One Poğaça

Near the end of July, an announcement appeared in the office: starting in August, breakfast would no longer be allowed. I read it twice because the word “breakfast” sounded much larger than what actually happened every morning. On my desk there was a paper bag, and inside it was one poğaça.

That was my breakfast. Across the room, someone had tea, and another person had already finished eating. There were no plates, no cheese, no eggs, and no long morning table. People simply arrived, ate something quickly, and started working.

I lifted the poğaça and asked the person at the next desk, “So this is the problem?” He laughed and told me to be careful because it might be dangerous. I took a bite and decided that it tasted exactly like yesterday’s legal poğaça.

For the rest of the morning, the rule became more interesting than the work. We tried to discover the border between breakfast and a snack. Biscuits were probably safe, coffee was only a drink, but dipping bread into coffee might turn it into a criminal breakfast. By lunchtime, we had created a complete legal system for pastries.

Maybe management had a good reason. Perhaps someone had turned breakfast into a long ceremony, or there had been complaints about food in the office. We did not know. From where I sat, however, the problem was very small: I came to work, bought one poğaça, ate it, and then worked.

When August arrived, I stood outside the building in the morning with the same paper bag in my hand. A few other people were there too, finishing their food before entering. The rule had not changed what we ate; it had only moved breakfast a few meters away.

Someone looked at my bag and asked, “Breakfast?” I shook my head and said, “Evidence.” He laughed, and I finished the last bite.

Then I folded the paper bag, threw it away, and walked through the door. Inside the office, breakfast had been successfully eliminated.