{"id":1756,"date":"2005-04-09T19:34:00","date_gmt":"2005-04-09T19:34:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/elitemporaryblog.wordpress.com\/2005\/04\/09\/for-a-french-toast-master-on-his-76th"},"modified":"2015-09-24T03:54:25","modified_gmt":"2015-09-24T03:54:25","slug":"for-a-french-toast-master-on-his-76th","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/orangette.net\/2005\/04\/for-a-french-toast-master-on-his-76th\/","title":{"rendered":"For a French-toast master on his 76th"},"content":{"rendered":"
My father loved to play in the kitchen<\/strong>. For him, relaxing after a long day of patients and paperwork meant pouring a Scotch and taking up residence at the butcher-block island. Sometimes Burg<\/a> would scour our overflowing shelves of cookbooks for ideas or techniques, but mainly he\u2019d work by feel and taste, stewing, saut\u00e9ing, melding this and that\u2014and never keeping the slightest note of the path that led him from start to finished dish. Somewhere there may be an index card in his blocky handwriting, detailing the ingredients for his trademark vinaigrette or summertime potato salad, but it\u2019s unlikely and, anyway, hidden forever in the dark recesses of an overfilled kitchen drawer. His experiments were many, and most were fruitful, but his was an uncalculating science<\/strong>: personal, sensual, ephemeral.<\/p>\n What I remember most clearly aren\u2019t his lamb shanks or inventions involving endive; it\u2019s Saturday breakfast<\/strong>. Burg, never a late sleeper, would rise early to prowl the local garage-sale scene\u2014occasionally even scrounging up a dubious treasure, such as an ancient, leaden Sharp \u201cHalf Pint\u201d microwave, which I promptly dubbed the \u201cHalf Ton\u201d\u2014but he came home in mid-morning to refuel, and to make breakfast for me. It was nothing fancy\u2014I grew up on Bisquick<\/a> pancakes and honestly, it\u2019s hard to find a better batter today\u2014but we did<\/em> have standards. From an early age, I was trained to be a <\/strong>100%-pure-maple syrup snob<\/strong><\/a>. As a native Canadian, Burg would have nothing else. He bought his chosen brand in an appealingly round-bellied plastic jug and stashed it in the door of the fridge, where it would beckon insistently until Saturday would roll around.<\/p>\n While I was very fond of the pancakes\u2014fluffy and perfectly circular, thanks to our trusty pancake pan<\/a>\u2014it is Burg\u2019s French toast that haunts me<\/strong>. He was a strong proponent of cooking French toast in oil rather than butter, and in fact, one of my most vivid memories of the last weeks of his life is a bedside conversation I had with him and my half-sister Lisa in the hospital, discussing the merits of oil versus butter in French-toast cookery<\/strong>. The hot oil, Burg claimed, seals the outside of the bread and turns it wondrously crisp and lightly puffed, while the inside melts to a near-custard. He was clearly onto something, because I\u2019ve never had a better version than his. I\u2019m not sure that I can equal it, but this morning, with the help of a loaf of challah I rescued from the freezer, I\u2019ve come close.<\/p>\n