The toast that haunts me
Snow, moss & yolk
For nearly two years, I’ve been haunted by a piece of toast I’ve never eaten.
I love to look at this picture of April Bloomfield’s toast with green sauce. It reminds me of a mossy, winter forest. The snowy Parmesan on the white plate, not even a crack of black pepper interrupting the monochrome. The haunting forest beneath, unseen and unknowable. The toast’s rigid outline, like a fallen, decaying tree. (It also reminds me of Estela’s endive salad, another restaurant salad with mysteries obscured by an unassuming surface.)
I like to imagine what it tastes like, too. A hit of salt would come first from the feathery Parmesan on top. Then there’d be a juicy, oily wallop from the sauce of herbs, capers, anchovies, and olive oil. Finally, a crunch, but not too much, because the toast has softened under the weight of the sauce.
Today’s recipe is all that, but holds one more secret. Cut into the toast with a knife and fork and it’ll ooze orange yolk.
