It was already 3.30pm and I was only just being served breakfast. And it was cold. “You can’t come to England without sampling the English breakfast, Madam,” remarks the waiter. I nod meekly. He produces a frying pan and cracks in some eggs. No ordinary eggs, I soon learn as he pours in liquid nitrogen and smoke billows out lazily. Frozen cream forms miraculously and he scrapes it onto a plate with French toast. Bacon and egg ice cream. It is surprisingly good; with the familiar saltiness of bacon and mellow richness of cream and eggs cloaked in frost.

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