Happy New Year, my friends. I have just returned home after a festive week on the East Kent coast. A full family affair, replete with dogs and babies, the rhythm was mainly; eat, drink, sit; eat, drink, sit; repeated ad finitum. I have a large and wonderful family and I was almost completely in charge of the food, so I was completely contented.
I am a frustrated early riser and, as such, found myself alone one morning, midway through the week, reflecting on how breakfast is two things; on the one hand, the most singular and specific meal we consume each day, full of habit and personal ritual in a way few other meals are; and, on the other, a meal that can be at its most fulfilling and satisfying when one is given next to no choice, forced to eat what is presented to you.
This rumination was prompted by an impromptu Boxing day breakfast prepared by my brother-in-law. Half Mexican-Belizean, and a very very good cook himself, he struck out to prepare something his mother would traditionally prepare for his family with leftovers from the Christmas lunch - a mixed fry of leftovers. In this case, I am sure I detected parsnip, potato, carrot, sprouts, chestnuts and turkey, and it was all fried hard in oil and lifted with a little salt, black pepper, dried chilli and dried oregano. Once soft and catching pleasingly in the pan, the heat was turned down and eggs were cracked into the melange. These were left to poach slowly in the hot veg whilst a quick flour tortilla dough was mixed up before soft pats were cooked off in a dry pan. I’ll be honest, after the excess of the previous day I was lining up my usual Boxing day breakfast of a boiled egg with marmite soldiers, a respite from festive foods for at least one meal, and yet, when a stack of fresh tortillas and a plate full of hard fried Christmas veg and a soft egg was placed in front of me, followed swiftly by an uncorked bottle of Cholula, there was nothing I would rather have eaten at that very moment in time.
Years ago I took a road trip with my wife and some friends to visit two gardens in France. Giverny, the home of Monet, and Le Jardin Plume, the home of some of the most handsome euphorbia I have ever met. We ate and drank well, we wallowed in the well-worn charm of French villages, and we let ourselves be made-anew by the sense of optimism that artfully wild gardens can bring about. What has stuck with me though, above all of that, was the breakfast we were presented with at our B&B, a suitably shabby chateau run by a strident stylish socialist (a character profile derived from the decor and bookshelves more than from our jilted conversations in broken Franglaise). On the table that morning were bowls of macerated summer berries over a quite strident yoghurt, a plate of thick-cut Bayonne ham, a rather opulent brioche and a much more demure wholemeal rye bread that actually proved itself to be more fun than expected. Not one of these things would have necessarily been on my desired breakfast order, that day or any other day to be quite frank, and, as someone depressingly unable to resist yearning after culinary stereotypes, I had hoped for a buttery croissant or a large cup of thick Chocolat-Chaud and a baguette. But we ate, and we were happy, and it was one of the most memorable breakfasts I have ever consumed.
How does all of this link to me making a case for fried bread? Well, fried bread would be the breakfast I would subject people to if given the platform. I have been a regular for the last fifteen years at a few very good caffs in London. The River Cafe (no not that one) opposite Putney Bridge station, Terry’s on Great Suffolk Street between Waterloo and London Bridge, The Electric Cafe in West Norwood, and Fatboy’s Cafe between Kingston and New Malden. In each place, if not with company (for even I fear occasional judgement), I will order two poached eggs, black pudding and two slices of fried bread. Consuming this plateful is when I am most happy. Of the four, The Electric Cafe does by far and away my favourite fried slice. The cafe is run by Stavros and Theodora, son and mother, and it is a true gem to be sought and out and savoured. All the food is prepared from scratch, no frozen chips or sausages and bacon in the fryer here, and it is Theodora’s fried bread that will steal even the most health-conscious of hearts. A deep cast iron pan has a sole purpose in her kitchen, as far as I am aware, and it is in there that hot fat takes an unassuming slice of good white bread and transforms it. She knows the merits of good hot fat, and as such, it is not a saturated slice. If you were to pick it up and squeeze it you would barely extract a drop of excess oil.
This is clearly a breakfast best eaten no more than once or twice annually, but it is a breakfast that should certainly be at least considered to be eaten. I adhere almost religiously to the dietary theory that one should breakfast like a king, eat lunch like a prince, and eat dinner like a pauper. Almost religiously that is, other than the fact that the pauper I emulate at dinner is a very hungry chap indeed and has had a very fortunate day. Anyway, the long and short of it is this - fried bread deserves another chance. We eat plenty of things that are really very bad for us, but fried bread suffers more than others. Around the world, fried breads are savoured as delicacies. Fry-jacks (another gift from my brother-in-law's family), sopadillas, elephant ears, beavertails, bannocks, beignets, churros, faworki, luchi, mekitzi, pastel, puri, poori and many more, are rightly lauded and consumed with gusto. So the next time I’m making breakfast for an unsuspecting house guest, it will be with pride and nonchalance that I slip a plate of perfectly fried bread and eggs under their nose. The granola and yoghurt, bread and honey, pain au chocolate and the rest will remain unavailable for selection. I will report back on how this plan of attack is received, but until then, enjoy the first day of the new year. Rather than making resolutions of things to give up or avoid, why not make resolutions of things to take up or adopt. Perhaps there is a case for fried bread being amongst them?
For paid subscribers, I will send out recipes for the Mexican Christmas fry and tortillas and for my own way with fried bread, on Monday. Otherwise, I will see the rest of you next week.