COOKING IN: None of that pappy white bread for Hugo Arnold. Delicious bruschetta deserves the best bread
Is there anyone out there who does not like toast, golden and enticing, with an aroma of comfort and familiarity? Morning, noon, or night, come rain or shine (come to think of it I'd rather stick to the sun) this simple food wins every time. Now that my barbecue is working overtime, toast, or bruschetta as the Italians call it, is seldom off the menu. My son, fascinated with fire as all children are, has been grilling bruschetta for weeks now. Tongs in hand, he has developed a stylish twist and can flip four slices just before the browning goes too far. He seems less interested in rubbing in the cut clove of garlic, but as I adore this stage myself we have developed a good division of labour. A slick of olive oil as they all hit the plate is quickly followed by a choice of something simple.
Toppings are endlessly variable: pesto, tapenade, broad beans, or chopped tomato laced with basil and mint. The Tuscans are more than happy with just oil and garlic, although at the start of a meal this can soon fill you up. But then that is part of the Italian way; a piece of grilled chicken, fish or steak is all they would be inclined to follow with, so the simple theme is carried through.
What bread you use is crucial. None of that pappy sliced white for the glories of bruschetta, you can leave that chemical laced, fast-tracked abomination for some other time. What you need here is something of substance, something with bite and body, style and form. Sourdough is my preferred choice, but a properly made, rustic country loaf will do, or ciabatta, although it comes in many guises.
We tend to think of all Italian foods as top-class, but when it comes to bread this normally gastronomically minded country is often lacking. "Fit only for ducks," was how one woman described her morning roll on a cookery course I was teaching in Tuscany last year. She had a point. Discussing it at some length later, it emerged that part of the reason was the lack of salt. In the past, this key ingredient was taxed, so the Italians left it out of the recipe. As a consequence, bread became a mere accompaniment, rather than a focus of attention, as in France.
The garlic I buy in the market now is a world away from the bulked bulbs in plastic nets that line supermarket vegetable racks. The pink-to-purple, fresh-tasting cloves pack less of a punch, but to me that's an advantage. They are also easier to peel and, being moist, easier to grip.
It was very 1980s to have a cupboard containing several different bottles of olive oil. Single estate, crushed by virgins on the second phase of a new moon? Who cares as long as it tastes good.
What's difficult is getting to do a tasting. Delicatessens are far more likely to reveal the inner joys of various bottles than most supermarkets, but taste you must, and comparatively. Memory is a fine thing but there is nothing to beat comparing a peppery Tuscan oil with something herbaceous and vegetal from Spain. Which is better? The one you prefer. After all it's your toast.