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aphroditestummyrolls · 3 years

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👀👀👀 8 or 53 (or 8 and 53?) for the intimacies prompts?

Take drabble prompts, she said to herself, you can keep them short, she assured herself. (She was lying). This is almost 1.5k hahahahaha I’m insane, but this was also so much fun and I’m really glad I decided to do it. Thanks so much for participating, friend! I loved the ones you picked.

8. Brushing noses, and 53. Listening to each other’s breathing

He was much more grateful for the heavy weight of his new winter finery out in the purple glow of the terrace than he was in the heat and light of the ballroom.

For all your bitching and moaning about the soupy summer, the cold of the mountains makes winter it’s own beast… Yusuf griped, pristine snow crunching under his dancing shoes. Mama would have told you to be careful what you wish for, silly boy.

He took slow steps to the bannister, puffy with white flakes, and let himself sigh out a long breath. He was still hot, reveling in the refreshing chill of the air. And the quiet. The swell of music and the titter of laughter was more distant now than the short distance would usually imply.

Yusuf’s exhale curled past his lips in a swirl, dissipating fast before his eyes.

The snow covered gardens of il Palazzo seemed to glow with a lavender light, radiating up into the deep night sky. It glimmered like a sheet of diamonds, illuminating everything under the moon— both pale and dark, muffled and crystalline clear, Yusuf felt like the world was all his own.

Perhaps it’s cold, he found himself smiling, flexing his fingers with his need for a warm hand in his own, but at least it’s beautiful.

He hadn’t been able to stop his racing thoughts all night. What would Nicolò look like in the fine dancing clothes of noble northerners? Even in Yusuf’s? Would he be well suited to cyan velvet, to silver constellations glittering in the fabric over his collar, and up the soft gossamer undershirt at his neck? The crown weaved into his curls would look so handsome, maybe even more fitting, on his gardener’s head. Yusuf thought he was as elegant, as kingly as any of them.

Could that ever be? His heart swept up like a bird in the cage of his chest, trying to fly at the thought of a world where Nicolò could share his life. He and Nicolò, Princes, husbands and partners— it was a nice dream.

He could dream. He was good at dreaming.

Even the company of Andromache and Quynh was not enough to keep his mind from wandering. Yusuf wished for him with every round of dancing, and every stolen moment.

Like now. He wished for him now— an arm at his waist, or callused fingers intertwining with his cold hand.

The snow crunched under feet that weren’t Yusuf’s, and he turned, glancing back at the golden light of the gauzily shrouded ballroom. The only track of footprints were his own. The night went quiet again, only broken by the warble of strings, but something had shifted in the air on the snowy terrace.

Yusuf couldn’t help the curl of his smile as he turned back to face the bannister, looking down and into the glittering expanse of reflected moonlight.

“Che bellissimo.”

The words curled into the air on a swirl of frost. Pale eyes blinked up at him, taking in every stitch of thread, every gleaming jewel on Yusuf’s most regal tunic. Nicolò was slack jawed, staring up at him as if he were every star in the sky. He hardly resisted the urge to preen, instead reaching out, leaning down where the bannister held them apart, and took his hand.

“Yusuf, you are the sun.” He breathed, taking his outstretched hand in both of his, kissing the knuckles. It made him warm, like the tingle of wine in his bloodstream.

“Ya Amar,” he barely breathed his reply, “you are too far away, all the way down there.”

Nicolò chuckled against the hand at his lips, curling into a smile against Yusuf’s skin. He looked up, playfully through long lashes, and kissed again.

Them, he hurried away, and Yusuf scrambled along the bannister to the far side, following Nicolò’s steps on the other side of the marble— away from the lights of the ball and the tittering laughter of stuffy nobles.

The shadows of the side of the palace were cold, but not for long.

Nicolò was up the small side steps in a blur, hands on Yusuf’s waist, walking the both of them back into the stone corner. No windows, no prying eyes— Yusuf warmed his hands by twining them into the silky brown hair, pushing the hat from his head.

His lips were dry from the winter air, but it didn’t matter when kissing Nicolò. Broad hands stroked up and down his velvet covered back, and Yusuf ached for him.

“It’s been days, where have you been?” He panted between fervent presses of lips.

Nicolò pulled away, only far enough to press their foreheads together, brushing the tips of their frosty cold noses past each other.

