"There is nothing more political than food. The things that we eat are the direct reflection of our histories."
– Anthony Bourdain,
The famous Bourdain quote sets the stage perfectly: food isn't just fuel—it's a living archive of who we are, where we've come from, and the power structures that shape our daily lives. The Confidential Daily piece (by George Christensen, January 2026) takes this to a satirical, conservative extreme with the Full English Breakfast as a "stress test for modern government." Each greasy component — bacon strangled by red tape, eggs inflated by costs, beans as bloated welfare, black pudding as unapologetic populism — mirrors Britain's regulatory failures, elite disconnect, and cultural erosion. It's a clever metaphor: if politicians can't keep a simple, sustaining breakfast affordable and authentic, how can they handle anything bigger?
But shift the lens 17,000 kilometres south to Australia, and the biopolitics of breakfast take on a distinctly local flavour — one that's equal parts colonial hangover, settler pragmatism, multicultural reinvention, and ongoing culture-war skirmishes. Here, "brekkie" isn't just a meal; it's a daily negotiation of national identity, class, economics, and who gets to define "Australian" in an era of globalisation, cost-of-living squeezes, and identity politics.
Start with the Full Aussie Breakfast (or "big brekkie"): bacon, eggs (fried, poached, scrambled), sausages, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns, baked beans, toast—and often a side of Vegemite on buttered bread. It's the Full English's antipodean cousin, imported via British colonisation but rugged-up for a sunnier, more casual climate. Historically, it reflects settler Australia's reliance on pastoral farming (bacon and eggs from pigs and chooks on vast stations) and post-war suburbanisation, when a hearty fry-up powered workers building the nation. Yet it's never been purely "traditional" — Aussies have always tinkered: Vietnamese-style bacon-and-egg rolls with chilli jam and cucumber in banh mi bread, Mediterranean twists with feta, or Indigenous influences creeping in via bush tucker elements (kangaroo sausage anyone?).
Then there's Vegemite on toast, the undisputed cultural sovereign. Born in the 1920s as a British Marmite knock-off during wartime shortages, it became quintessentially Australian through relentless marketing ("Happy Little Vegemites" jingle, 1954) and sheer stubbornness. Love it or hate it (most of the world hates it), that salty, yeasty smear is biopolitical nationalism in spreadable form: a product of British ingenuity adapted to scarcity, turned into a badge of belonging. Kids grow up on it, soldiers carried it in rations, and it's still the litmus test for true Aussie-ness — foreigners who gag are gently ribbed, while locals defend it like family. In an age of imported superfoods and plant-based alternatives, clinging to Vegemite is a quiet act of cultural resistance.
Enter smashed avo on toast, the millennial/Gen-Z usurper that sparked its own mini culture war. Originating in Brisbane cafes as early as the 1920s but exploding via Bill Granger's Sydney menus in the 1990s, "avo smash" became shorthand for urban, coastal, progressive Australia: fresh, healthy(ish), Instagram-ready, expensive. When property commentator Bernard Salt quipped in 2016 that young people couldn't afford homes because they spent $22 on smashed avocado brunches, it ignited nationwide mockery and defensiveness. Suddenly, breakfast was class-coded: avo on sourdough = inner-city latte-Left elites vs. bacon-and-egg roll from the servo = battler authenticity. The dish embodies Australia's economic divides — rising food costs, housing unaffordability, generational resentment — and how easily a simple plate gets weaponised in debates over entitlement, aspiration, and who "deserves" the good life.
Layer on broader biopolitical currents: cost-of-living pressures turning brekkie into a luxury (eggs up sharply post-avian flu and feed costs), food insecurity hitting 16% of families with kids, school breakfast programs expanding in response, and debates over ultra-processed cereals marketed to children. Even Vegemite faces scrutiny in an era pushing "clean eating" and plant-based diets — yet it endures as a stubborn symbol of unpretentious nationalism. And don't forget banal nationalism at the supermarket: cornflakes boxes plastered with the flag, Harbour Bridge icons on yoghurt lids, "Aussie" slapped everywhere, reminding us daily of national belonging even when 90% of our food is home-grown anyway.
In the end, Australian breakfast is political because it's inescapable. It starts your day encoding history (empire → settler farming → multicultural fusion), class (big brekkie vs. avo smash), economics (what you can afford to eat), and identity (Vegemite loyalty as citizenship test). Like the Full English in the UK piece, if leaders can't keep brekkie accessible, nourishing, and culturally resonant — without pricing out the battlers or sanitising it into bland virtue-signalling — they're failing at the most basic level of governance: sustaining ordinary people so they can get on with life.
So next time you're at a cafe in Melbourne choosing between the full fry-up and smashed avo with a poached egg, remember: you're not just eating. You're participating in a quiet, greasy, delicious referendum on who we are. Pass the Vegemite, mate!
https://www.confidentialdaily.com/posts/full-english-breakfast-politics/