A battle cry. A cold hard shriek in these days of no smoking in pubs (now consigned to the compost heap of history; far greener than the dustbin) and cut rate premiums on your private medical insurance if you run like a hamster in a wheel at your local gym twice a week. A shout of fury in this time of low sodium, high fibre and fair to middling GI, resounds from a small kitchen in South London. It echoes throughout the land as one man confronts the majesty of a toasted white bread BLT with mayo. And a cup of tea. And a line of coke to assist with the shrieking. OK, maybe not the coke, I'll never taste the sandwich, but the tea defiantly.
This wasn't intended, nor will it be, a fat is flavour, screw the food fascists sort of post. There's nothing that I can say that Fearnley-Whittingstall hasn't said and then raised and slaughtered for his own table or a million other food writers waxed lyrical about when it comes to the joys of pork fat, bacon and assorted pig related products. This is a post about the bacon sandwich and why I feel I need to post about it. Again, probably, because I am terrible at remembering what the hell I've written on this site half the time. Trawl through the search thingy and you'll probably find my visa card number, the name, number and outstanding invoices of my tailor and a half eaten slice of pizza.
No, this is about bacon sandwiches and the joy they bring. The BLT, with it's vaguely American posturing in the sunshine of a Saturday morning or just humble bacon with brown sauce and mustard jammed between two bits of white bread grabbed from the caff (note the ever important phonetic spelling) with a cup of sweet tea from a Styrofoam cup on a cold blustery morning on the way to work. This is soul food, food that enriches and nourishes and makes you glad you didn't have to eat muesli again for fear of having to kill yourself if you did.
I stomped home the other night and wandered into the supermarket, my mood black and my stomach growling. My local supermarket is a hell-hole at the best of times and this particular night was obviously crazy bat-eared alcoholic night. They careened around the place nestling tins of Spam next to cheap scotch and lighter fluid and generally snarled the place up. I didn't even know what I wanted to eat, which made the whole thing even more frustrating. Then, it dawned. Bacon sandwich. I was saved. The stress melted away as I serenely traversed the nutters and the traffic and the rain, safe in the knowledge that pork based sandwich sweetness was coming my way.
This wasn't intended, nor will it be, a fat is flavour, screw the food fascists sort of post. There's nothing that I can say that Fearnley-Whittingstall hasn't said and then raised and slaughtered for his own table or a million other food writers waxed lyrical about when it comes to the joys of pork fat, bacon and assorted pig related products. This is a post about the bacon sandwich and why I feel I need to post about it. Again, probably, because I am terrible at remembering what the hell I've written on this site half the time. Trawl through the search thingy and you'll probably find my visa card number, the name, number and outstanding invoices of my tailor and a half eaten slice of pizza.
No, this is about bacon sandwiches and the joy they bring. The BLT, with it's vaguely American posturing in the sunshine of a Saturday morning or just humble bacon with brown sauce and mustard jammed between two bits of white bread grabbed from the caff (note the ever important phonetic spelling) with a cup of sweet tea from a Styrofoam cup on a cold blustery morning on the way to work. This is soul food, food that enriches and nourishes and makes you glad you didn't have to eat muesli again for fear of having to kill yourself if you did.
I stomped home the other night and wandered into the supermarket, my mood black and my stomach growling. My local supermarket is a hell-hole at the best of times and this particular night was obviously crazy bat-eared alcoholic night. They careened around the place nestling tins of Spam next to cheap scotch and lighter fluid and generally snarled the place up. I didn't even know what I wanted to eat, which made the whole thing even more frustrating. Then, it dawned. Bacon sandwich. I was saved. The stress melted away as I serenely traversed the nutters and the traffic and the rain, safe in the knowledge that pork based sandwich sweetness was coming my way.
7 comments:
Oooh a blt. I just love the plain old bacon butty.
couldn´t agree more. blt is the best thing there ever was, and over there the bacon is so good that I´m now very jealous
BLT couldn't be better - a worldwide favorite, I think. Found you through Cookiecrumb and, man, can you write!
A friend made me a BLT. Brioche bread, basil mayo, thick cut bacon, heirloom tomatoes. A sight to behold, sure. But BLTs are the sort of food that's just lovely in my friend's patrician version or a good old plebian one with unnaturally soft Wonder Bread and Oscar Meyer bacon. More power to the pigs? Can I get a hell yes?ht
fantastic. and much healthier than a bacon-egg-and-cheese on a bagel. which i may now have to plan my shopping around this week.
gotta love the hog. I like mine with guacamole, but maybe that's going to far. great writing.
what's brown sauce? like HP Sauce? on a bacon sandwich?
god you Brits are genius.
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