“Preparing for the festival, just as you’ve been, your Highness.” He breathed in, slow and steady, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Yusuf’s beard before fixing him with a proper look. “You received my gift?”

The twinkle in those green eyes said he already knew. Yusuf nodded, humming at the memory of the vase of jasmine and roses at his bedside. “You bring the springs of home to this far away winter. You got my note?”

“I hold every word in my heart.”

He squeezed him round the waist, whispering the words as a secret. They were secret— every word, every stolen touch, every flower in Yusuf’s chambers.

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of returning to the warmth of the ball, alone. He could not stand a single moment of genteel, political dances with fake smiles and simpering small talk— he would be itching out of his skin.

He wanted Nicolò at his side. He wanted arms around him and kisses on his knuckles, pressed close.

He wanted to dance with him in front the eyes of anyone who could see. But the music was no more than a faint melody lilting through on the swirls of snowy breeze.

Listening to the soft echo of the tune, Yusuf found his hands slipping down from that hair, cradling the nape of his neck. He looked Nicolò in his eyes, the moon just barely lighting the planes of his face, and he loved him. He wanted to show him to the world.

He couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Nicolò’s breath curled in the air, and he barely broke the hush of the snowy night.

Yusuf cupped his cheek, holding him, studying him.

He shook his head, clearing it as well as he could. Just as he was about to dismiss the furrow of Nicolò’s worried brow, the song changed. It seemed to wrap around them— a waltz.

“Would you dance with me?”

His surprised laugh was more of a muted snort, but Nicolò was smiling. Yusuf felt his heart in his throat, even after all these months of tender steps into each other’s orbits. Nicolò did not have to say yes.

“Dance with you? Right here?”

“We have everything we need— you, me, music, and the moon.” Yusuf only stood straighter, extending his hand just like he had to many a noble guest that evening. But this time, it all felt real. His smile was soft, his frostbitten nose was rosy and cheeks flushed— the snow under his feet crunched, and it felt real. “May I have this dance?”

Nicolò’s palm was broad and warm in his own when he took it. They stepped in close, close enough that the clouds of their breath curled together, mingling. Yusuf took Nicolò’s waist, wrapping him in his arms, and led them in a slow, gentle waltz, never stepping too far from their corner of the world.

It was nearly silent— the muffle of snow and the secrecy of their corner keeping the bulk of the sound away from their ears. There was only the thin strain of the waltz, with its violins and warbling clarinet, and the soft rhythm of breathing. Yusuf could picture it even with eyes closed, their cheeks pressed side by side, the way Nicolò’s tendrils of silver breath caressed over his ear, along his neck and shoulder. He felt so secure. So loved. Hoping his gardener could feel it too, Yusuf took a measured inhale and a long, contented sigh. He pressed his warm lips to the sensitive skin of his neck, nosing at his pulse just to listen to Nicolò’s answering hum.

They turned in slow circles, leaving footprints in the glittering whiteness beneath their shoes. The music was an afterthought. The dancing, even, was beside the point.

Yusuf felt Nicolò’s heartbeat pressed flush to his own, the cage of his ribs expanding and deflating with his soft breaths as he spun them in interlacing circles. What was important was the man he held, the hand that cradled the nape of Yusuf’s neck, and the footprints in the moonlit snow, declaring that they had been here. That their love was real.

Perhaps, he thought, winter is not so bad after all.

#tog #the old guard #tog fanfic #joe x nicky #nicolo x yusuf #yusuf al kaysani #prince Yusuf #nicolo di genova #gardener nicolo #the fairytale au #color and light intimacy prompts #dancing in the moonlight

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dailyusuk · 6 years

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Masticate

America, America. he murmurs in his head, an incantation. God bless me, America. America, how did the world come to this?

Rated PG-13 for gore. Direct sequel to "Primal" in the Primalverse series of fanfics. Reader discretion advised.

What may the threads of steel wire which entwine themselves between strands of muscle and beads of sweat speak of the teeth which all of humanity (nation-kind) hold within themselves?

England chooses to ruminate on this as the acrid taste of blood fills his mouth. He chews, quiet.

The large corpse of some behemoth, perhaps a remnant of an ancient civilization long gone by (though he does not focus his mind uponst such sentimentalities) curves inwards in a caldera brimming with searing hot oil. England’s long hooves skitter across the crispy surface of the creature and abruptly stop as he desperately dips his (still human) hands into the soupy mixture and brings the liquid to his lips and-

The oil evaporates in a blast of steam, sending England’s hair flying about his face as he pauses to balefully inspect his bare hands (thirsty, so needy).

