ON TOAST
Few things makes me take notice I’m in a different town than the one we live in than the sound of a freight train lowing in the distance. The horn, the cadence of the wheels, the bumping mechanical rumble of the boxcars all takes me on a journey too. Whether it will be long or short usually depends on what other sounds or sights intersect with that magical train’s chorus. One morning in Winter Park, Florida it was brief. New sounds arrived as I received a small enough cappuccino that I was already considering a second one. There was some road construction going on just outside the hotel parking lot. A watering hole on the Serengeti has its orchestral majesty of nature in pure forms I know. But the white-haired, bearded ‘song-man’ Walt Whitman was among the first to celebrate the dawning age of the ‘Industrial Era’ and find beauty in those transforming things as he daringly did.
As heavy trucks pushed still wet cement into forms in a bass line of moaning, grinding gear shifting efforts by men in sweat damp work shirts I received my breakfast on a patio where classical music and a burbling fountain provided a mellowing contribution.
Along with my coffee, spring water and Greek yogurt I had ordered “toast”. There was a choice of three kinds. I chose the one my tanned, fair-haired server shyly smiled at as she said the words, “English Muffin Toast“. From the smile I sensed she not only liked this toast herself but could see I was trying to square up in my mind what made this different from a standard toasted English Muffin. She said, “It’s really the best of the three”. I believed her smile and accepted her recommendation. Suddenly a train whistle blew three times off to the west where the light was still early morning soft in the Florida skies. I took this as a positive sign and waited to see what this spin on toast would bring.
In the time it takes to read a few emails she brought me my toast and refilled my ice water. I took the toast into my hands and had a look. I beheld a lightly caramelized exterior surface of a golden-hued what is truly a misnamed as a ‘muffin’. It possessed a good whorled exterior structure and an interior that was rightly distinct in texture. So often this is a failure in the preparation of proper toast. Here a creaminess prevailed. Like a risotto or crème brûlée one of the bellwethers of quality is the way the food feels as you eat one. We are creatures that must break down our food somewhat before we simply swallow and take it into our bodies for succor and nourishment. If we are wise, we go slowly and enjoy that time as we eat.
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The hairnet adorned ladies in the bakery section at our local Miami food market asked (in near chorus) if I wanted the multi-grain bread I was buying ‘cut thin or thick’. I opted for ‘thin’. It was presented bagged and warm but thinner than if I had sliced it myself. When a growling stomach got me out of my favored morning chair the next day, I opted to toast some of that bread and apply a mix of leftover scrambled eggs done with sliced scallions and shredded Monterey jack cheese. As they were all cooked but cold from a previous effort, I decided to treat the eggs as if a ‘spread’ … such as hummus … and stirred in a luxurious spoonful of Mexican smoked chilies-laced mayo to my newly christened ‘huevos frios’. The Spanish have made me into a fan of cold egg preparations via their iconic Tortillas Paisanas. I began making them years ago when just beginning my love of all kinds of Latin flavors. I eyed my toaster and knew that I would need to be more adroit than if this was a heft of hand-sliced sourdough I might have utilized. The critical moments of the toast having the stiffer structure than bread and it becoming less tantalizing one would be sacrificed if I dallied. My egg mix was conveniently ready. I’d poured my juice and set it on the table near the book I was reading so my calm was not disturbed by efforts less prepared. I spooned my mix of this egg on toast that had barely escaped the metal and glass box my toaster is made of, and I used my heat-tolerant chef fingers to hold it in my left hand while I administered the spread on top of the fuming, fragrant toast. The cold met the hot and the two rendezvoused in my mouth. The convergence was what it was all about. “Goin’ Down to the Crossroads” if you like.
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Time and time again I’m shocked at how indifferently chefs treat the making of toast. I see sheet pans lined well ahead of service with toast … or croûtes if they are fancier. The expectation is that some canapés or bruschetta topping will go on top and all will be right with the world. The fact is that the toast died on top of those sheet pans. Does it take a person who has struggled to learn to bake the bread in the first place to appreciate the magical integrity of the transformations going on when dough sweeps an arc to toast? A swamp of olive oil is not the answer. Immediacy and care are! Those chefs will spend hours worrying about the consistency of an egg yolk. They will in some of the more edgy kitchens buy immersion circulators to insure a flowingly luxurious outcome. I admire that style of egg as well. But one doesn’t put Astaire in a tuxedo and Rogers in old sweats and go on with the show. If you want to lay an egg you must find the right warm ‘couch’. The couch in this case is toast. It has been said that “cheese is milk’s leap to immortality’. Toast is bread that has been transubstantiated…. holier, consecrated and needing a friend in the kitchen who respects its ephemerality. Mind your toast. Not the opposite.
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© 2024 Norman Van Aken