I live in a house divided by eggs. There's those who love them (Sarah) and those who definitely do not (that's me). Don't get me wrong. Eggs as an ingredient are brilliant. They make soufflés rise and give breakfast real meaning. A poached egg over short rib hash? Absolutely! Soft boiled, halved and floating in a Tonkatsu ramen broth? Of course! A Scotch Egg? No question there and also the topic of a future post. But the idea of a plain hard boiled egg (or worse - *gag - a deviled egg!) is something I've never been able to stomach.
And ... I'm back! Back and slightly bug-eyed over the fact that it's been six months since the last post. Yep, six months. Man, nothing derails one's blogging momentum like an international move. Oh, and opening a new restaurant. That takes some time also.
*Insert sheepish shrug here.
It's been worth it, though. Sarah and I are happily settled in our new home, a somewhat sparsely furnished but very cozy three room flat in Copenhagen's Vesterbro neighborhood and I'm proud to say that Warpigs - that's the new restaurant - is off to a great start!
Humans have been topping bread with all sorts of foods, both simple and extravagant, since the Middle Ages. It seems most every culture has adopted some form of open faced sandwich. Italy gave us crostini, Denmark the smørrebrød. And the French - those clever French, who do everything "food" so well - gave us the ever perfected Tartine!
In the late 15th century, thick slabs of bread called "tranches" (or "trenches") were used as the vessel for serving food. An edible plate of sorts. Piled with meat, cheese or whatever the meal might be, the bread soaked in the juices and flavors of that meal, preserving its memory. It was then enjoyed (or donated to the family hound or neighborhood beggar) as a delectable end to the meal. Thus the tartine was born! Boy, those French really do know how to eat well!
Years ago, I had one of my first, great bonding moments with my (then new) father-in-law, Steve, over a particularly mountainous and delicious plate of corned beef hash. Sarah and I had just spent a week in the wilds of Northern California visiting her family and her folks took us out for a goodbye breakfast before we hopped our plane back to a Chicago. "What is everyone having" Sarah asked casually as we perused the menu. "Corned beef hash!" Steve and I proclaimed in anticipatory unison. When the plates of hash arrived, heaped high and steaming, we grinned at each other, relishing our fine choice. "You're going to eat ALL of that" Sarah somewhat judgmentally sniffed. "YEP!", we exclaimed again in gleeful affirmation. Consumed with our hash, I think he and I said about two words throughout the remainder of breakfast. However, between bites we'd catch each other's eyes and giggle quietly at the expressions of silly satisfaction we both wore. I'm sure the ladies thought we had lost our minds! We ate every last morsel and felt appropriately indulgent. I've shared a lot of meals with my in-laws since then and every time a menu with corned beef hash presents itself, Steve and I partake with as much vigor as we did over that first breakfast.
