Egg Custard Tart

There's a slice of custard tart in every proper bakery in this country, sitting behind glass with its pale wobble and its dusty cap of nutmeg, and it has been there in some form since 1399. Coronation banquets. Village high streets. The same tart, more or less, for six hundred years. That tells you something about how good it is.

Making one at home is a quieter pleasure than buying one. The pastry has to be properly cold and properly blind-baked. The custard has to be barely set, with that faint wobble at the centre that means you took it out at exactly the right moment. The nutmeg has to be grated fresh, from a whole nutmeg, because the pre-ground stuff tastes of dust. None of this is difficult. It just asks you to pay attention.

This is a tart for the afternoon. A slice with a cup of tea, the kettle just boiled, the rain doing whatever it's doing outside. Or after Sunday lunch, when nobody really wants pudding but everyone has room for a thin slice of this. It's not flashy. It doesn't need to be. There are few better feelings than putting a slice of proper custard tart in front of someone who hasn't had one in years.

I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I got it right: pastry crisp, custard set, nutmeg generous. That's the whole brief.