He is in need of water, that much is clear. Whatever monster he has found himself crawling across will not grant that much to him.

A sound. He jerks to a full stop, then slowly turns around to see China meet his gaze with eyes of ambergris.

China is a beautiful creature, fiery feathers fanned about his scaly serpentine skin, elegant long claws of lacquer, many arms extended in an approximation of nirvana. Every motion he makes towards England’s comparatively primitive form emanates light, blinding England with his iridescence.

“England,” China rasps, his voice echoing, male, female, child, adult, and neither overlapping as if five entities are speaking in disjointed unison. “I can see that you are not with your… companion.”

“I am not,” England confirms.

“Then,” China narrows his many eyes. “You are easy pickings.”

The sudden usage of the tongue of nations jerks something awake within England, and he launches himself at China, snarling and snapping with rage. China swiftly dodges and brutally locks England’s metal-framed head in a lock with his many arms of stone, heavy pearl jewelry clicking into place to lock England in a collar befitting a dog.

“I am far older than you,” China whispers. “Stronger, wiser, grander. Give up your companion’s location.”

Gears snap into place within England’s skull. China still clings to his humanity.

“I refuse,” he snarls back.

Were it not for the scent which filled England’s snout at the time, China would have cracked his head open with a vice grip, arms clicking into place to smash his brains out with the force of a thousand blades. As it were, the breaths of the great creature below chose to shift at that very moment, and the rush of sensation which comes with the aroma of budding roses and sandalwood pulls England’s skin away from his face to reveal layers and layers of tooth-lined flaps of flesh like the petals of a rose. His wings split into three and slash China’s arms into pieces, freeing England enough to allow him to bolt across the frothing surface of the lake of oil.

England’s sightless reality is snapped into focus once more when a familiar form tackles him, sending him crashing through the tenuously solid surface of the lake, furiously grappling his foe for purchase so as to not sink into the muds of forgetfulness. He snags long locks of hair and knows.

France.

England sinks his teeth into shaggy fur and twists, eliciting a muffled yowl from France and allowing him to push away from France’s thick feline form to break the surface of the lake and run, knowing that both France and China are not far behind.

He hits the edge of the oily lake and scrabbles at the smooth (skin-like) edges of the caldera, newly formed claws grappling for purchase. He gouges a foothold into the slope, pus bubbling out, and boosts his lanky steel body up the slope.

Slick, slash. He gouges one more foothold into the slope, and then another. France and China’s hot, laboured breaths are not far behind.

America, America. he murmurs in his head, an incantation. God bless me, America. His claws slip, slick with pus and blood, and his hind legs are snapped off by a pair of jaws. He thinks that there are more primal nations (Germany? Denmark? Portugal?) below him now, frenzied therian forms pursuing meat. How did the world come to this?

At the thought of his lover his body lets out a violent gasp, thrusting steel wings out behind his back, like dark corrugated fans. Blasts of cold wind (the sea winds over Dover) burst from his feathers like exhaust fired from a pipe, sending his pursuers tumbling down the slope and giving him the boost he needs to reach the crest of the slope, claws clicking against the edge, free-

England feels a deep presence in his chest, barbs peeling away the sheets of metal and flesh encasing his core. Iridescent blood trickles from the ragged edges of his chest wound where the scorpion spine impales and pins him to the caldera slope. His grip slackens, and then they are on him.

Suddenly, his body is everywhere and nowhere, reduced to nothing but spoils, juicy meat. Japan, France, Turkey, China, Germany, Portugal, Spain - they are all on him, glassy jewel eyes glowering back at him as they pull bits and chunks away from his body, devouring. He can see and sense them from all directions as if his remains have become an eye, tactile.

France greedily sucks down his bowels, finally taking his ground-up riches of land and sea. Spain and Portugal, twin feathered dragons, take an arm for each, crunching bits of English armor and arms between their serrated teeth. Turkey, in his horrible golden armoured scorpion form, picks apart England’s chest, inspecting every ivory rib (stolen maritime English riches) he pulls out before sucking it into his maw with the sound of shells cracking. Japan gracefully reaches between the porcelain plates of England’s face and delicately rips his lymph nodes out with his long ogre claws, taking shark teeth and glassy pearls into his fox snout and ripping them into gossamer ribbons. China, ever the beast, is the most savage of them all. His many arms tear into England’s long horse legs, ripping his stolen porcelain and gunpowder caskets out bone by bone and presenting them to his many heads like temple offerings in a unified, undulating line of sacrilege.

