One finds oneself, yet again, filing copy on matters of a distinctly… frivolous nature. The estimable editors back in Hambry—or whatever they’re calling themselves this fiscal quarter—have seen fit to assign your correspondent to the pressing global issue of ‘Cornetto French Toast’ featured on an American morning programme. (One wonders, sometimes, if they truly understand the global geopolitical landscape, or if they simply enjoy my suffering.) WGN-TV, I believe it was called. Chicago. As if the city didn’t have enough on its plate, metaphorically speaking, without the addition of hyper-sweetened pastry for breakfast.
The segment in question, a typical 'Sunday Brunch' affair, trotted out a chef from some establishment named 'Dolce Arte'—a name, one might add, that rather sets up expectations this particular concoction then proceeds to dash against the rocks of practicality. The premise, for those who haven’t yet had their fill of culinary conceptual art masquerading as actual food, involves taking a cornetto—that being, for the uninitiated, an Italian croissant, already quite sufficient unto itself—slicing it open, drenching it in an egg batter, and then frying it.
One notes, with a certain weary resignation, the prevailing American predilection for taking something perfectly agreeable and then subjecting it to an entirely unnecessary—and often calorically punitive—enhancement. A croissant is a pastry. French toast is a dish. The notion of combining the two feels less like innovation and more like a desperate attempt to manufacture novelty where none is required. It's the sort of culinary 'fusion' that gives one pause, not for its genius, but for the sheer audacity of its existence. I've covered peace treaties less convoluted than this recipe.
The visual, as presented on the screen, was precisely what one might expect: a glistening, saccharine monument to the regrettable trend of turning breakfast into dessert. The commentators, naturally, effused. Such enthusiasm for something so self-evidently… cloying. One rather suspects this is not a meal designed for sustained civic engagement, but rather a swift descent into a sugar coma, followed perhaps by a profound sense of regret. It's a breakfast that feels less like a beginning to the day and more like an indictment of the modern palate. (And to think, I once reported on actual rationing.)
While some might dismiss this as mere television fluff, one cannot help but see it as a microcosm of a larger cultural phenomenon. A relentless pursuit of the next 'viral' food trend, rather than a thoughtful appreciation for honest ingredients and simple, well-executed cuisine. 'Dolce Arte,' indeed. More like 'Dolce Artifice.' One files this report with the distinct feeling that humanity, having conquered flight and split the atom, has now turned its considerable ingenuity to making the humble breakfast pastry fundamentally… more. And not, one rather suspects, in a good way. The world, it appears, continues its relentless march towards peak indulgence, leaving those of us who prefer a proper cup of tea and a sensible biscuit to wonder what fresh horrors the morning brings next. Perhaps fried crisps on toast? Don't give them ideas.
