A SUNDAY MORNING in London, my daughter is three. She wakes up, we read a story, go downstairs for breakfast, wrestle her into jacket and boots, go out for a long walk, feed the ducks, a bit of swinging and sliding at the playground. Back home, I check the time. It’s 7.30 am.
Brunch has had a bad rap of late. Back in the day when we all wanted to be New Yorkers, brunch was cool and aspirational, a sophisticated, leisurely pastime for the moneyed metropolitan in
