Breakfast of Champions

Yesterday, I made myself the breakfast of champions.

A Spanish potato omelette.

Toast soaked in olive oil.

And a black coffee.

No sugar, obviously.

A freshly made tortilla de patatas is food for the gods.

Especially after a hard morning training session.

You train like a champion.

You eat like a champion.

Then you look at the washing-up and wonder whether it was all a terrible mistake.

But we’ll get to that.

How I Make My Tortilla

First, a little olive oil in the frying pan.

Enough to cover the bottom. That’s it.

Some people pour in a whole lake of the stuff.

Fair enough. Their kitchen, their rules.

I use less.

While the oil heats up,

I peel a potato.

Just one big potato if I’m cooking for myself.

Then I cut it into very thin slices and put them in the warm oil over a medium heat.

Hot, but not smoking.

We’re gently cooking potatoes here.

Not setting fire to the kitchen.

While they soften, I make my toast, pour on the olive oil and set the table.

Look at me.

Organised.

Responsible.

Practically a functioning adult.

Once the potatoes are tender,

I transfer them to an aluminium bowl and add the eggs.

Two eggs for one large potato.

And listen carefully:

I don’t beat the eggs first.

I mix them straight into the potatoes.

Beating adds air, and I prefer the texture without it.

You can do yours differently.

But this is my breakfast.

Once everything is mixed, it goes back into the frying pan over a medium-low heat.

After about four minutes, I flip it.

Then I turn off the heat and let the remaining heat cook the other side.

That works with my pan and hob; yours might need a little longer.

Make sure the egg is cooked through.

Then comes the good bit.

I sit down.

I eat slowly.

And I savour every single mouthful.

Fresh tortilla.

Olive-oil toast.

Black coffee.

Breakfast of champions.

And Then There’s the Washing-Up

Because apparently, making a tortilla requires using half the kitchen.

The frying pan.

The plate.

The fork.

The spatula.

The aluminium bowl.

And then you have to wipe the table because, somehow, there are breadcrumbs everywhere.

I made one slice of toast.

One.

How has it managed to spread across the entire table?

And that’s why I don’t make a tortilla every week.

Not because I don’t love it.

Not because I can’t cook it.

Because I can’t be bothered to wash all those dishes.

Food for the gods.

Washing-up for Miguel.

This is our lesson toda at Spanish Super Tutor