For a “letting down the hair” meal, good in the city but maybe better by the fire in a mountain cabin.
Matter of fact, it would have been just right the evening of my U.S. Army career when a group of us headquarters company nerds, pressed momentarily into driving elephantine trucks through the French countryside on some comic opera maneuvers, ended up taking dinner at the boondocks social club of a Polish auxiliary corps, displaced persons, I believe, serving as night watchmen as a first step on their road to American citizenship.
Saarland beer flowed, a Beethoven quartet came over the radio, and here we were, Americans in romantic-looking field jackets out of Hemingway breaking bread among Poles smack in the middle of Touraine. Unfortunately I’ve forgotten what we ate, but I do know this was the first, and last, time in my life I felt I was inhabiting a remote paragraph in some exotic novel of war and peace.
Next day we were off again, lumbering through the garden of France, the naughtier drivers among us perversely allowing their two-and-a-half-tonners to backfire, scaring the livestock out of their Courbet calm.
A month later we were on the road again, but with all romanticism withheld: this time we slaves in drab fatigues had to camp like strewn baggage in our trucks for several days near the tiniest of Sologne hamlets, a place named Ennordes, I think, an identification as mournful as that attached to Mr. Milne’s ever-drooping Eeyore; and there was nothing to eat but C rations (hence my aversion to tinned pineapple to this day) along with the French bread, very good actually, which the more imaginative of us found by knocking on the unmarked village door out of which local babushkas, living in the Middle Ages not many kilometers east of Route Nationale Numero 20, were exiting with warm loaves under their arms.
In a large skillet fry thinly sliced red potatoes in bacon fat, turning them often, and don’t be afraid to add more fat if it’s needed.
In another pan fry some link sausages without added fat and drain on paper towels. And a few minutes before supper time fry 1 or 2 eggs per serving in a non-stick pan without fat.
Serve the potatoes topped with egg or eggs and bordered by the links, dare one say it, “links und rechts.” And pass a pot of mustard.
OR: If you happen to have doggy-bagged some smoked ham from a first-class Hunan restaurant, substitute this lively item for the links, depositing pieces of ham over your eggs.