England would scream if not for his want of a mouth.

Overhead, the corpse of the moon glows with a red bisecting stripe of blood.

In his core England knows what happens next.

He feels his savaged, bloodied husk of a torso hit the flat rim around the slope of the caldera, then feels America press his lips to his own, breathing life into him.

He opens his eyelids, and America is there by him, face intact and human. England lets out a rasping sob.

“America,” he gasps, too good to be true.

“Hush, babe,” America rumbles, the voice too deep yet reassuring. “Those beautiful legs of yours need some time to recuperate. R&R and all that.”

England ties a trembling tendril of muscle around America’s outstretched hand. The rows of shark teeth inside of his jaws are caked with old blood. Whether he died a moment or two thousand years ago, he does not know.

The frothing inside of the caldera belches a gaseous mixture of sulfur and molten flesh.

America leans down close to what remains of England’s ear, metal fingers tightening reassuringly around England’s rapidly reforming phalangeal bones. “I killed them all, you know,” he hisses lowly. “I ripped them apart at the damn seams until I found their humanity at their core. Then I would stitch them together again and reshape them with metal and clay until they begged for forgiveness and mercy underneath my hands. And then,” America mimics the motion of snapping a neck. “I would take them up on that offer.”

England hisses a breath through his copper throat. Truly, America is too good for him.

“They will come back, my dearest,” England murmurs back sweetly. “You cannot kill those bones which support the core of humanity, arrogant as you are.”

“Oh, I did,” America said nonchalantly. “In my form, nothing can escape my will.”

A thousand previous lifetimes scream in England’s skull. He recoils, pushing America away with his remaining strength.

“You did not,” he growls. Only now does he know the numbness of fear.

America smiles, distantly and yet so real. “Funny how the shape of God was, in fact, a white man made in our image? Perhaps that is why so many have failed to achieve my throne.”

For all of those visions which plagued England when he first saw metal plates straining at young America’s clothes, he did not anticipate America’s absolute power looking like this. He is ever the unassuming American everyman who England married in that controlled cage of domesticity, dressed in loose slacks and a partially unbuttoned shirt. Only his sleek metal hands and his unnaturally blue eyes betray his nature.

He smiles easily, and this time his pleasure is not faked.

“England,” he says, hand outstretched. “The love of my life. You always loved me when I called you that, right? In that American Dream of banal suburbia. When we were steeped in sin and freshly plunged into this hell we could not coexist, two lovers like us.” His speech is halted, grinding, as if he has not spoken a word in millenia. “Please. Come with me. You and I, we are perfect. As long as we are happy. We can reshape this world, rewrite it.” He wiggles his fingers at England, a familiar tic. “Come on.”

England stumbles, his legs of marble turning pink and steaming, morphing into fresh raw human legs (those legs which America ran his fingers along, reverent). He reaches his hand out, as he has always done.

And when their fingers touch, there is divine union.

#usuk #fanfic #fanfiction #blood tw #fridge horror #mod diurnal #primalverse

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rhetoricandlogic · 7 years

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Wheel of the Infinite - Martha Wells

I’ve recently read (and loved) Martha Wells’ most recent books, The Cloud Roads (one of my top 10 of 2011) and The Serpent Sea. Ever since then I’ve been meaning to read some of her backlist titles. I decided to go with Wheel of the Infinite because it was recently re-released with a new cover. And I am so glad I did because OH MY WORD, this book was a thing of beauty.

Every year, the Voices of the Ancestors gather to renew the Wheel of the Infinite, a sand mandala that represents the world and shapes reality. Except this year something goes terribly wrong as the Wheel shows a darkness growing and the Celestial One summons Maskele, our main character, to help out. She used to be the Voice of the Adversary – the only Ancestor that was never human and who is the embodiment of justice, bound to destroy evil – but a few years ago she was exiled for murder and treason. Maskele travels back to the heart of the Celestial Empire in the company of her new lover, a swordsman called Rian and together, they must discover who is behind the Wheel’s disintegration, before it is too late.

