Rarely do I get to eat pizza for breakfast in the company of my wife. Usually it's the sort of thing I do when she's away, or else I gobble it hastily before she's awake. It's the sort of thing husbands are fond of and wives barely tolerate.
They serve pizza for breakfast at the breakfast buffet of the White Swan. It's hot, it's sort of Hawaiian, and it's quite good. Better yet, it's shrewdly located adjacent to the Asian breakfast food section (steamed buns, vegetables, congee, and bits of fish that passeth understanding). This allows an entirely plausible argument that when I eat pizza for breakfast, I am not acting like a slob. I'm acting like a diplomat. I am experiencing another culture, embracing my daughter's heritage, acting as a crisp-crust, piping-hot-cheese ambassador for America to China, demonstrating our culinary broad-mindedness.
I'm working on a rationale for the tater tots.
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