Shrove Tuesday arrives every year pretending to be about restraint. Officially, it is a way to use up all the ingredients in the cupboard before Lent. Unofficially, it’s a sanctioned excuse to eat pancakes at alarming volumes.
Tradition dictates lemon and sugar, or perhaps maple syrup, but a recent survey conducted by the River found that students at Kingston University are taking pancake norms, adding jalapeños, egg and brown sauce and calling it perfect. So, in the name of journalism, curiosity and very poor impulse control, I decided to find out just how weird students’ pancakes can be.
For the first test subject of this experiment, I thought I would ease myself into the cool water; cheddar, pickles and chorizo already co-exist harmoniously on a grazing board, so surely a pancake could cope. The first bite was chaos: sweet met salty, tang wrestled smoke and my taste buds called for backup. Yet somehow it worked. The pancake softened the chorizo’s bravado, the pickles cut through the cheese, and the cheddar glued the whole conspiracy together. Was it breakfast? Was it dessert? I’m still unsure. To conclude, this pancake was surprisingly edible – would offer to the co-worker I secretly resent.
To some, this next one might feel like brunch gone rogue. Students said they take the traditional bacon and maple syrup and switch it out for smoked salmon and maple syrup. At this point, I leaned into confidence. Smoked salmon is already a breakfast staple and maple syrup knows no boundaries; together, they were indulgent. Sweet, smoky, rich: this pancake felt like it belonged in an overpriced Amsterdam café. For a student pancake, this was shockingly elegant – it’s safe to say, I will be pretending I invented it.
Pancake number three was an adventure that I didn’t expect to enjoy so much. Picture this: warm pancake, vanilla ice cream, a drizzle of olive oil and sea salt – for authority. I’m shocked to say this was exceptional. The oil added depth, the salt sharpened the sweetness, and I felt like someone who owns linen trousers and knows what ‘notes’ mean in wine-talk. In my opinion, this was outstanding. Serve this, and people will assume you’re clever.
Of course, not all of these suggestions could be great, the final mistake was one I never thought I’d hear: “yesterday’s lasagna.” A gorgeous, soft, fluffy pancake arrived, fresh out of the pan, when the soggy slab of reheated pasta was slapped on top. One bite and everything went wrong; sweet clashed with acidic, bechamel sauce clung onto the pancake like PVA glue, and the world felt like a disaster. Nothing harmonised; it just argued loudly in my mouth. This wasn’t comfort food – it was culinary exhaustion (like when you get home from Circuit at 4 am and dig through your fridge with no supervision). This pancake was all the proof I needed that not all leftovers deserve a second chance.