Devilled Kidneys on Toast

There's a smell that comes off the pan when butter meets cayenne and mustard. Something fierce and warm that fills the kitchen in about ten seconds and makes everyone in the house ask what you're making. That's the devil. It's supposed to get your attention.

Devilled kidneys belong to a different era. The Edwardian breakfast table, kedgeree and kippers and a sideboard groaning under silver. But the dish itself is simple, fast, and honest: lamb's kidneys cooked quickly in a hot pan, dressed in a sauce that bites. It deserves better than the history books. It deserves a cold Wednesday evening, a glass of something red, and someone you want to feed.

The only thing you need is a little nerve. Kidneys want heat and speed. Overcook them and they turn to rubber, the sort of experience that puts people off offal for life. But catch them right, still pink in the centre with that dark, mustardy sauce clinging to each piece, and they are one of the more quietly splendid things you can put on a piece of toast. We're only making dinner, but dinner like this is worth paying attention to.

I made these last November on a cold evening when the kitchen windows were steamed up and the bread was already in the toaster. Wrote it down in the notebook: kidneys, mustard, Wednesday, good. That covers it.