A good bacon sandwich is a rare thing. In fact, borderline extinct: they are usually found only in my kitchen. White sourdough sandwich loaf, lightly toasted, a 2:1 ratio of back to streaky rashers, smoked, crisp, generous amount of HP sauce, one side of the bread fried in the bacon fat.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling really daring, I'll swap the bread for one of the Natural Bread Company's white rolls. Sometimes.
So it's not that I don't like going out for breakfast; I just have rather high standards. The best breakfasts I've had out tend to avoid bacon sandwich territory: the halloumi and pancakes at Oxfork would be a highlight, along with the kedgeree at St Giles' Cafe. But then I got taken to the Milkshed, took a bite of my partner's bacon sandwich, and realised we might be on to something. Streaky, thick-cut, but still crispy, this was some prime bacon. I'd ordered scrambled eggs and smoked salmon that day, but swiftly scheduled in a return visit.
When we did return, it was at an hour more appropriate for brunch than breakfast, so I went for the club sandwich. This is a work of absolute beauty, the Platonic ideal of a club sandwich. All other club sandwiches are but pale imitations of this model. There was the bacon, of course, crunchy and salty and smoky, wiping its slightly greasy feet all over the toasted sourdough. Then there were insanely juicy hunks of chicken breast. These had been chargrilled, I suspect in close proximity to the bacon, so were blackened on the outside and almost explosively moist within. There were slices of nutty gruyere, just softening into strings in the warmth of the sandwich, rocket leaves mildly wilting, and, oh my god, a "basil mayo". Two so simple words, such a complex item. It was sharp with the waft of garlic, peppery with basil, and rich with eggs and oil. Two halves of slow-roasted tomato sat on the side, perfect for a tomato-hater like me; I passed them to my partner who admired their concentrated taste but was a little puzzled that they were served cold, with a hot sandwich.
He had a plateful of Eggs Benedict to get through, though, so had more important things to worry about. The eggs were perfectly poached, perched atop what I suspect were sourdough muffins: among the best we'd ever tasted. There was almost too much of the exceedingly rich, obviously homemade hollandaise, and more of that fabulous crispy bacon on top.
We accompanied our meal with coffees, made with locally roasted beans and easily the cutest milk jugs ever, shaped like miniature glass milk urns, just like their logo. They also do a fabulous range of ice creams, which I've promised myself I'll try once it has finally stopped raining, and have an extremely dangerous little deli in a couple of cupboards at the back of the airy barn in which the restaurant lives. Someone, please keep me away from this place: it's far too good for me.
