French Poodles.

French Poodles?


No.

French Poodles.


Oh! Wait...what?

So here's the story. When I lived in Portland there was this amazing breakfats place nearish to where I lived in North Portland. (That's No Po to everyone in the know.) Actually, there is really no bad breakfast place in Portland, but this place, Beaterville, is defintely in my top 5. It's totally ridiculous with it's old, crappy car motif: beaters, get it? And a lot of the items on their menu reflect the motif- think omlettes with names like Pacer and coffee drinks with names like Asphault. One year my friend Claire and I went every Tuesday (I think?) to do homework and more importantly, eat. Ah, the things you let yourself get away with in college. Mind you, I don't know how much homework actually got done. On the weeks I felt productive, Claire did not and vice versa. I also remember an internal struggle to be good and get toast with a bowl of fruit, which totally never happened.

I've had everything from their breakfast sandwiches, to the scramblers (served with the best potatoes- my oh my) and this thing called a French Poodle. A French Poodle is french toast made with a crossaint- I am so not kidding about this. It's served with butter and syrup and powdered sugar. Of course you die because 1. it's amazing and 2. it's a crossaint dipped in milk and egg (no wonder the Europeans hate us). I have not had this in about five years and I never ever buy crossaints. But, when it's Dad's day and you have guests, you get to be adventurous and naughty and make your own French Poodles.

All you need to do is cut the crossaints along the middle (hot dog style) amd use a standard french toast recipe to create the poodle. I had all kinds of fixings for them- fruit, homemade whipped cream, syrup and even lemon curd. You'll notice in the picture that these look like plain ole crossaints, but I swear they're not. I forgot to take a picture of them all dressed up because, well, I was just too excited to eat them.