Moroccan morals seemed tight and strangly, but hash was in the air everywhere in Chef. Young people, old people, especially old people, everybody making clouds. Maybe that’s why they understood breakfast. Mint and sugar bleeding into my tea glass, muddying the water with an addictive flavor that sets the stage: sliced tomato faces with olive eyes, a love affair between cheese and bread and egg. The time you spend nibbling your way through that breakfast rainbow, between detours and desire lines, correlates beautifully, down to the second, with the time one can afford for breakfast if not committed to worry.