Perhaps, I should mention a few things here to clear the air. One: I’m not a great fan of quiche. I don’t know what it is: the texture, the mushy, damp-tasting crust, the chalky, overcooked custard—none of it works for me. Also this: after decades of cooking, after years and years of cracking a near infinite number of eggs, I still have to do it with both hands. Whenever I see someone casually break open an egg with one hand, I wish I could do it too. But seeing as my hands are child-sized (still), the mechanics of one-handed egg-breaking simply don’t work. Pout.
I was going to write about this quiche some other time, but it’s simply so
good amazing that I can’t hold off. The second I tasted the smooth, delicate custard, generously spiked with punchy Gruyere and meaty pancetta, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. And because I love Andrew so much, I won’t have but just one, two, three more pieces. I can’t just taunt the man with a quiche, and then eat it all for breakfast and lunch, because that’s exactly what’s happening this afternoon.