Few breakfasts greet the day with such enthusiasm. Orduño the egg, with his bright yellow centre and unwavering smile, looks positively delighted, as if blissfully unaware of what usually happens to his kind. Manuel the toast, on the other hand, seems far less convinced, sporting a dubious expression, with his tiny ruby-red mouth and rather distinguished moustache, perhaps in protest against the inevitability of the dining table. Instead of meeting their end under a knife and fork, Orduño and Manuel are destined for a far more dignified fate: a lifetime of admiration, mischief, and perhaps the occasional existential debate about what it truly means to be breakfast.