Bacon Butty. Red? Brown? Discuss.


It’s a debate that has been going on since the beginning of time, or at least since the invention of red sauce and brown sauce. The core of the campaign ( I think it would be fair to say), sits in the UK. I’m yet to discover another place that is so passionate about its bacon butty. Nor am I yet to discover another place that does them quite so well. And yet even with this accolade, as a nation, we are unable to agree on what actually creates and defines the perfect butty.

This isn’t just a battle of two sides.

The camps are many. Mass-produced white bread or rugged fresh artisan? Sliced bread or rolls? Butter or no butter? Toasted or not toasted? Additions ( egg / cheese etc) or no additions. Smoked bacon or unsmoked? Fried or grilled? Red sauce or brown sauce or no sauce? And then, of course, there are all the combinations in between.

So why am I bringing this age-old issue up? You may well ask.

Because. I. Changed. Camps!!

I have no clue what happened! Or why it happened! Little did I know, as I was preparing breakfast yesterday, that by the end of that first mouthful, life would never be the same again! A red girl for my entire 45 years, I took that bite and something was wrong. I checked the bread.The bacon. The butter. All was as it should be, and yet my taste buds were disagreeing. I looked on with horror as my youngest, The Colonel, grabbed the brown sauce from the cupboard and suggested I give it a whirl instead. I was still mentally scarred from previous occasions in years gone by when I’d picked up the wrong butty by accident, and copped a mouthful of the stuff. It had been vile, and yet there I was. Contemplating shifting my flag from one loyalty to another.

My spot was hit. 

It was with pure self-disapproval and reluctance that I remade the sandwich, replacing the ketchup with some of ‘that stuff’. But I can not tell a lie. I don’t know what had happened to my brain during the night; what witchcraft took place; what alien probing went on, but something did. And I’m a convert. I saw the light / became a traitor ( depending on the stance you are reading this from).

I’m a brown sauce girl!

Apologies to the red team. You had me for a long while, but now I must spread my love elsewhere. The perfect bacon butty is now officially made with the brown stuff. With fried bacon. Buttered bread. Which must be griddled in the remains of the bacon juices in the pan. And the bread has to be good ol’ fashioned bought, white, sliced – cotton wool bread as we call it in our house because that’s the closest thing to its taste, texture and nutritional value. And there must never be any other ‘additions’. Never. Ever.

The only other requirement, the piece de resistance, is a mug of Yorkshire tea that’s big enough to swim across.

Breakfast Heaven.

All other combinations and offerings of this great tradition are, or course, wrong.

Next week’s debate: Daddies or HP?




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