On caraway rye bread, of course, because everything should be on caraway rye. Is to die for, even when made with cold-cut chicken and the cheapest of bacon. (So cheap, I wonder what illnesses I'm likely to acquire from it.) If one did this with Rowe Farm bacon-- from the happiest of porkers-- and Rowe Farm chicken-- from poultry as contented as chooks can ever be-- I'm sure it would be food of the gods. I still don't fancy spending $20 to try it out.
People that way inclined like to recall their Greatest Meals Ever. I am not that way inclined. But I can still rhapsodize about the morning buffet at the San'oh Hotel in Tokyo, laid on for American servicemen, and indicating where most American servicemen come from by the prominent presence of grits in the hot plates. The croissants weren't quite Paris levels (but then neither were Paris', on account of in my day they didn't serve butter croissants at breakfast but a rather drier sort) and I've had better coffee three blocks from home. But the bacon, dear god, the bacon-- crisp, salty, abundant, and so different from the flabby white stuff that's sold as bacon in Japanese supermarkets. Don't ask me what the Japanese do to their pigs to ensure that their bacon does not crisp even when burned. It doesn't, is all. (And IIRC was immensely difficult even to burn.) This bacon was from a different order of pig, and from a dozen years later I salute the swine who produced it.