Cheap, cheerful and ready in minutes, the classic snack has long been a loyal friend to Debora Robertson. Thickly spread with butter or, as here, topped with caramelised onions and cheese, it’s literally the best thing since sliced bread
PORTRAIT: SÉAN DONNELLAN
When I have a deadline to meet, I live on toast. I can’t break the honour code of the food writers’ sorority here, but it’s something we discuss secretly over lively dinners or in the intimate confessional of the WhatsApp group. Occasionally, we break cover and mention it on Twitter, before retreating behind the mise en place, slightly embarrassed, and worried in case no one will ever commission us again. We may be developing the foolproof recipe for a croquembouche, but all the while we’re spreading butter thickly on crisp, hot toast and calling it lunch. And personally at least – in the interests of full disclosure – that bread is as likely to be industrial sliced white as it is mouth-lacerating artisanal sourdough.
As a student, toast got me through hangovers and heartbreak, essay crises and penury. On your worst days, toast is something you can offer visitors when you have precious little else. It is the culinary equivalent of its natural companion, a nice cup of tea: a balm, a comfort, a bargain. Today, my best days start as I wake to the smell of coffee and toast wafting up the stairs, marmalade for me, Marmite for my husband Séan, crusts for the dogs. He almost always makes the breakfast. Yes, I don’t know how I got so lucky after so many fixer-upper boyfriends either. I choose not to question it, as I brush toast crumbs off the duvet and launch myself into the day. My all-time Platonic ideal of toast is a big slab of white bread, lightly toasted. I had a friend at school who liked her toast to take on no colour at all. Vanessa just wanted warm bread really, and would cry out ‘It’s burned!’ if it took on the merest hint of beige. But then, extreme opinions about tiny things were how we expressed our personalities in the days before Instagram and TikTok.
My very hot, golden toast then needs a lot of salted butter. This is one of my complaints about sourdough loaves, with their holes in the crumb so large the butter drips through them. I’ve been known to double butter – that is to spread a slice with butter, let it melt in, then add another slab or two just before eating. What I’m talking about is tandsmør, the Danish word which means ‘tooth-butter’ – butter spread so thickly you can see your teeth marks in it. Essentially, if I had to leave somewhe
