Bringing home the bacon

Maria's, best breakfast in Beckenham.

Glorious, fatty, salty bacon! I love it in so many things that I try to keep a few rashers in the freezer at all times, lest the mood for bacon strike and I turn, Mother Hubbard-like, to a sadly deprived store.

On a recent visit to the UK I ate my fair share of English breakfasts, sampling the wares of many different venues. At first bite in London, I suspected maybe I was just ravenously hungry. The second time I mused that it was just the sweet taste of a well-deserved holiday. But upon returning to Australia it became undeniably clear that the quality of bacon here is (even in high-end delis, as opposed to the quality of even supermarket bacon in the UK) bitterly disappointing!

It’s hard to put one’s finger on exactly what it is that makes good bacon good and sub-standard bacon utterly abysmal. From those mouth-watering-sizzly-pop memories of London it has something to do with the ratios of fat and salt, the crucial elements of bacon. The UK bacon feels different as you peel the fine ribbons of it from the packet. In contrast ours crumbles and flakes. The meat and fat of UK bacon are almost indistinguishably flavoursome, whereas here the fat becomes hard and the meat seems waterlogged and tasteless,

Oh how I long for just one more rasher of bacony goodness! How I kick myself for not being more grateful at the time! The bacon here is an attention-seeking bore compared to its friendly ancestors in the north!