My brother calls me one day. “Hey, how do you make your BLT? I mean, what sort of bread do you use?” I barely have time to answer him when he goes on: “Do you toast it or not? And then the lettuce … I just have arugula on hand. Does arugula work? Not really? In fact, my real question is, it’s not about the bacon, although I think I put too much, it’s really about the mayo … Do you put mustard with the mayo?” The truth is, I’m hardly a breakfast sandwich expert, but one morning, at least two years ago, my brother, a little down, came over to my house. It was cold out. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I happened to be making eggs, fresh from the farm, as it should be. The yolks were pumped up under their taut domes, very likely to burst then and there. The whites were still quivering in the old cast-iron skillet from my Uncle Lucius when I slid them between two slices of brioche bread that I was on the verge of forgetting about. What lettuce? Don’t know. Mustard? I don’t see why I would have added it. A thick slice of field tomato, now that’s a must! It’s probably the memory of a feeling of warmth, timing and a presence that built up the myth of a “perfect breakfast.” The last one I ate wasn’t at home. It was at Première Moisson. Le petit coco, it’s called. It wasn’t cold out, I was by myself and I wasn’t feeling particularly down, but when I picked up the soft roll, which, to my surprise and delight, contained bits of savoury bacon and cheddar, my pleasure was not far off from this memory. The warm-cold contrast, the pure simplicity of an association of fresh products that I already know … my goodness, that’s just what I was in the mood for.