Toast: The Story of a Boy's Hunger - Jam Tarts

Toast: The Story of a Boy’s Hunger

By Nigel Slater

247 pages, Fourth Estate, 2003

If there is one thing Nigel Slater’s memoir makes clear from the beginning, it is that we do not necessarily love the foods of our childhood because they tasted good objectively, or were well prepared. Case in point: his mother, described as “not much of a cook,” served him burnt toast every morning. Despite that, Slater writes:

“It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you. People’s failings, even major ones […], fall into insignificance as your teeth break through the rough, toasted crust and sink into the doughy cushion of white bread underneath. Once the warm, salty butter has reached your tongue, you are smitten. Putty in their hands.”

This opening page sets the tone for the remainder of this beautiful memoir. Slater, a British food writer and journalist, recounts his childhood in 1960s England through the prism of food. The book is organized into vignettes, most of which revolve around a specific item of food, from tinned ham to prawn cocktail. But food, however central it is to the book, also works as both a backdrop to Slater’s mostly unhappy childhood and as a path into the most intimate nooks of his memories.

I remember reading, here and there, that some of the cultural references might put off non-British readers, particularly the names of specific sweets and ready-made staples. Most of us have had Cadbury chocolate in some form or another, but I certainly did not know what a Walnut Whip, an Artic Roll, or a Sherbet Fountain was. In fact, I’m still not entirely sure. But ultimately, what does it matter? I also did not know that grilled grapefruit was considered fancy, nor did I realize just how “foreign” spaghetti Bolognese could be to a middle-class English family in the 1960s, but I was nonetheless delighted to read all about it.

But beyond the cultural trivia, not knowing what things like Fairy Drops are is not all that important here, because what matters is not what they taste like, but what they represent, the memories associated to them. We all have a catalogue of food items like this, food that we know wasn’t particularly good, but that we remember fondly because they are familiar, because they return us to a specific context (cue Proust reference).

One such food for me is Milky Way Dark. I remember my mother leaving me in our building lobby with the doorman (the nice one, with a moustache) while she went out for an errand. He stepped out to the newspaper shop next door and returned with a chocolate candy bar which he gave to me. I remember the visual contrast of the white nougat filling against the dark chocolate coating, the excruciating sweetness of the whole thing, the chewiness that actually hurt my jaw. It was glorious. I also remember that my mother returned before I could eat the entire thing, and that the candy bar (along with all subsequent candy bars the doorman gave me thereafter) was stored away in the fridge. I was allowed one small square per day, which was more than enough.

I haven’t had a Milky Way Dark in over a decade, possibly two. I know it is filled with too much sugar, saturated fat, and a host of other ingredients anyone is better off without. But I would enjoy one today for reasons beyond its objective gustatory properties, because its sickly sweetness reminds me of moments of happiness. I’m not even sure those chocolate bars tasted that good to me even back then, but they were a treat, something given to me as a kindness and a rarity, and so I came to love their cloyingness. That is why I understand perfectly when Slater writes that he liked Cadbury’s Flakes “because no matter how fresh they were, I always thought they tasted ever so slightly stale.” Staleness is not usually a good thing in a food; yet, like cloyingness, it can become a positive trait, when it is expected and associated with something. (The reverse is also true.)

I have a similar relationship with bread in this regard. Like many, I grew up with white, soft supermarket sandwich bread. And I loved it. When we visited my grandmother in Belgium, where they bought moderately crusty loaves from the village baker, I would sneakily try to cut off the crust, which she would then divide into bite-size pieces, individually slather them with jam, and make me choke down anyway. Those were miserable moments. Since then, I have learnt to appreciate artisan loaves with caramelized crusts that hurt your gums when you chew them. And yet… Every now and then, I would not turn down a ham sandwich made with tasteless, mushy white bread that disintegrates in your mouth and sticks to your palate. With bland mayonnaise from a jar.

It is thanks to this relation between food and memory that we are able to comfortably settle into Slater’s world – despite the fact that it is often not all that comfortable. Slater’s mother, whom he adored despite her failings as a cook (adding further proof that you can be fond of bad food when it comes from someone you love), passed away from asthma when he nine, leaving him alone with his emotionally distant father. The latter eventually remarried with their cleaning lady, Joan Potter (not her real name), whom Slater describes as a coarse, vulgar, often mean-spirited gold-digger – albeit one heck of a cook. There has been some controversy regarding Slater’s portrayal of his stepmother, particularly when a film based on the memoir was released in 2011: the real Mrs Potter’s family has protested that she was unfairly and untruthfully represented. That is, of course, not for the likes of me to know. But Slater’s version of his new family is rarely anything but unpleasant and miserable. To be fair, he never claims that his portrayal is objective: we only get his side of the story because he is the one telling it.

