, a croissant pontoon carrying a precious cargo of ham and smoked gouda, and his a salami canoe filled with plundered emmental. Finally, preparing for our perilous voyage, an assortment of fruit - perhaps filling these foolhardy sailors with the promise of a healthy passage.

But then, disaster strikes. My trusty ship's mate's eyes show a crazed glimmer, and I begin to sweat. Soon, our breakfast voyage descends into chaos: much like Sir John Franklin and his ill-fated attempt to cross the Northwest Passage, bemused natives look on as our crew, and our digestive passages, descend into mutiny. I excuse myself to go to the restroom. Marooned in the Bermuda Triangle, we take to the lifeboats and don't even manage a single piece of French toast. Pathetic.

Epilogue

Today the coastline of Bermuda is dotted with slumbering wrecks, now a playground for divers and snorkellers, but also a grim reminder of the intrepid days of sail. As you peer into the turquoise depths of its ocean, and down at these wood and metal graves, spare a thought for the brave souls that once stretched their sails across the globe, only to founder in the murky depths.. And skip the second breakfast.