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.
The point is that quiche is wondrous when pared back and expertly prepared. It’s about gentle pastry encasing a classic, easy mix of eggs, cheese and cream, set and ready to be sliced. Alongside a salad — in this instance, lamb’s lettuce, frisée, and endive for me, please — dressed sparingly in a snappy vinaigrette, it is something quite affirming.
But a mouthful of traditional quiche must never come from a supermarket, where it becomes a claggy mess of anaemic density (see also cheesecake). It must be well whisked, not bitty. It should be silky and smooth, a river upon which to sail down, and when it is, its existence is roundly justified. When it isn’t, it is nothing but dangerous.
Problems arise when quiche is cheap and ill-considered. When it doesn’t flow. Not once have I ever tasted a satisfying supermarket quiche.
Consider any big-time grocer. Corners are cut and erroneous and unwelcome elements arrive. Let us take a moment to imagine a broccoli and salmon quiche being purchased. Why would anybody enjoy day-old fish among the eggs? Broccoli, meanwhile, sags to a terrifying degree when harboured inside a cardboard box. The circle of plastic, meant as a happy window through which the quiche may be presented, is a sheet dripping with ageing moisture, quietly torturing what was once a happy blend of dairy. It is as picnic ruining as a troupe of cider-drunk wasps.
When vegetables are added to quiche, things are more likely to get aesthetically cacophonous. The eggs have less chance to fold and set, and the quiche can’t help but appear a little scrambled. And so if the quiche is even 24 hours beyond fresh, there is none of that feted silky texture I crave. Suddenly, tomatoes taste metallic, so do peppers (which are pretty much always overcooked to boot); leeks and such like are stringy.
Quiche is an affordable and accessible dish — but it is also one that absolutely requires maximum effort. It’s probably mostly down to the eggs — an ingredient that needs to be infallible. A fried egg is ruined if the top is snotty. Scrambled? Terrible if even a minute overcooked. Every day, poached eggs cause brunch attending TikTokers all sorts of very serious issues. Quiche is eggs and so the rule applies. Here is a dish worth making at home (oh, I don’t know, try a coronation-themed version perhaps) or at least one best bought from a proper bakery.
So, yes, I take issue with supermarket quiche, where the composition is unkept and which has been shelved for too long. The result is only ever wet and unsettling. A far cry from a resourceful, buttery tart hoping for a little salad and a glass or two of wine.
