Читать книгу Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table - Nigel Slater - Страница 38

I’ve eaten toast everywhere, from Laos to Luton, and I can say without a shadow of hesitation that no one, but no one, makes toast like the British. Just as you will never find a green curry with quite the subtly aromatic undertones it possesses in Thailand anywhere else, or an osso bucco as celestially tender as one from the hands of an Italian cook, nowhere on earth will you ever be given a piece of toast of the quality you can get on this island.

Why is something you cannot readily put your finger on. Toast is our offering to world gastronomy.

The French have more interesting bread than us, the Italians produce sweeter butter, and no one attends to detail in simple matters quite like the Japanese, yet their efforts at a round of buttered toast are nothing to our own toothsome triumphs. Even when it is not at its best, British toast is perfectly acceptable, unlike the white, flabby versions you might encounter in, say, Greece (where the whole point of toast has surely passed them by) or the laughable attempts you get in the US. No, in matters of toast we excel.

I am not sure that anyone can lay claim to the perfect recipe. How we eat our golden round is distinctly personal. Thick or thin, crisp or soft, gold or brown or black or a bit of all three – and then there is the question of crusts and their retention or removal (it’s a minefield, I tell you). Having said that, it is generally accepted that when we ask for a round of toast, we do not expect it to be made with brown bread. Like perfect bed linen or underwear, the perfect piece of toast can only ever be white. Brown-bread toast is for middle-aged people who suddenly decide they should look after themselves a bit more. You might as well eat grilled cardboard. It is permissible for making soldiers for dunking into soft-boiled eggs, but that is as far as it goes.