Anchovies Anonymous: Confessions of a Salty (not so) Secret Admirer
A recipe for the non cooks among us
I saw an article in The Guardian this week that caught my eye: The 20 best recipes to put on toast – broken beans, creamy mushrooms, truffled leeks and more.
Whatever. Let me introduce you to my idea of the best breakfast toastie.
My enthusiasm for breakfast has waned over the years. A cafe breakfast was something I would queue up for - a plate of sourdough and scrambled eggs, roast tomato, some greens, and real butter. Make it Mexican or Vietnamese and I was there.
My local, which closed recently, didn’t do scrambled eggs. I knew the chef. He refused to scramble an egg for my mum on Mother’s Day and even on her birthday, which, until dad died, were the only two days that mum would allow herself to be taken out to eat. It’s so painful, she complains about the prices (fair call), that cooks don’t wash their hands (I mean…) and the ingredients have not been thoroughly soaked and scrubbed (just eat ffs).
Mainly, it’s just not something she’s ever done. My parents have never been on a dinner date since their honeymoon in 1968. Growing up, I never went out to eat with them ever – not breakfast, nor lunch and especially not dinner. In the 29 years that Jeff and I have been married, we’ve taken them to a pizzeria or two, but only after a fight, and as soon as dad finished eating, he’d was all, are we ready to go?
Which is weird, because dad did go to cafes almost every day of his life from morning until lunchtime, though only to drink espresso and play cards. Was it us? Did he find us boring? Annoying? Or maybe it was because the cafes he frequented were man caves full of old Italian men blaspheming and smoking. Or maybe it was because a local mafioso would show up now and then, his driver double parked on the busy road but who cares when you’re a member of one of the city’s organised crime families? Dad often came home with packs of expensive batteries, the good toothpaste, and brand name moisturiser for mum that he got cheap.
Me: Dad, you know they’re stolen, right?
Dad: What are you saying? My mate is a wholesaler. He gets it cheap.
Dad’s friend was not a wholesaler, and he was often suddenly away on holiday.
Compared to all this, breakfast with the family was clearly a yawn fest.
Sadly, these old men cafes have largely disappeared here in Melbourne. As the old men die off, and espresso prices rise, who can blame them.
Anyway, mum loves a big breakfast on her birthday and Mother’s Day, and there are plenty of local cafes that do serve scrambled eggs. We stopped showing her the menu years ago, so she can’t see the prices. Watching her face when her plate arrives is like what I expect kids look like as they open gifts at Christmas.
And what a plate, loaded with shit she never eats like hash browns, herby roast tomato halves, braised spinach, bacon (she LOVES the bacon), and proper creamy scrambled eggs. Oh how she savours every bite, piling a small morsel of everything onto a piece of bread, cutting it off with a knife and fork, and she chews the forkful slowly, her mouth open, talking as she eats.
Breakfast is a different beast in Sicily. Usually it’s an espresso, tossed back standing at the counter of a bar (that’s what cafes are called), and maybe a cornetto (an Italian version of a croissant). In Sicily, the breakfast of kings and queens is a glass of granita (preferably lemon, although Jeff’s favourite is toasted almond), and brioche (or a crusty white bread roll). It’s not something you find outside Sicily, and it will change you when you’ve tried it. Soursweet lemon granita that you sop up with bread. It sounds improbable, but you wait.
Since dad died, I’ve been taking mum to a small market on Fridays and, as a favour to me because I work from home and never go out,1 she happily drinks her cappuccino and even shares a sweet pastry – a lamington or pecan scroll. We chat about her embroidery and seamstress days in the village, about dad, how she liked to take evening walks along the corso where boys and girls strolled dangerously close to one another, savouring one of the few occasions when contact was, I don’t want to say allowed, but it was mostly tolerated as long as you were with siblings or friends, and never alone with your secret love behind the statue of the Madonna who looked down upon the lovers. This is how marriages were begotten, after all.
Today, the corso is mainly empty, nobody goes for secretive strolls to meet their lover, they just hang out at the bars - together. There’s not so much hiding anymore.
The idea of going out for breakfast just doesn’t inspire me anymore. At twenty-five bucks or more, I’d rather stay home and have a cheese and anchovy toastie. What’s not to love about cheese and pops of dried salty fish melted together inside two slices of good bread?
Ingredients:
Bread - use any white bread. My seeded sourdough doesn’t work with this because it has too much flavour from the seeds and the flour I use. A white sourdough is fine because the sourness works well with anchovies. You could use any white bread but you will appreciate the difference if you go for something handmade.
For the cheese, I used provolone dolce.2 The provolone I buy here in Melbourne is perfectly fine, but I miss the freshly made cheese I would buy at the weekly market in Ragusa, where I bought the most luscious provolone I’ve ever tasted. I happily travelled the 45 minutes for that cheese alone. Provolone is a fresh cheese, milky and mild, so it doesn’t wrestle with other flavours. If you can’t find provolone dolce try mozzarella, monterey jack, gouda, or edam. If you want to use a tastier cheese, go for it. There are no rules here, just guidance.
Let’s talk anchovies. I always have a jar in the house and I really can’t say what makes for good anchovies because I’ll eat whatever’s on hand. However, I was given a basket of fancy food for Christmas by a fancy friend, and in it was a tin of Ortiz anchovies, which never made it onto a slice of bread because they ALL went straight into my mouth for they were the best anchovies I’ve ever eaten and my mouth deserved it. No Regrets. Although I did let Jeff taste one slice (his face!). Regrets.
Directions:
Slice the cheese and tear or cut the anchovies into small pieces – around 3-4 per slice - and stuff them in your bread and toast in a ribbed or flat toaster. You can even fry it in a pan the way Elvis enjoyed his sandwiches. When the bread is crunchy brown and the cheese is melted, eat that mother! You won’t regret it.
Okay, you might regret it. If you do, head over to the Guardian for some alternative toast ideas that are truly extraordinary.
Other fillings I like when I don’t have anchovies:
Panchetta - Sliced super thin to make any Italian proud...
Vegemite – Yes Vegemite! Go on, let’s take it outside.
Mortadella - Ohhhhh mortadella (notes, see panchetta)
I mean, knock yourself out… I’d love to hear about and see what you make.
As cultural Catholics, guilt and bribery work superbly well in my family. Mainly guilt. Do it for me, I say to mum, I never go out at all and you’re doing me a big favour. Works every time.
If you find provolone picante, it’s a little more aged with deeper flavour and tastes saltier.
That might be the sweetest footnote I’ve ever seen. ❤️ Ps, Ortiz for life
Loved all of this... Except the parts about anchovies being good.... Satan's arse likely tastes better!