At its heart, the plot of Wheel of the Infinite could perhaps be described as a Mystery as Maskele and Rian set out to investigate what in the world has happened to the Wheel, who is causing it, and why. They are running against time as the world – as they know it – can be reshaped and reformed by the Wheel. What sets this book apart is the fact this story takes place in one of the most beautifully realised Fantasy settings I’ve ever had the pleasure to read about. In fact, given that the last example of a brilliantly done Fantasy setting was Martha Wells’ own aforementioned Books of the Raksura, it is easy to assume that this author has definitely a way with creating extremely inventive, vivid, interesting secondary worlds. The use of sand mandalas might have been inspired by Eastern philosophies and religions (like Buddhism) but the concepts, the ideas, the whole structure of this world – including its religion and politics – is wholly innovative. I loved the idea of the Wheel as being inherent to forming reality as much as I loved the fact that this is a precarious reality in itself, able to be changed depending on those who could wield that power. Although I would have liked to see a bit more of the possible dangers of having only a group of individuals being able to see (and therefore affect) the Wheel, this was not in any way a deterrent for how good this book turned out to be.

I also loved that there was a dash of humour with a side of romance and adventure to the proceedings, not to mention that the whole cast of characters was awesome. The narrative alternates between Maskele and Rian’s point of view but despite that, Maskele is truly the main character here. Although I loved Rian and his story, his past, his competence as a warrior and above all, his dedication to Maskele, it is the latter that made me love this book wholeheartedly.

She is not only a PoC protagonist (amongst an entire plethora of PoC characters in a PoC world) but also an older heroine at over 45 years old AND three previous marriages (none ended well, oops). But this is just the start: I absolutely adored her arc with the heartfelt regret at the actions that led to her exile and all second-guessing that ensued; she was capable and powerful with the ability to kill mercilessly – all of which are also aspects of the Adversary (but where does the Adversary ends and where does the Voice start?). I also loved that it was a struggle NOT to kill because of a vow not to use her powers anymore. As it was a struggle to believe in herself again after her failure so many years ago.

I loved how well balanced and mutually respectful her relationship with Rian was and how their bond developed from initial attraction to something deeper in a very subtle but satisfying way, a lot of it based on mutual respect. Plus how much did I love the fact that Rian is a good 15 years younger and this is not even remotely an issue? A LOT.

And of course, there is the Adversary itself – the only one of the Ancestors who was never human to begin with. It has always been indentified and personified by its Voice (the most recent one being Maskelle) and I appreciated how the story addressed this from both the Voice’s perspective but also from the Adversary’s own.

As you probably have noticed by now, this review is basically a love-fest. Wheel of the Infinite is a tightly woven story driven by plot AND characters beautifully. It’s more than settled now: Martha Wells has just become a favourite author. Highly recommended.

Notable Quotes/ Parts:

Maskelle had been asking the Ancestors to stop the rain three days running now and as usual, they weren’t listening.

She stood on a little hill, surrounded by the heavy jungle that lined either side of the river of mud that had once been the road, and watched the wagons crawl painfully by. They were wooden and brightly painted but the roofs hadn’t been tarred in too long and she knew it was hardly any drier inside them than out. One of the oxen, straining to keep the wheels moving forward against the tide of mud, moaned loudly. I sympathize, Maskelle thought.

Rastim, leader of the little troupe, stumbled up the hill toward her, his boots squelching and his clothes a sodden mess. He paused a short distance from her and said, “O Great Protectress, why is it we’re going to Duvalpore?”

Maskelle leaned on her staff. “Because I said so.”

“Oh.” Rastim contemplated the wagons thoughtfully, then looked down at his shirt where the downpour was making the cheap dyes of the embroidery run, and sighed heavily.

Maskelle would have promised him better, if she made promises.

He glanced at her, brows lifted. “So, there’s no chance of just stopping and drowning here, say?”

“No, I think we’ll keep moving for now and drown a little further up the road.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Then can you come and take another look at Killia’s poppet? She thinks she’s worse.”

Maskelle rolled her eyes to the Ancestors. Rastim was an Ariaden and they never believed in giving bad news without a lot of preamble, no matter how urgent it was. She started down the hill and plunged back into the mud river.

