First I mapped all that I could recall from memory, pancakes, crepes, waffles, scrambled eggs, popovers, omelettes, and on and on, scouring my brain for every fast I had ever broken. The beginnings of the contours of breakfast began to reveal themselves. A gaping hole stared back at me, but I couldn’t yet be sure. I had to search the dark corners of the world to see if somewhere in far off lands that abyss had yet been filled. I called upon friendly ghosts. I paged through ancient tomes. I added kaiserschmarrn, swedish pancakes, dan bing, madeleines, crumpets, clafoutis, blinis, pannu kakku, parathas, nalesniki. The map filled in bit by bit, but it was no use. The gap in the fabric of breakfast remained.
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On the stand there is an interactive tabletop display that used to look impossibly modern in movies 20 years ago. With the swipe of a finger, a video plays. It is of a driver arriving at a supermarket where there is a waiting robot with bags of groceries it already knew you wanted.