I traveled the world for French Toast

I arrived in London this morning, grey, dismal, drear and as Edgar Alan Poe-ish as ever. The flight was unbearably horrible and after my years of traveling for work, this flight may be the one that makes me want to switch to “BAU.” Aside from the abundant nose-blowing and coughing and sneezing, I was crammed in a space the size of my smallest pair of flat shoes box as all of the upgrades were sold out. Bah humbug. My only solace came when I sat at the breakfast table of the Marriott West India Quay. I could barely wait for the arrival of the crispy yet gooey golden, syrupy, berry decorated goodness of my beloved French toast. Not just any French toast mind you – my $31.50 french toast that only comes from this particular hotel and no other in the whole entire world! This French toast is the truth. Oh sure, I’ve been to other Marriotts…they have French toast on the menu called “texas French toast” or “crunchy French toast” but those are just cover-ups. I admit it. I’m spoiled. I can’t have frozen French toast or NY diner French toast or IHOP anymore. I’ll travel the world and sit in wooden box and get coughed on my total strangers for 8 hours straight for it.