One might argue that food is what makes this memoir bearable, infuses it with luminosity. No matter how nasty things get, young Nigel often finds pockets of comfort in food. This brings to my mind a completely unrelated book, a fantasy book that is not at all a food book, and yet features some of the best food scenes I read last year: Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane. Where Slater’s book explores the angst of childhood very realistically, Gaiman populates his narrator’s childhood with terrifying monsters and nurturing goddesses. Yet it is arguably food that provides the greatest solace in the story. The seven-year-old narrator finds himself repeatedly taken in by his neighbours, a cross-generational trio of mystical women, who feed him delicious meals, from porridge with honeycomb and lemon pancakes to roast beef and caramelized carrots. During most of these meals, danger continues to lurk outside, but the kitchen provides both warmth and safety. The book features some incredibly terrifying scenes, alongside these truly soothing ones.

What both Toast and The Ocean at the End of the Lane illustrate is the child’s capacity to bracket unpleasantness and find solace, even joy, in the present, particularly when the present involves food. Adults are of course not insensitive to the comforts of a good meal, but there is a flexibility combined with resiliency in children (at least, how they are represented in these books) that just enables them to take full advantage of the respite offered by food. Of course, I may be biased in my interpretation, as I continue to this day to view mealtimes as cherished moments of relaxation. No matter how frugal lunch can be, often a sandwich, I always savour it, using it as an opportunity to unwind and recharge.

And this is ultimately what Toast offers as well. It is not a happy memoir, as it reminds us of how tender and fragile the world of childhood can be, a world where the most apparently stable happiness can be shattered in an instant. For Nigel Slater, the death of his mother is undoubtedly the most painful of such breaks, but it is constantly repeated on a smaller scale, forever alternating between well-being and loss. But despite this tension and the overall unhappiness of the narrative, there are nuggets of beauty and warmth that we find ourselves wanting to keep returning to.

Of course, food can be a source of discomfort too, particularly when Joan pettily tries to stifle Nigel’s budding culinary talents, fearing that he might overshadow her. Yet even in these painful moments, the food manages to shine through:

“Joan’s lemon meringue pie was one of the most glorious things I had ever put in my mouth: warm, painfully sharp lemon filling, the most airy pastry imaginable (she used cold lard in place of some of the butter) and a billowing hat of thick, teeth-judderingly sweet meringue.”

The vignette ends on a sad note, as Joan never allows Nigel to try making the pie himself. This is food as source of both desire and jealousy, of both pleasure and frustration. But more than anything, food as an intrinsic part of our lives.

Circumstances prevented me from making lemon meringue pie as I had originally planned, so I made jam tarts instead, which are also featured in a vignette. They are very easy to make: a batch of pastry crust, a jar of jam, and you’re set. For this version, I used clementine jam with a few sprigs of rosemary, a combination I picked up from my father-in-law. I like to do as Slater himself suggests and replace some of the butter in the crust with lard or schmaltz to add some flakiness, but I stuck with all butter here as I intended to share this batch with vegetarians.

Jam Tarts

Yields fourteen 5 cm (2 inch) tartlets

420 g (3 cups) all-purpose flour

Pinch of salt

2 tbsp sugar

100 g (1 cup) butter, cut into pieces

60 ml (1/4 cup) cold water

500 ml (2 cups) clementine jam, or marmalade

2 tbsp fresh rosemary, chopped

In a food processor, combine the flour, salt and sugar. Add the butter and pulse until it is reduced to pea-sized pieces. Gradually add the water, still pulsing, until the dough comes together (necessary quantity of water will vary). Transfer the dough onto a floured work surface and knead a few times until smooth. If possible, wrap it plastic and let it rest in the fridge for an hour or more.

In a bowl, combine the jam and rosemary. Preheat the oven to 190ºC (375ºF).

Roll out your dough on a floured surface to around 5 mm (1/8 inch) thickness. Cut out circles to fit your tartlet moulds and press the dough into the moulds. Divide the jam among the tart shells, about one heaped tablespoon per tart (do not overfill the shells, as the jam will rise).

Divide the moulds across two baking sheets and bake for around 40 minutes, or until the edges of the crusts turn a light golden brown. Let cool completely before unmolding and serving.