The Sunday Breakfast That Brought Everyone Together
Part of The American Time Capsule — remembering the foods we ate, school cafeterias and the “lunch ladies”, the restaurants we loved, the meals we shared, and the family traditions that made ordinary moments around the table unforgettable.
Every family has one recipe they’ll never forget.
Ours wasn’t handed down by a famous chef.
It wasn’t found in a cookbook.
It was written in the memories of everyone who ever tasted it.
It was invented by my dad.
And to this day, I’ve never tasted French toast that even comes close.
But to understand why it became legendary in our family, you first have to understand the man who created it.
My father spent much of his career managing some of the finest restaurants in America.
One of them was the famous Nantucket Cove in downtown St. Louis, an elegant seafood restaurant where the waiters wore tuxedos and diners expected first-class service.
Dad spent much of his life around restaurants with distinctive character, something I remember more broadly in Every Restaurant Had a Personality.
The restaurant was closed on Sundays, and Dad would sometimes take us with him while he prepared for the coming week.
One of my favorite memories was helping unpack the latest shipment of live lobsters.
Their claws were banded so they couldn’t attack each other—or us—and they were placed into a huge tank in the middle of the dining room where customers could actually pick out the lobster they wanted for dinner.
To a young boy, it was fascinating.
Years later, when I took my senior prom date to Nantucket Cove, Dad quietly let the staff know his son was coming.
That was all they needed to hear.
They treated us like royalty.
The attention.
The service.
All the little extra touches.
Dad had obviously made sure they made a fuss over us.
Needless to say…
my date was impressed.
Truth be told…
so was I.
Dad knew exactly what he was doing.
Then Came Florida
In 1963, Dad accepted a promotion to manage the three restaurants inside the brand-new Old Swiss House at Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida.
Our family moved from Ferguson, Missouri, to Tampa Bay.
I was fourteen years old.
The move would give me some of the greatest years of my childhood.
And Dad continued doing what he did best—running restaurants.
Quality Always Came First
Years later, after semi-retiring, Dad managed three Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises.
The owner constantly argued with him about the fryer oil.
Dad insisted it should be filtered and used for no more than two cooking cycles.
The owner wanted four.
Dad refused.
He believed customers could taste the difference.
Eventually Dad won the argument, and the restaurants became some of the most successful in the area, earning awards for the quality of their chicken.
Long before anyone talked about “customer experience,” Dad understood something simple:
People come back for quality.
Dad Opened His Own Restaurant
Eventually, Dad decided it was time to build something of his own.
He took the Colonel’s famous blend of eleven herbs and spices…
added one more…
making it twelve…
then one more after that…
just to stay safely away from any lawyers.
Eventually, Dad decided it was time to build something of his own.
He opened a small fast-food restaurant in Florissant, Missouri.
There were only a few tables inside. Most of the business was takeout.
Back then, even a simple takeout meal could feel like an occasion, part of the food culture I remember in When Fast Food Was an Event.
His restaurant became known for its fried chicken.
But fried chicken wasn’t the only thing people came for.
The restaurant became famous for something completely unexpected.
And it explains the name Dad chose for the place:
The Onion Ring.
Dad’s fondness for a good onion ring bordered on obsession.
Ordinary onions weren’t good enough.
His were Vidalia onions, flown in from Georgia and nearly as big as grapefruits.
He double-dipped them in buttermilk and seasoned flour, creating a thick, golden, crispy coating around the sweet onion inside.
They weren’t side-order onion rings. They were practically a meal.
People absolutely loved them.
And knowing Dad, once he’d figured out how to make an onion ring exactly the way he thought it should taste…
there probably wasn’t much point in suggesting another way.
The French Toast That Became Famous
Then one morning, almost by accident…
he created what would become the most unforgettable French toast I’ve ever eaten.
This wasn’t ordinary French toast.
And Dad never treated the recipe like some closely guarded restaurant secret.
He was happy to share it with anyone who asked.
It started with a good loaf of crusty French bread.
Not sourdough.
