Fruits Of Paradise

Treated to little more than a dash of seasoning and olive oil, the Mediterranean flavours of ripe and juicy tomatoes take some beating

- Simon Hopkinson

SOME years ago, I spent blissful times with good chums in their house in the Mani in the Peloponnese, way up in the mountains in a tiny Greek village with houses built of ancient stone. I would, nigh on daily, buy tomatoes from the local town. They were utterly irresistible for their colour, fragrance, minimal cost and—almost above all—their astonishing weight. I recall one fine specimen weighing in at just under 1kg (2lb) and as for the juice within—oh, my word!

September was always my favourite time to be in Greece. By then, these magnificent tomatoes had been so relentlessly sun-blessed for so long that, if they could possibly have blushed for their beauty, they would have done so.

Daily, in my treasured annexe kitchen, I would cut one of these magnificent specimens in half for breakfast. I would generously fill a small, thin and cheap frying pan with local olive oil and warm it, before immersing the two seasoned halves and stewing them over a low heat for about five minutes, before turning them over to reveal a minimum of burnishing. Another five minutes and I lifted them out onto a plate, leaving the oily juices behind.

Next, I broke two tiny eggs (from the butcher and no bigger than those of a pullet) into the pan and then basted them until the yolks had become opaque, with that strange colour that’s almost pinky-blue; if one knows truly fresh eggs with deeply orange yolks, this will be a familiar hue.

Finally, I slipped the eggs upon the tomatoes and devoured them, almost with a shout of pleasure, from my little table on the balcony. Another day in paradise had begun.

Tomato puff-pastry tarts