French Bread Pudding

Pouding de pain à la française teaches one severe, useful lesson: texture is made before flavour is finished. The bread must disappear into the vanilla milk and pass through a sieve until no crumb remains; the beaten whites can lighten only what is already smooth. Skip the sieve and you have pleasant bread custard, but not this silken moulded pouding.

The source assumed a deep border mould, a quantity suited to a long table, and extra hands to rub a large mass of soaked bread through a fine drum sieve. A home kitchen needs none of that brigade theatre. This version halves every source quantity for a six-cup solid ring mould or deep soufflé dish: four whole eggs become two, six yolks become three, and four beaten whites become two. The border shape is service scaffolding and a one-piece ring or Bundt mould replaces it honestly; the sieve, the stiff froth, and the bain-marie (hot-water bath) are the dish and stay exactly where they belong. One cook, one stove, one evening.

The finished pudding should stand cleanly when turned out, ivory within, lightly golden at its ridges, and soft enough to take a spoon without resistance. Before you touch the eggs, commit to rubbing every soaked crumb through the sieve. That is the step that makes silk, and it cannot be borrowed back later.