Killia’s wagon was painted with geometric designs in bright red and yellow, now splattered with dirt from the long journey. Maskelle caught the handhold at the back and stepped up onto the running board, which barely cleared the soupy mud. She knocked on the shutter and it was immediately cranked upward. Killia extended a hand to help her in and Maskelle discovered she needed it, her light cotton robes were so drenched that they added an unexpected amount to her weight. She sat on the bench just inside the entrance so she could wring them out a bit and wait for her eyes to adjust to the dark interior.

Various wooden bowls caught the leaks from the roof, but there were still puddles on the lacquered floor. Overhead, cooking pots banged into empty cage lamps and the bags that held costumes and drapes for the scenery, bundled up to keep them out of the water. Killia’s daughter was huddled in one of the two narrow bunks under a mound of damp blankets. Maskelle leaned over and burrowed in the blankets until she touched warm skin. Too warm. She swore under her breath.

“Bad?” Killia asked. She was a tiny woman with the pale skin of the Ariaden and long dark hair caught back by a number of clips and ribbons. Her face had the perfection of a porcelain doll’s and to Maskelle she looked hardly more than a child herself, but her eyes were old.

Maskelle shook her head. The priesthood took oaths to the truth, but she had broken all her oaths long ago and Killia had enough to worry about. “I’ll have to go down to the river for some more ivibrae — the real river, not the one under the wagon.”

Killia smiled briefly at the feeble joke. “Ivibrae for lung rot?”

“Ivibrae is good for any fever, not just lung rot. The girl doesn’t have lung rot,” Maskelle told her, and thought, Not yet, anyway.

Killia didn’t look reassured. Maskelle gathered her sodden robes and jumped down off the wagon bed.

Rastim had been walking behind it and the spray of mud as she landed splattered both of them. They eyed each other in mutual understanding; it had been one of those days. She said, “Camp in the Sare if you can make it before dark. If you’re not there, I’ll look for you along the road.”

He swept her a theatrical bow. “Yes, O Great Protectress.”

“You’re welcome, Rastim,” Maskelle said, and splashed toward the heavy dark wall of the jungle.

#Martha Wells #Wheel of the Infinite #mahreviews

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thaitung · 4 years

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How the Continental Breakfast Went Intercontinental

Sparked by a post-Victorian travel boom and a desire to feed travelers cheaply, the continental breakfast is a staple of hotel hospitality.

My favorite hotel billboards have always been the ones that are Spartan but informative—a block text checklist on a low-lit marquee. For example, near my brother’s house in North Carolina there is a sign that reads: “FREE HBO. NO WIFI. ENJOY AT $40/NIGHT.” Another in my hometown in Pennsylvania reads: “CABLE N AIR. WEEKLY RATES AVAIL.” I drive past all of these signs until I read the three words I love more than any other: “CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST HERE”

When I am searching online for hotels, “free breakfast” is the first box I check in filtering out hotel options. I don’t even usually eat breakfast at home, truth be told, but I love a continental breakfast. Perhaps it’s the comfort of knowing that my next meal will be accounted for, or maybe it’s just that I like Cheerios served in their own bowl a lot. But whatever the case may be, one thing is for certain: if there is coffee available in a six-ounce Styrofoam cup and a freshly unwrapped pastry in a plastic display case, I’m happy.

But to the main questions: What exactly is a continental breakfast? And what’s so continental about it? Today, a continental breakfast generally consists of a breakfast station in a hotel offering pastries, cereals, and fruit or yogurt—sometimes with some heated trays of pancakes, scrambled eggs, and sausages. While the term is ubiquitous in the American landscape of hospitality, one can trace its roots back about 150 years to England.

A traditional English breakfast is famously heavy, consisting of cooked sausages with their wrinkled skin, egg yolks broken over potatoes and soupy baked beans, and heavily buttered toast to sop up the last remaining bits. High in fat, carbohydrates, and sugar, a large breakfast of this type in the morning gave enough sustenance to last throughout a working day for an Englishman. But during the Victorian era, the working class shifted from hard labor to more relaxed, fairer trades. This meant that the working bodies could have smaller meals throughout the day, not needing to eat so heavily at morning and night.

Another shift in breakfast attitudes came with the advent of commercialized ship travel and railroads. With these industries booming, tourism began to spread quickly. As travel became more accessible, costs dropped, and it was no longer reserved for the ultra-wealthy. And while rich tourists may have been more apt to dine out, more working-class folk chose to stay close to their hotels to save money. This meant hotels now had to begin thinking about their guests’ appetites for every meal, adapting breakfasts to their needs—even if it wasn’t the typical English cuisine.

