About a year ago, I went to San Francisco with my mother and sister for a family vacation. There, we had a ball being a big ole tourists. We never did get a good look at the Golden Gate Bridge, which I thought was pretty "alt". But other than that we acted as the basic sightseers: we traipsed through Golden Gate Park and its many museums, Fisherman's Wharf, Alcatraz, Muir Woods, Lombard Street. The list goes on.
Yet, after I got back to the East Coast and post-vacation nostalgia hit me like a ton of bricks, it was not these adventures that were the focus of my wistful reminiscing. Instead, I thought of one thing: artisanal toast.
Artisanal toast, or "toast" for short, looks a little something like this:
For the most part, we all know it. And we love it too.
Although toast has been a foodie fad for quite sometime now, the thirst for it is still indomitable. Those gargantuan slices of gourmet breads (ie. brioche) with their toppings of jam, nut butters, and (of course) avocado are essentially everywhere: restaurant menus, blogs, cookbooks (the above picture is a photo take from one by Jamie Oliver), all forms of social media, etc., etc. On Instagram, I, myself follow an account that is dedicated solely to avocado toast (and has 21,500 followers to boot).
I, however, was slow to jump on the bandwagon. I would be lying if I said I was never tempted to go out and eat some toast. There is absolutely nothing un-delicious or un-tempting about it, and peer pressure is a legitimate thing. But it took me a while to understand the buzz.
The word "toast," first of all, brought to mind nothing of luxury. On the contrary, it reminded me of those elementary/middle school sick days, when I would stay home from school, unable to stomach anything else except for nearly burnt and under-buttered slices of whole wheat bread. Of course, I knew that "artisanal" toast (allegedly) went beyond this convention, with its high quality breads and spreads. Still, though, it didn't seem to warrant all the photo ops, all the books, and cooking classes (yes, cooking classes), and $10 plus expenditures.
Why would I go to such lengths for my 7-year-old brother's signature dish?
It wasn't until my first morning in San Francisco that I finally succumbed to the craze. Mother, Sister, and I had jointly decided to grab breakfast at Mazarine Coffee, one of the city's many bougie designer cafés, and it had a whole menu of artisanal toasts. I decided I would order a piece by virtue of the fact that we were in the place where toast originated. Like a tried and true rapper, "authenticity" is among my main preoccupations, after all.
So I ordered avocado toast. And really, it was very, very, very good.
Granted, Mazarine's take on the classic is by no means average. The standard avo toast topping is typically a spread of mashed avocado, seasoned with lemon, salt, and pepper and garnished with some kind of seed. The following photo, which I snapped a few months after Mazarine at The Butcher's Daughter in NYC, is a good example of this approach:
Mazarine, however, turned their avo toast up to 11; it was pretty as a picture. The bread (a warm, thick slice of pain de mie) served as the foundation for layers of fresh ingredients, like chévre, radishes, and, of course, avocado. A sprinkling of chives and pepper served as the perfect garnish.
Like most artisanal toasts, there was nothing truly complex about it. Sure, its appearance was obviously well-considered (and so good for my Instagram presence), and its list of ingredients boasted a few *French* names. But at the end of the day, it was likely made in the same way I make the simplest of sandwiches, say a PB & J. Toppings were placed on bread, and that was all.
But as I took bite after bite (and wholeheartedly enjoyed each and every one), I realized that this simplicity is precisely where toast finds its power.
Life is so dang complicated, nowadays. There is so much white noise, so much cause for distraction, so much hoopla with which to keep up. Much food has followed suit. Chefs conceive dishes with the most of unconventional combinations. Diners seek simple joys, like cheese and bread, in the most roundabout of ways, often for the sake of trendiness rather than necessity. Ice cream is black. (Though, I will admit, it actually sounds delicious).
Toast, however, laughs in the face of this culture. Sure, its somewhat lofty price puts it in line with many other such food fads, but its appeal is entirely idiosyncratic. Its preparation is strictly no-fuss. Its ingredients are basic, yet thoughtfully considered. Toast speaks for itself, without fanfare, and it is this understated, delicious, refreshing boldness that we so appreciate.
