Dan Morris: The Lumberjack, the Bulldozer and the Kingpin

As a younger chap I was lucky to spend quite a while in The Big Apple, plying my chosen trade of 'charming British busker'. Delighting Central Park rollerbladers with my dulcet tones by day, I would spend my evenings downing coffee and taking in the delights of the city that never sleeps.

This usually involved me listening to the tunes rather than playing them, and hanging out in what were genuinely some of the coolest places on the planet.

Though completely unsustainable on a long-term basis, it was an incredible life for a time, and a chapter that I'll never look back at with anything other than complete affection.

But, before I get overly misty-eyed, back to the point – food! You see there was one part of my typical New York day that I relished above all others, and that was fundamental in setting me up for a good few hours' worth of 'graft'.

Some way down Manhattan's Amsterdam Avenue sat a battered old diner that was something of a Mecca for the gluttonous – a club that I proudly flew the flag for at the time.

A modest establishment, it looked as worn as the oldest parts of the city in which it stood, and to the outside world presented an unassuming air of mediocrity. Yet, for those who knew the secrets of this cave of wonders, it was a truly holy place, and one that many determined pilgrims would frequent on an almost daily basis.

And what were those hallowed secrets? Its breakfasts.

Ok, what could be the big deal though Danny Boy? You've bigged things up to us before – comics, camper vans and even camaraderie with cabinet ministers. While a decent plate of tucker does indeed make the world go round, even at the top end, breakfasts are just breakfasts, right?

Wrong. For these breakfasts were 'just' breakfasts in the way that Napoleon Bonaparte was 'just' a soldier, and that Aretha Franklin was merely a singer. As Pele was 'pretty good', so were these platefuls. And as Michelangelo 'wasn't bad' with a brush, these bastions of decadence were 'kinda alright I suppose'.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, as Caesar re-shaped the world before them, these breakfasts would surely one day do the same. And with my time in the Empire State on the clock, I wanted to get as many of them down me as my wallet (and arteries) would allow.

Let's get into the thick of it, and do so before the drool on my keyboard renders any elaboration impossible.

We'll start with 'The Lumberjack'. This was a particular favourite 'light' option of mine, consisting of a modest stack of six pancakes topped with scrambled eggs, eight rashers of streaky bacon, and lashings (upon lashings) of maple syrup. Not bad for an entry-level snack.

Next was 'The Bulldozer' – similar to its wet-behind-the-ears cousin, but with the addition of hash browns and another two pancakes for good measure that could be swapped out for waffles. Let's go crazy.

And then (though skipping a few steps as the drool-nami persists) there was 'The Kingpin' – eight pancakes layered with an equivalent number of sausage patties, sporting the same bacon, egg and syrup crown as its brothers, and served with a side of tater tots (though these could of course be left off if you were watching your figure).

Washing one of the said titanic trio down with a milkshake every morning, I was grateful for my high metabolism. As a 19-year-old, I could dust off entire truck stops for a morning snack and never gain a pound. Sixteen years later... well... let's just say my powers have long since departed. Nowadays even one lick of The Lumberjack would require four hours in the gym (milkshake still in hand though, naturally).

Still, for that happy, carefree and skinny time I relished every bite of those Big Apple belly-busters, dreaming of my success as a world-breaking musician.

I was a long way from being the next John Lennon, but if I'd carried on with the diet of the day, a destiny à la Elvis might well have been on the cards.

Fire up the grill – I'm all shook up...