We’ve all been there - you’re staying overnight in some snide hotel and you’ve got ‘breakfast included.’ You come down in the morning, starving hungry. The word continental, when preceding the word breakfast takes on a new meaning. It is now a euphemism for Tesco Value. ‘Orange juice’ in a big jug, a few stale Weetabix, maybe a couple of ski yoghurts or Kellogg’s variety packs, if you’re lucky. A loaf of Mighty White and one of those rolling crematorium toasters, perhaps. Or some croissants that were freshly reheated last Thursday, or worse still, a platter of cold meats and cheeses that have been processed to the point that they require labels to identify them. Maybe you would prefer the cooked option? Mushrooms that have boiled in their own liquid for several hours, baked beans that have congealed with other items on the plate, some floppy rubber bacon, a sausage of mechanically reclaimed pork (no more than 30%) and an egg laid by a chicken fed a daily cocktail of medicines that includes an antidepressant to stop it from wanting to kill itself because it has never seen the light of day.
Fortunately, in yesterday’s demo, we learnt how to cook a proper breakfast. A Full Irish breakfast, no less. So those of us who are flung into the furthest depths of the universe and set up guest houses and hotels and B&Bs will not have to force our guests to digest the indigestible before checking out at 10am. The problem with this demo and the cooking that followed this morning is that, having cooked a few fry-ups in my time (sans oeuf, naturally), I generally prefer them a) for breakfast and b) when I am still drunk from the night before so I can’t think clearly about the horrific damage they are about to inflict upon my arteries.
Everyone has to cook and plate up a full Irish, which then becomes his or her lunch. There are also other breakfast foods to be made. Luckily, I get granola, that I make all the time at home. I am determined to make it kick ass. At home I generally make it to sight but here I am supposed to be following a recipe. I’m not sure about it though: it contains 200ml of oil for the 2lb of oats, and you add the seeds after toasting the cereal. I manage to procure a bottle of agave syrup, which is organic and has the lowest GI of any syrup. I use a combination of it and honey, and substitute most of the oil for water, which is curiously missing in the recipe I am supposed to be following. I always add fennel seeds to mine; you get little bursts of flavour from them every few mouthfuls. And I add a little salt too, which (unlike most dishes round here) they don’t. And my seeds go in the oven too, otherwise they won't cluster with the oats. All goes swimmingly, except I fuck it up by adding too much salt. And it is much sweeter than the one I make myself. Too sweet. I need to sort out a recipe. I’ll let you know when I do.
I managed to get an early night last night, and had the alarm set for 8am. I woke naturally just before 7, and remembered I was planning to go in early to make bread and pick the brains of an extremely good baker, who also happens to run the school, with his wife. Another hour under the covers is pretty tempting, but I’m here, and I can sleep another time, so I brace the cold and get up an hour earlier than the alarm. He shows me a new kneading technique and imparts some general bread wisdom. (I found out why my second loaf was too wet last week - I used the wrong flour). So much of it is about learning the textures and consistencies. He is around from 8am every morning, and I think I will go in early whenever I can to get the most out of it. I am determined to leave this place a baker.
I was also on biscuit duty today. A recipe for chocolate chip cookies went round a couple of weeks ago. Every time I have tried them they were too brittle - I like them a little softer and doughier myself. Someone recommends an American recipe that I look up. I use it to lever a few things up and down in the one I have - namely less flour and raising agents and more chocolate, and I follow their method of fully melting the butter before beating with the sugar, and also of chilling the dough before baking. They turn out okay; not perfect but an improvement. I sneak out some of the dough so I can practice at home.
When it came to fry up time things got pretty hectic. It had been a busy morning anyway, with the bread, cookies and granola, though I can’t help thinking, looking back, that I made it far busier (and messier) than it should have been. I really must try and stick to my order of work. Twenty people all cooking breakfasts in the same kitchen can be quite a sight. I bet it’s not like this at the Savoy on a Sunday morning. We get there eventually, my partner and I teaming up to save pan abuse, and assemble the happy dish of back bacon, streaky bacon, two sausages, black pudding, white pudding, tomato, mushroom and fried egg, sunny side up. If only it were 11.30am on a Saturday or Sunday and I’d just crawled out of bed, knocked my phone into a pint of water, kicked over a couple of half drunk beer bottles and pissed for twenty minutes, I might even feel like tucking in.
Obviously my teacher feels the same, since I lose marks for not having my egg in the centre of the plate, which is the preferred arrangement in these parts. It is not ‘The Xxxxxxxxxx Way’ as they are fond of saying round here. It’s not my way either, of course. My way, I have breakfast when I wake up, and not at lunchtime. The plate sits there for a while as I busy myself around it. That bit of streaky bacon is going cold. And those sausages. And the old pudding noir. Oh fuck it, go on then. What time is breakfast anyway?
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