Bacon and Eggs: Gastronomy?

I was watching the BBC programme 'Top Gear' last night. James May, Jeremy Clarkson and that little rat Richard Hammond, were engaged in a contest to see who could get from Italy to central London fastest - Clarkson in a custom made, limited edition Buchatti, or James and rodent Richard in a single engine bi-plane. Clarkson won. It took him almost thirteen hours, but he beat the Wright brothers by just a few minutes. It was, I suppose, mildly entertaining but on the whole I don't understand the link between (small) men and cars. The moment some bore in the pub starts talking about horse breaks, gibbering about engine power or waffling about where the speed cameras are on the A14 I'm completely lost. There was a time when I used to fret about this. Now I just console myself that I might not be able to change a tire, but I can sharpen a knife in double quick time. Apparently, there's something of the 'animal' about driving ludicrously fast. The sense of danger releases endorphins and can give you a primeval rush, which is admittedly difficult to achieve in my Grandfather's (g.b.h.s) Renault Clio. Automatic. But I do get the same feeling when under real pressure in the kitchen. Your pace quickens, your concentration narrows in, and before you know it, three hours have passed in the blink of an eye.

Last week, having dragged myself out of bed stupidly early for a job interview in London (which I secured- hurrah!) and chewed the fat with the representative of an American based client, I was in need of feeding. There were two options - a very classy looking coffee shop with lovely glass doors, fancy looking cakes and lots of young, wealthy types; or alternatively the River Cafe nestled below a just underneath a gloriously grey, wet and drizzly Putney Bridge tube station - a fairly shabby looking greasy spoon that seemed to be staffed by age concern and frequented exclusively by council workmen. In the event, there was no contest. The decor was immense, like walking into a time warp. Perfectly placed bottles of condiments, coupled with those little glass salt and pepper shakers you used to see at primary school. Faded posters of 1980's Italian football sides drooped off the walls. I wanted to move in.

This was never going to be high-class food - the tables were plastic, the chairs wobbled and the menu board looked like it hadn't changed since 1975, but the locals were clearly knew what they wanted and whilst it wasn't rammed there was certainly a brisk trade going on. The workers were busy - driving their cars quickly. "Tea or Coffee?" barked the guy behind the counter at me - to which my order of "Tea no sugar" was relayed to an elderly woman who replied with an affirmative, in a bizarre half-cockney/half-Italian accent. "Two rounds, bacon, egg and fresh tomatoes" was then screamed into the kitchen - and five minutes later, it arrived, I read the paper, and I ate. Without realising it, it was gastronomy. Taste - texture - smell - colour - flavour.

Bacon = coarse, light colour, salty.
Egg = neutral white, smooth and a rich yolk exploding onto the plate.
Tomato = sweet, soft, juicy, bright red.

The elements of this most simple of platters both complimented and contradicted one another all at once. Genius. I was having a moment, and all for £2.50. In these times of limited credit and economic nervousness people will surely revert to basic feeding habits. Real people, eating within their means. Granted, enough to give a cardiologist a heart attack (which would be hilarious) but really, who cares? It's been a timely reminder of how much I enjoy food and the very basic pleasure it can give me.