Arme Ritter

Arme Ritter belongs to the German thrift table, the sweet main course, Süßspeise, that can be dinner when the bread box has yesterday's white loaf and the apple cellar still has fruit. It isn't tied to a feast. It is tied to the rule the old kitchens lived by: Weggeworfen wird nichts, nothing gets thrown away.

All over Germany you find it, but the names and fillings start quarrels. In the north and middle, I expect plain slices, cinnamon sugar, and Apfelkompott, apple compote. In Bavaria and down toward Austria, the cousins Pofesen or Pavesen often trap Powidl, plum butter, between two slices before frying. Im Norden anders, im Süden anders.

The method is the whole dish: stale bread drinks the Eiermilch, the egg-and-milk soak, until the centre is wet but still holds its edges, then it goes into a moderate pan. Fresh bread collapses to paste. A pan that's too hot browns the outside before the egg sets inside; too cool and the bread drinks fat. Wait for the butter to bubble and quiet down, then fry.

I cook the apples first because compote can wait and fried bread cannot. Nicht aus dem Glas. Four tart apples, a splash of water, a little lemon, and you've got the sharp side the buttery bread needs. Dust with cinnamon sugar after frying, not before, or the sugar burns in the pan and you learn the lesson the hard way.