Years ago, I came across a recipe that told me to “line a tin with breadcrumbs”. Writing this now, it seems absolutely blindingly obvious what this means: rub the tin with some sort of fat – butter, lard, oil – and then dust with fine crumbs, which cling obediently and stop the contents from sticking. It was just one word away from lining a tin with flour – a recipe instruction as familiar as “add salt” or “remove from the oven”.
At the time though, in a world of Delia detail, I was baffled by this sketch of a recipe. How could crumbs, all loose and craggy, line anything – especially when there was no mention of fat. Neither was there a tin size. And what sort of crumbs? Soft or dry ones, and how many? Like repeating a word until it feels like another language, the more I looked, the more confusing those five words seemed. They might as well have been telling me to strangle, pluck and de-bone a chicken. I remember feeling cross, closing the book and making a different cake.
Twenty years on, I am much less of a pedant when it comes to recipes and pretty nifty at lining tins with breadcrumbs, and with breadcrumbs in general, thanks to the world of Sicilian food that has been opened up to me by Inspector Montalbano and my Sicilian family. I don’t think it is an overstatement to say that Sicilians use breadcrumbs all the time, a habit born out of resourcefulness – the idea you never, ever throw away bread. It is now part of the fabric of their cooking.
It isn’t just lining tins – breadcrumbs are ubiquitous – as a stuffing or for padding out, as coating, for fringes and toppings, in a bowl to be sprinkled over food like “poor man’s parmesan”, gathering at the rubber seal of the fridge door. I was initially suspicious of all these crumbs – especially the notion of all this eking out, which felt like cheating somehow. I am now delighted to have picked up the habit.
I am particularly keen on breadcrumbs with pasta – especially if they have been nudged around a hot pan with anchovies melted in olive oil or butter, or surrounding chicken, which Italians call pollo impanato. Our family crunchy chicken is my son’s favourite dish – possibly mine too, sending me back to thoughts of childhood, though I never remember eating this as a child. What is it about chicken in crumbs that is so simply appealing, so endearing and nostalgic?
In Italy, most people use very fine crumbs for chicken, and my mother-in-law is no exception. She triple dips thinly sliced breast – first in seasoned flour, then beaten egg and a final dredge in fine breadcrumbs – before frying them in a little olive oil. Her crumbs really are fine and dry, the consistency of coarse polenta and golden brown, the most common sort in Sicily. To make these crumbs at home you must dry out the bread in the sun or oven, and then pulse it in a food processor.
I follow my mother-in-law’s recipe, but I also make a chunkier version with fat pieces of breast covered with fresh breadcrumbs – the craggy sort you make by reducing bread (sourdough or white sliced) to a soft rubble, either with your fingertips or in a food processor. These craggy crumbs have an even craggier texture when fried, the ends crisping to points that grate the inside of your mouth. Whatever crumbs you use, you must triple dip. Kids often love doing this – I am convinced small, nimble fingers do a better job of coating, and they are more inclined to eat something if they have had a hand in making it.
I fry in a mix of oil and butter. Get the pan moderately hot: the pieces should sizzle gently rather than hiss like a villain as you lay them in the pan, and pack them quite closely as they shrink while cooking. Go steady: you need to balance the timing of the golden crust with cooking through. Breadcrumbed chicken is best served piping hot – although the last one eaten the next day, cold from the fridge, is rather good too.
In the hope this column feels more like an ongoing soap opera with familiar characters than like disconnected episodes, I suggest serving the chicken with the griddled aubergine from a few weeks ago – leave the slices overnight in a deep pool of olive oil with diced chilli and slivers of garlic – and a bowl of ever-accommodating, rich red and silky peperonata.
Chicken in breadcrumbs
Serves 4
4 medium-sized chicken breasts
Plain flour
2 eggs, beaten
100g seasoned breadcrumbs (fine and dry, or craggy and fresh)
Butter and olive oil, for frying
1 Open up the chicken breasts, then, using a sharp knife or scissors, cut them into thick strips the size of fat thumbs. Dip the chicken in flour, then the egg, then dredge in the crumbs.
2 Warm a nut of butter and about 2 tbsp olive oil in a large frying pan over a medium-low heat. Once the butter is foaming gently, lay the chicken in the pan. Fry for a good few minutes until a golden crust has formed on one side, then turn and cook the other side. I sometimes add a bit more butter to the pan if it looks dry. Serve hot, with peperonata, marinated aubergines and bread rolls.
- Rachel Roddy’s new book, Two Kitchens: Family Recipes from Sicily and Rome, is published by Headline Home
