When you go to a restaurant and order breakfast you usually only receive three or four measly little strips bookended by far too much toast and a greasy mound of semiraw hash browns. Even ordering an additional side of bacon only makes six or eight strips, total. And these are strips the sizee of Band-Aids, carbonized into chalky blackened mouthfuls of bacon-flavored charcoal briquette! So not only do you not get enough bacon in restaurants, you generally don't feel satisfied by the bacon you're having. The whole thing's disappointing. You might as well order the fruit and yogurt plate. It's not like you're going to feel good about your breakfast anyway.
I was sick of never getting enough quality bacon. So one day, I decided to see how much bacon would be enough. I knew it was definitely more than four strips, and almost certainly more than eight. I knew the bacon would have to be good. I was pretty sure enough bacon would be a lot.
The thing was, I had the day off. Not much to do. I had a big unopened package of bacon in the refrigerator and a cast-iron skillet on my range-top, scrubbed out and seasoned with oil. It seemed like if I was ever going to find out how much bacon was enough, the only way to get at that knowledge would be to simply start frying strips of pork in my pan. To eat. And then to stop, once the critical bacon quotient--the BQ--had been achieved. It would be elegant, a simple Scientific Method two-step. I considered taking notes, then decided the note-taking would interfere with my experience on the project. I needed to be able to pay attention. The BQ could be a subtle point, easily missed. I couldn't afford to take that chance.
I started out with a cold pan on my stove-top. I laid five strips of bacon across the bottom of the pan, pushing them together with a fork, neat and flat, into broad pink-and-white pork ribbons. They were slightly too long for the pan, and their edges curled up on each side. I was mildly annoyed by the crimped edges--it didn't look precise--but I used my fork to press the too-long edges against the sides of the skillet, and they adhered with their own fat quite nicely. It would have to do.
I turned the burner on to medium-high. Actually, just past medium. There's a certain bacon-friendly setting my hand knows better than my brain, because if I just kind of flick the knob in a certain way it goes to Perfect Bacon Temperature and my bacon cooks into delicious salty crusty strips of goodness. But if I over-think the temperature my pan ends up too hot or too cool. So with a twist of the wrist, loose and casual, in about three minutes the bacon started to creak as the brine in which it had been packed burned off against the hot cast iron.
About a minute after that I smelled it. The bacon smell. That rich, caramelized scent of sizzling salt-pork belly. That unfair smell. The one that tells you that a double-order--bacon with your starch-heavy meal, plus another side of bacon--isn't enough. The one that vegetarians shamefully make allowances for, asking for bacon in restaurants while maintaining pristinely meat-free homes.
Tomorrow: Part II
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