On Monday morning, thanks to George Washington having been born on the 22nd, I was left not driving to work but staring into the refrigerator in search of breakfast. Or maybe it was brunch. A container of leftover oxtail stew needed to be eaten. And there was half of a day-old baguette on the counter.
There it was, before my very eyes. A savory french toast – two pieces of bread with a layer of oxtail stew between, soaked for an hour in eggs and milk – fried and topped with a poached egg. It was damn good, but I’m sure I’ll never have anything like it again.
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