A good quiche is something I greatly admire. Hot or cold, it doesn’t matter to me. I adore a Lorraine of a summer’s day, out in the garden, a glass of Riesling by my side, Lana Del Rey zipping into my ears by way of a portable speaker from Argos. The sound quality is surprisingly crisp. So is the Riesling.
Equally, in colder climes, I enjoy a warm Comté-laden number, soft and generous, a little like a circular omelette in a crumbly but satisfying house. The best I’ve had was at Chez Bruce in Wandsworth. It was called a tart, but I’d rather be on one of Elon’s rockets than deliberate as to what constitutes either or.