The large meal at the beginning of the day just didn’t work for most French and Mediterranean palates. And as mentioned previously, it was working less and less for the modern English diet as well. By providing a set menu of democratically favorable options, hoteliers had a better chance of satisfying many, versus forcing guests to adhere to the English fry-up. And so British innkeepers adjusted their menus to the lighter choices, including pastry, fruit, and coffee. Thus, the “continental” in continental breakfast refers to Britain’s European neighbors and their preferred tastes.

Lucky for the hotel owners who serviced these European tourists, continental fare was cheaper and required less staff during the morning hours. Why pay staff to keep the kitchen running throughout a meal when you can lay out room-temperature baked goods and fruit for guests to grab at their leisure? Always looking to save a buck, hotel owners quickly began to advertise their breakfast offerings of continental fare, playing up the élégance of the French’s preference for a petit déjeuner.

This pared-down breakfast style caught on quickly and spread beyond the British Isles. With the uptick of transatlantic travel in the late 1800s, European eating habits found their way into the changing hospitality industry of America. While the continental craze of a smaller menu was favored by tourists, Americans at first were a little more ambivalent.

As one New Yorker notes in an 1896 Harper’s Weekly, “Hungry men have declined in numbers and influence, and European travel has had a depleting effect upon that fine old institution—breakfast.” But despite the lamenting American stomach, the continental breakfast made its way into the hotels of major cities and soon became a staple of American hotels.

Now, since the industrialization of postwar America and the extended shelf-life of most foods, most budget hotels offer some iteration of the classic continental breakfast. You, too, can enjoy the beauty of spongy Danishes and Froot Loops just like your ancestors did (more or less).

Recently, I spoke with the general manager of a Quality Inn outside of Pittsburgh, and it seems as though not much has changed since the advent of the continental breakfast for hotel managers. She indicated that her hotel’s mission, breakfast-wise, is to be as democratic as possible, offering a variety for all types of travelers, but not so much variety that items go to waste. They have to think about loss prevention, too, when considering mobile items like granola bars or whole fruit. “It’s really a balancing act,” she said. “You have to think about being accommodating in the moment, but not so much that people walk out the door with their Tupperware filled up.”

Though a continental breakfast isn’t a separate line item, it is enveloped into the room rate. At this particular hotel, that means about $3 of the nightly price goes to the continental breakfast. This small expense to ensure a meal for a guest in the morning can have a major return on investment. A marketing coordinator at the corporate office of Quality Inn told me, “Hotels at our mid-range level aren’t necessarily about quality—they’re about quantity. And what’s going to get the most people in the door other than low prices and some free food?”

And she’s right. In the competitive hospitality industry, a lot of a hotel’s favorability comes down to price. Ordering well means having less waste. Having less waste means room rates stay low to avoid having to absorb further costs. Having low rates means more favorability to the consumer. To ensure this balance, a GM orders on a monthly basis by looking at the manifest, projecting guest numbers, and deciding what and how much to order. If a lot of families will be staying one month, they’ll order more cereal and milk; if it’s a few business travelers, it may be fruits, breads, and coffee on the order.

What was once a subtle shift in menu options in England has become threaded into the fabric of American hospitality and the precarious nature of price wars among competing hotels. But at its heart, the continental breakfast is a humble ode to the unpretentious. Whether a hotel is two stars in Pittsburgh or four stars in Raleigh, typical menus include a variety of cereals, milks in steel pitchers (the labels usually handwritten with 2% or skim), pastries that are just unwrapped so the faint taste of cellophane still lingers on your tongue, and a blend of fresh and canned fruit contained under a sneeze guard.

For me, the continental breakfast has always been described as the standard of hospitality. Being able to sleep in and not have to go off-property for breakfast means I get to spend my vacation at my leisure. Sorry, but without the promise of unlimited stale coffee in the hotel lobby from 7:00 am to 10:00 am with 50 other strangers, it just doesn’t feel like a vacation to me. And maybe it’s not the most American thing about hotel tourism (I’m looking at you, Gideon Bibles), or the most glamorous (I’m looking at you, hot tubs), but planning the day ahead with my partner over a cup of coffee and a Styrofoam plate of fruit cocktail is usually the best part of the trip, in my opinion.

- Brett Braley (Taste)

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