ABSTRACT
Breakfast in the White House’s State Dining Room is a treat. The eggs are fluffy, the bacon and sausages just crisp enough, the sweet rolls freshly baked, the flatware elegant, the hushed service of the white-gloved black butlers reminiscent of a bygone day. The White House calligrapher does your name on a place card that makes you feel almost guilty about stealing it, but you do.
