Breakfast is the best meal. Everyone gets it right – even the Scots and Americans: what could be better than kippers and porridge? Or thin, streaky American bacon and hash browns?
Everyone, that is, except the Italians. They don’t put a foot wrong in any of the other good things in life – clothes, food (for the most part), wine, women, language and architecture. But their breakfasts? Sweet and sickly pastries coated in sugar - feeling like three days old - eaten standing up at a bar. What went wrong there?
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