Saturday brekker

Herb has raised the weekend breakfast to an institution. Not for her a mindless re-fuel before getting the papers, and she makes sure to spread the word. I think of her as the breakfast evangelist.  She often texts or emails a report of her weekend morning fodder, always with a question about what I am eating.

By contrast I can be found having left over curry, pork pie or kaya toast to tide me over while I decide what to eat on my leisurely mornings. The luxury of rising later and eating without time constraint definitely changes the menu options! Last weekend I had my first asparagus of the season,  with fennel lemon salad and sobrasada on toast. I sat in the sun, listening to bird song in the May-blooming garden.

This weekend there is a half-term break from yoga, so I headed to the market (more sweet, lithe English asparagus), then on to late breakfast and coffee at Arloe and Moe's. My favourite dish there is the savoury avocado and feta 'sexy toast' but today I was swayed by a nostalgia for the very Australian dish of French toast with berries, yoghurt and maple syrup. 

I wasn't wrong, it was perfect!

Today is Bert's birthday so I raised my flattie to toast her health, wealth and coming year.

Sunday brekker, cordial and a ripe tomato

In which I rise late, have a good breakfast and pick the first ripe tomato from my plants.

Fit the first: Rosie's elderflower cordial.

Just look at that heavenly, homely little bottle.  Gorgeous. It wins on looks alone and yet, and yet, it actually tastes better than it looks!  Lovely with a lemon-ice-slice (TM): this is KK's invention to make the most of lemons that are leaving youth behind, and with no immediate use for them.  Slice, bag and freeze.  Lovely in gin or just with cold water and mint.


Fit the second: late breakfast.

Discerning chums of mine were surprisingly vehement in their opinion of Nigella's 'Eggs in purgatory'. Runny egg and tomato appear to be a controversial combination. Yet an irresistible dip into Malcom Eggs' 'The breakfast bible' reignited my curiosity.  I was agog over some Middle Eastern breakfasts, and when I saw sumac, my new and undiminished crush, I knew I had to give this combination a second chance.  I didn't follow the actual recipe, which I quite forget now, but instead took a scratched milk pan and fried some halved tomatoes.  When soft and crisp in the right places, I made little gaps in which to crack eggs.  A little sumac storm later, I piled it all out onto some buttered toast.  And dang me if it wasn't just really lovely.  A little heartburn-ey, I'll warrant, but I was feeling manful.
 

Fit the third: just look at that tomato. Either fully embarrassed or trying to be individual; either way I hope it is a fashion the others follow. 

sobrasada

Most wonderful breakfast EVER!

Despite a late night of dvds I bounced out of bed, keen to get in the kitchen.

Anun gifted us a pot of sobrasada, that bright orange paste from Spanish heaven. Or Garcia & sons, as it is otherwise known.

Spread over toast and topped with a poached or fried egg you will want for nothing more bar a cup of tea.

two-stage breakfast

First, 'pomegranate infused granola' (no, I didn't invent that) with Greek yoghurt and raspberries. Then a pause whilst the gent fetched newspaper and bread, then onto the second stage: sausage sandwiches with plastic bread and tomato ketchup. It is my ongoing battle to resist understanding the term 'Tommy K'.

Coffee was Monmouth - as ever - and in my yellow tea-cups. Strictly speaking not the right vessel, but the canary yellow can't help but make me feel wonderful. Sort of queenly combined with headmistressy, but with a sausage buttie in hand.

And my laptop arrived this week: I'm back online! Ketchup all round.

Aus: reprise

I am one lucky Roy. After a long and lovely holiday in Australia, and after having completed the hat trick of visiting all three of Bill Granger’s restaurants, I found myself only a week after my return being retreated to a repeat delight.

Tipped off by melly bo, the gent had secured us two tickets… actually, scrap that, maybe it would be best to walk you through this? Yes, I think so.

So please imagine you are unbreakfasted, tripping through the streets of Marylebone early on a Sunday morning; the kind of spring morning that causes deep excitement and hope, even without certain good times ahead of you.

Your gentleman friend leads you to La Fromagerie, where you and around 20 other folk squeeze around tables, are served coffee, juice, and a pumpkin cinnamon muffin… and in walks bill granger. To give you a cooking demonstration. And chat about his culinary begninnings, powdered gravy and ‘owning the morning’.

Obviously it doesn’t get much better, but here is what we ate:

Coffee, juice

Pumpkin cinnamon muffin

Banana bread

Strawberry and rhubarb crisp with yoghurt

Ham and egg Alsatian tart (the very best thing of the morning)

Bill-dressed salad (salad sourced from only 3 miles away) with fromagerie cheese

prosecco

I got to bashfully raise a hand as someone who had been to bills recently, AND he signed my book. AND he likes my name! Although that could be a book signing thing to say when you have nothing else to say, as Stephen Fry said that too.

I was on swinging on a cloud after all that so can't recall the name of the delicate pyramidal cheese the gent chose, and which we ate later with oat cakes.

Things to look up:

Bill liked a restaurant called Petersons (sp?) - run by a chap or chapess by the name of ‘sky’ or somesuch.

All the Bill Granger books I haven't read yet.

The oils / vinegars mentioned by the fearsome fromagerie lady, and which Bill used to dress the salad.

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