It’s an old family habit I learned at my Mother’s knee. Whenever we went out for breakfast, she would always, always ask for buttered toast. It was the criterion on which a restaurant was judged.

One time years ago we went to Mammy’s Pancake House on Rush Street in Chicago. When our order arrived at the table, Mother noticed right away that the toast had not been buttered. She sent it back and started to eat the rest of her breakfast. Eventually the toast reappeared with a pat of butter on each slice. But this didn’t meet Mother’s requirement. She wanted the butter spread edge to edge. In fact, she would have preferred it dipped in melted butter. The toast went back and forth between our table and the kitchen a couple more times, but its appearance didn’t really improve. We left Mammy’s with the toast untouched, and we never went back.

After that, when we went out for breakfast, Mother asked the following question before making her menu selection. “Do you butter the toast in the kitchen?” If the answer was “No,” at least she could modify her order.

It’s a small thing, but I too like toast that’s buttered in the kitchen. To get the proper melting quality, the butter (or margarine or whatever spread) has to be applied as soon as the toast comes out of the toaster. The best way to do that is for someone near the toaster to be in charge.

This morning, Earl, our friend Peg, and I ate breakfast at Wishbone and I ordered — you guessed it — an English muffin buttered in the kitchen. “We don’t butter,” the server said. “There’s butter on the table.” I looked around but couldn’t find it. “It’s those little white containers,” she added. Ah, yes, the ones that look like they hold cream. At least I wasn’t going to contend with those frozen butter pats wrapped in gold foil. I grabbed a tiny butter tub and squeezed it; yes, the butter was soft. But when our food arrived, the English muffin had cooled considerably and even the soft butter had difficulty melting into its pores. I ate it anyway.

This is the Starbucks® society, where every single cup of coffee is made to order, and people have unlimited choices. It’s also the Burger King® society where we’re encouraged to “Have it your way.” Maybe we’ve gone to extremes, and there’s a group out there that is taking a stand on all this individualization. Its motto is “We don’t butter.”

I’d seen the advertisements on posters and the sides of busses all over New York. Nathan’s famous hotdogs were described as all beef and bigger-than-the-bun. I began to want one, although I wasn’t sure when I’d find time to track down a Nathan’s concession.

But that rule about arriving at the airport two hours in advance solved my problem. I was returning to Michigan, having spent my week in the Big Apple, and had gone through the security checkpoint. There, a hundred yards or so from Gate 2, Nathan waited for me. It was only nine in the morning, but what the heck. A hot dog for breakfast would be adventuresome.

Evidently, I was the only person who thought so, because there was no line. I dragged my wheelie to the counter and ordered one hot dog. The server grabbed a bun and a hot dog, dumped them into a cardboard box, and handed it off to the cashier as if he were getting rid of something undesirable.

I realized I was in New York, and maybe that city’s hot dog commissioner has different criteria for hot dog concession stands than they do in Chicago. But my mind went on red alert. I didn’t want to appear boorish, so I dug the requested three dollars from my pocket and asked the cashier how to get mustard, onion, relish, and the other assorted condiments that always accompany a Chicago-style hot dog.

“Leetle packets, over dere,” she said, tilting her head to the left as she flattened my bills, casually checking them for authenticity.

With one hand still dragging my wheelie and the other clutching my Nathan’s famous hot dog, I found a little space at one of the nearby tables and parked both. Keeping a watchful eye for pickpockets and thieves — this was New York, after all — I walked to where the cashier had directed me and grabbed a handful of slippery tiny packets of premeasured mustard and relish.

Returning to the table, I opened the cardboard box and immediately began to critique the hot dog in front of me. First, the bun was stone cold and it had no caraway seeds. Chicago hot dog buns are soft and warm and dotted with caraway. Second, the mustard in the packet was watery and the relish was not neon green. Chicago hot dogs are always “dressed” by the server and include not only well stirred mustard and globs of neon relish, but also a pickle slice, celery salt, tomato, and hot peppers.

As I bit into my breakfast, I remembered that Nathan’s advertisements brag that the firm has been selling hot dogs since 1916. Maybe naked hot dogs were the rage then, but times have changed. I will grant the actual hot dog was good, although bigger-than-the-bun is a misnomer. It was longer-than-the-bun, but by no means any thicker than other hot dogs. If I were a food critic, I would give Nathan’s famous hot dog a measly one out of a possible four forks. By comparison, an honest-to-goodness Chicago style hot dog rates the full four.