MIKEY BELL

I’ve been writing about food on this website for over a decade, and apparently, have avoided writing a recipe for thin, crêpe-style pancakes the whole time.

Why? Well, It’s not because I don’t know how to make them or that I don’t like them, I promise. There is an actual reason.

Let’s examine that, shall we?

JuSt GeT to ThE ReCIpE.

I will, but I need to vent first. Scroll if you don’t want the bumf and just want to get to the pancakes.

For those that have stayed, I love you.

Anyway, truth be told, this recipe has existed for as long as I’ve been cooking.

The exact measurements have been scrawled in my little kitchen notebook for over a decade, and once a year, usually on Pancake Day only, I pull it out. I mix up the batter, let it rest, and get to flippin’.

I have to say… and I know it’s boasty… but it’s a perfect recipe.

As someone who much prefers the thicker, American-style stack, I am very particular about how I like my thinner pancakes, and this recipe makes the thinnest, most delicate pancakes ever. They are soft and flexible, but it’s that extra egg yolk that takes something fairly bland and pale and nudges it into subtle richness and silkiness. I douse them in nothing but lemon juice and a little more sugar, and that’s it. I have perfected this recipe over time, and cannot perfect it further, yet, having said that, I’ve never committed to taking this recipe out of the notebook and putting it on this website.

Now, I share recipes for lots of reasons.

First, I love the sound of my own voice. There’s that, first and foremost, and is usually my justification for the majority of what I write.

But second, and I guess more relevantly, I love talking about skills, techniques and ingredients because writing about my kitchen and the cooking process I have developed for myself within it, feels like the most satisfying way of externalising who I am.

Some people choose fashion or painting or songwriting. I choose how I boil pasta or how I roast a chicken or how I bake a cake or how I like to stack a burger or indeed, how I like my pancakes.

My kitchen thoughts, priorities, and preferences all feel like they contain much bigger messages at their core, and in sharing them, I’m actually referencing a much bigger picture about who I and, and knowing I can throw that out into the universe, regardless of who is there to catch it, feels like a release of magic to me.

However, I do have to keep in mind, that there are some people, who want to catch it, that’s why my writing must contain multitudes.

I’ve learned it can be an exploration of self, just as much as it can be helpful information for someone who wants to learn. Within food writing, I have found a measurable goal in that I know you want to know about food (hence why you’re here, reading this) and ultimately I want to talk to you about food and offer the teachings of my experience, and in that alchemy something satisfying happens. There’s a creative trade. Whether you came here for my sentimental babbling or the bare bones lesson of cooking, I will never know, but I’d like to think everyone gets something.

However, writing about this pancake felt strange, because it was neither.

The story or message behind it is far too aligned and similar to the many thousands of memories I know exist that it didn’t feel like a unique enough experience to explore, write and share, and the recipe itself, if I’m honest, is not wildly dissimilar from anything you’ve already seen online. So it didn’t feel like I was teaching anyone anything or sharing anything interesting. As a result, I didn’t bother to attempt to write it. I just kept it in my notebook.

But then I had to remind myself, that sometimes, the similarities of our shared experiences, and the fact we’re not learning anything extraordinary, is my favourite thing about this little space that I have built for us.

I’m sure we all have memories of flipping pancakes on a wet, and cold February morning. I know somewhere there is a photograph of me holding a frying pan in my little Pokemon pajamas, mid-flip. I don’t know where the photo is, but I know it exists, and I know countless others have the exact same photo of themselves, likely from the 90s, stood in their own family kitchen and the only difference between your picture and mine is likely the brand of pajamas and what fruit or barley stencils your mother chose for the kitchen wall.

I thought about all of us looking at our own version of that photograph, and I decided to write this recipe.

This website has never, ever been about trying to showcase anything unique or to change the world of cooking or set it alight or even to set myself apart. I don’t have a niche. It has always been about discovery and curiosity and connection and development and self-reflection and rambling uncontrollably about the things I love and excite me, and understanding how food and recipes reflect who I am, and often, who I once was. So much of who I am today is shaped by who I was, and that’s what I love about cooking and sharing my writing about it, it’s never been about novelty, and always been about what connects me to the world, to myself, and to you.

So in that sense, this pancake recipe kind of holds the values this website orbits around?

So I’m not here to teach you anything revolutionary about pancakes. I’m not even going to dig into my own history and tell an epic tale of my own Pancakes Days (there are none, even if you wanted one). All I’m going to do is share this really, very good and really, very reliable recipe, and ask you to make them to remind yourself of your own memories. 

I’ll ask you to remember your childhood. Remember standing in your kitchen, the stencils on the wall (if your mother had that phase, like mine did). Remember the batter, the first misshapen pancake that was shit and eaten anyway, the ceremonial flip, the cold, sharp lemon juice hitting the warmth of the pancake, the grittiness of half-dissolved sugar in your teeth, the tiny victories and disasters that make a memory sticky.

And if those memories don’t or have never existed for you, then here’s your chance. Make the below recipe, flip, fold, squeeze, sprinkle and make your own little memories and traditions now. 

Some thoughts on ingredients and tweaks?

I have none beyond what I’ve laid out below. I don’t have ingredient alternatives or an array serving suggestions, like I usually do.

The below is perfect to and for me, and I encourage you to use it as a base for your own thoughts and preferences.

Makes 8 (so serves 2, really)

125g plain flour

Pinch of salt 

Pinch of sugar

1 large egg

1 egg yolk

300ml full-fat milk

Flavourless oil (for frying)

Lemon wedge – to serve

More sugar – to serve

1. In a bowl, combine the flour, salt, sugar and then make a well in the middle.
2. To this well, add the egg and egg yolk, and then whisk together, gradually adding the milk as you go to create a batter that is smooth, free of lumps, and the same consistency as single cream
3. Rest this batter at room temperature for a minimum of 15 minutes so that the flour has time to fully absorb the liquids so you have a proper tender pancake.
4. Now on a medium heat, coat a frying pan (preferably non-stick) with a little oil until hot but not piping hot.
5. Pour in just enough batter to coat the base of the pan thinly, swirling the pan with your hand gently to spread evenly.
6. Cook for 1 – 2 minutes until the edges start to lift slightly and the underside is golden.
7. Flip the pancake careful – either buy flipping it upwards in the air and catching in the pan, if you’re confident – but doing it with a spatula and some craft pan tilting will be absolutely fine too. Cook this side for about 40 – 50 seconds more.
8. Slide the pancake out of the pan on to a plate, and then repeat the cooking process until you have used up all your batter.
9. Squeeze over a little lemon, sprinkle over a little sugar, and eat immediately. That sounded bossy but that warm pancake and the cold lemon and the gritty sugar is the best.