I learned that lesson the hard way years later when I promised some friends I was going to make them the best French toast they’d ever eaten.
I bought sourdough by mistake instead.
those big loaves look alike.
It wasn’t Dad’s French toast, and after all my bragging about what they were about to experience, I think I was more disappointed—and pissed off—than my friends were.
Dad used French bread, sliced thick.
The slices were covered and left at room temperature overnight to dry slightly. That was important because the drier bread readily soaked up the egg mixture without falling apart.
And the mixture itself was surprisingly simple.
For each batch, Dad used:
1 cup of half-and-half.
1 egg.
A capful of vanilla.
And just a touch of cinnamon.
Each thick slice of bread was dipped into the mixture until it was thoroughly coated and had absorbed some of that custard.
Then came the part that made Dad’s French toast different.
He didn’t put it on a griddle.
He lowered it into the chicken fryer.
The fryer contained fresh vegetable oil, heated to about 350°F.
And Dad was particular about that temperature.
Only four or five slices went into the fryer at a time.
Too many would overcrowd the fryer and drop the oil temperature.
Too hot and the outside would cook before the inside was ready.
Too cool and you’d end up with greasy French toast.
Dad wanted it just right.
When those slices came out of the fryer…
Golden brown.
Crispy on the outside.
Light and fluffy on the inside.
Then came the toppings.
Powdered sugar if you wanted it.
Real maple syrup.
Fruit preserves.
Even honey.
Or some combination thereof if you weren’t particularly worried about your blood sugar that morning.
One bite…
and you understood why people kept showing up on Sundays.
So there it is. Dad’s secret French toast recipe isn’t a secret anymore. He wouldn’t have wanted it to be.
Sundays After Church
Sunday mornings began at St. Ferdinand Catholic Church in Florissant.
After Mass, our family and a few select friends would adjourn to Dad’s restaurant, The Onion Ring, for breakfast.
The restaurant was normally closed on Sundays.
But not exactly.
We’d pull a couple of tables together so everyone could sit as one group. Sometimes there were as many as a dozen of us, usually family and neighbors.
Those Sunday breakfasts were another version of the family ritual I remember in When the Dinner Table Held Families Together—the food mattered, but being together mattered more.
We were all still dressed in our Sunday best.
That presented a particular problem with the younger kids.
Mom wasn’t about to let powdered sugar, maple syrup, or fruit preserves destroy somebody’s good church clothes, so the little ones wore bibs.
Sunday dignity apparently had its limits.
Every once in a while, someone would walk up to the restaurant and try to come inside.
They’d pull on the locked door.
Look through the window and see a dozen people sitting around tables eating.
Pull on the door again.
Then stand there looking confused—or slightly annoyed—that nobody was letting them in.
Apparently the CLOSED sign wasn’t convincing when they could see people inside stuffing themselves with French toast.
Meanwhile, Dad would disappear into the kitchen.
The fryer had to come up to temperature.
The bread had to be prepared.
The egg mixture had to be made.
Mom stayed at the table entertaining everyone while I went into the kitchen to help Dad.
I’d prepare the egg mixture while he got everything else ready.
Then I’d join the others at the table.
Dad preferred to do all the cooking and serving himself.
He’d bring out four or five pieces at a time as each batch came from the fryer.
And he always told everyone the same thing:
Don’t wait for me. Dig in.
Nobody needed much convincing.
The first batch would disappear while Dad was already back in the kitchen working on the next one.
Then another plate would arrive.
And another.
Dad wouldn’t finally sit down with us until the last batch of French toast was on the table.
By then, some of us were probably already considering seconds.
Those Sunday breakfasts weren’t formal.
They weren’t really restaurant meals either.
The Onion Ring was closed to customers.
For a couple of hours, it belonged to us.
It was our private dining room.
Family.
Friends.
Neighbors.
Conversation.
Laughter.
And Dad moving back and forth between the kitchen and the table, making sure everybody had enough to eat.
When Dad Didn’t Feel Like Feeding an Army
Of course, there were some Sundays when Dad apparently looked at the prospect of making French toast for a dozen people and decided…
not today.
On those mornings, we had another one of his specialties.
Golden fried cornmeal mush.
We liked it almost as much as the French toast.
Dad made the mush at home from nothing more complicated than cornmeal, water, and salt.
But like most simple foods, the trick was what you did with it afterward.
He poured the cooked cornmeal into a loaf pan and let it cool completely until it became firm.
Then he sliced it thin, almost like slices of bread.
The slices went onto a hot griddle with butter and were fried until the outside became golden and crispy.
Then you treated them almost like pancakes.
Real maple syrup over the top.
Simple.
Cheap.
Delicious.
And considerably easier than firing up the chicken fryer at The Onion Ring and making French toast for an army.
Looking back, I suppose Dad had earned an occasional Sunday morning off.
But whether we were eating his famous French toast at The Onion Ring or fried mush at home…
the ritual was really the same.
Church came first.
Breakfast came next.
And for a few hours on Sunday morning…
the family was together.
The Recipe That Never Left
Dad has been gone for many years now.
But his French toast isn’t gone.
I still make it for friends.
Because the secret ingredient was never really the recipe.
It was the man who created it.
Some Inherit Money…
Some people inherit money.
Some inherit property.
Some inherit businesses.
I inherited something far more valuable.
Every time I make Dad’s French toast…
I remember helping unload those lobsters in downtown St. Louis.
I remember the waiters in tuxedos.
I remember my prom date being treated like a queen.
I remember the move to Tampa that changed my life.
I remember Dad refusing to compromise on quality when everyone else wanted to cut corners.
And I remember Sunday mornings after church, sitting around a table with the people who mattered most.
Recipes don’t just preserve food.
They preserve people.
And every time I make Dad’s French toast…
for just a few minutes…
Dad is standing in the kitchen beside me again.
🥞 YOUR TURN
Is there a family recipe that can bring someone you loved back into the kitchen for a few minutes?
Maybe it was your mother’s pie, your grandmother’s biscuits, your father’s barbecue, or something as simple as a Sunday breakfast that nobody else has ever been able to make quite the same way.
Who made it? What made their version special? Did they ever teach you the recipe—and do you still make it today?
Sometimes all it takes is a familiar smell, a certain taste, or an old recipe prepared the same way it was fifty years ago…
and suddenly that person is standing beside you again.
Tell us about the dish, the person who made it, and the memories that come back whenever you taste it.
Because recipes don’t just preserve food.
They preserve people.
🥞 Continue Exploring Food, Restaurants & Family Traditions
Some of the foods we remember best were never really about the food. They were about Sunday mornings, family traditions, favorite restaurants, and the people whose recipes can still bring them back to us decades later.
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🍽️ Every Restaurant Had a Personality
From Howard Johnson’s and Big Boy to neighborhood restaurants and long-gone local favorites, there was a time when every restaurant seemed to have a character all its own. -
🍔 When Fast Food Was an Event
Before drive-thrus became routine, a trip for hamburgers, root beer, frozen custard, or a bucket of fried chicken could turn an ordinary family outing into an event. -
🍴 When the Dinner Table Held Families Together
The meals weren’t always fancy, but everyone had a seat, everyone got a turn to talk, and for an hour each evening the family belonged to one another. -
🛣️ Route 66: The Mother Road
Roadside diners, family picnics, homemade sandwiches, and meals eaten along the highway were once as much a part of the American road trip as the destination itself.
← Return to 🇺🇸 The American Time Capsule
Bunker Rule
A family recipe isn’t measured by how many ingredients it contains. It’s measured by how many memories come back when you make it.
Bunker Notice
The American Time Capsule preserves the everyday traditions that made growing up in America so meaningful. Family recipes are more than instructions—they’re heirlooms. They carry the flavors, laughter, values, and love of the people who passed them down. This article celebrates the meals that nourished our families and the memories that continue to live on every time those recipes are made again.