#brioche bacon and cheese

[lafrenchtaste]

Brioche Bacon and Cheese: A Decadent Twist on a Classic Grilled Cheese

There's nothing quite as comforting and satisfying as a grilled cheese sandwich. But while a classic grilled cheese with American cheese and white bread might do the trick on a lazy afternoon, sometimes you want to take things up a notch and indulge in something a little more decadent. That's where the brioche bacon and cheese sandwich come in! This delicious twist on the classic grilled cheese features buttery brioche bread, crispy bacon, and melty cheese for a sandwich that's sure to satisfy.

[buffetlicious]

Convinced mum not to cook dinner so I can go buy the new KFC Singapore’s Zinger burger. Went with the Smokey Hot Zinger Box (S$12.30) which included the burger, one piece of hot & crispy fried chicken, regular fries, whipped potato and a carbonated drink.

First impression, the Smokey Hot Zinger looks good with the glossy brioche buns sandwiching a piece of crispy chicken patty that doesn’t resemble the thick patty shown in the advertisement. Sinking my teeth into the burger, it is not as spicy as KFC would like you to believe in but in a good way. Both the chicken and chicken bacon were crispy which went well with the irresistible combination of the creamy secret sauce and fiery hot sauce. I also love that tangy sweet and crisp cucumber pickles in there.

I didn’t forget mum’s dinner. She went with an ala carte meal of Filet-O-Fish from McDonald’s Singapore. The burger came with tartar sauce and just half a piece of cheese.

Topmost image courtesy of KFC Singapore.

[moonetta]

I want a bacon cheeseburger so bad rn

[seven-deadly-dishes]

Hawaiian Teriyaki Pineapple Burgers

via House of Nash Eats

[werebutch]

Mmm $7 tiny sandwich I love throwing away money

[lifeofloon]

This giant a** Blue cheese and Bacon burger is considered a "slider" for Knott's Summer Nights. A great value!

[nohoney]

“What’s my favorite bread?” You ask your boyfriend during early morning cuddles. It’s warm inside the blanket and Bakugou’s hand is idly petting your hair.

“Croissants. Specifically almond and only from that bakery that’s 20 minutes from the house.” Bakugou answers without a beat of hesitation. “That and brioche. French bread only when you wanna have that gross balsamic dip.”

“How do I like my tea?” You fire off another question, waiting for him to see if he’ll get it right.

“Depends on the tea. Green tea, you’ll only do lemon and honey. Early grey and black tea, a little bit of vanilla creamer and some sugar. Oolong tea, you’ll have it plain.” Once again Bakugou answers your question without fumbling over any of his words.

It makes your heart fond over him but you still want to ask more questions. “What’s my favorite kind of chair?”

“Rocking. Baby, what’s with all the questions?” Bakugou asks gruffly but with no particular annoyance in his voice either. His hand still pets over your head and his eyes look up to the ceiling. Sunshine pours through the window and he sees particles of dust float in the air. “Feels like you’re testing me or somethin’ about if I know you.”

You shrug your shoulders and answer him, “Just wanna see if you pay attention to the things I like. Y’know the last guy I was with, I was with him for more than six months and he didn’t remember when my birthday was even though his and mine were literally a week apart. And then one time he got me flowers and he got me the ones that literally break me out in a rash even though I said a million times what to never get me.”

Bakugou’s hand stops petting your head and he starts to sit up in bed. You follow his movement, sitting back a little and finding the expression on your boyfriend’s face amusing. “What exactly did this loser know about you then? Since he was forgetting all the important things.”

“He knew my go to order for McDonald’s.” You answer as you pull your knees up to your chest and pull the blanket more towards you to cover yourself. “Medium fries and ten pieces nuggets.”

“That’s wrong because it’s actually large fries and twenty piece nuggets.” Bakugou corrects you and you laugh a little knowing that he got you. “And everyone likes nuggets and fries from McDonald’s, that’s hardly anything intimate.”

It makes you laugh that he calls you out but for Bakugou, he frowns a little that you had wasted your time with a guy that didn’t bother to know you at all. He leans back against the headboard and asks you, “What about me? How do I take my coffee?”

“At the agency, you’ll just have plain black coffee. When you go to coffee shops though, you’ll have a dirty chai with soy milk.” You answer him, remembering the first time you and him had coffee together.

He nods his head and asks, “What’s my least favorite vegetable?”

“Brussels sprouts. They’re basically mini cabbages and you hate cabbage too.” The answer comes out easily and as fast as he answered you too.

“Books? What do I like?” He asks, thinking this one might trip you up.

“Sci-fi books, but I know that you’re a sucker for classics literature. I see the Jane Austen books on your shelf.” You tell him.

Bakugou nods his head, equally impressed with your knowledge about him. Then he shoots back, “What’s my McDonald’s order?”

“Spicy deluxe McCrispy with two orders of medium fries. Bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit with three hash browns when you’re hungover.”

He smiles at you, reaching his hand out to ruffle your hair and chuckling when you smack his hand away. “I could take all this info and leak it, you know? Pro Hero Dynamight’s McDonald’s order: this is what he eats!” You laugh at your stupid joke, “Imagine the brand deal that comes your way.”

“First of all, that’s only for you to know.” Bakugou tuts and starts to leave the bed, reaching down onto the floor for his underwear he flung off his body when the two of you got frisky last night, “Second, the last guy you were with was a dipshit for not learning anything about you.”

“Yeah well, I was an even bigger idiot for staying with him for more than half a year.” You sigh as you also move to leave the bed as well. Bakugou’s shirt is found right on your side of the bed so you end up wearing it instead of finding your own sleeping top you intended to sleep in the night before.

Bakugou snorts and you round your way up over to him, giving him a big smile and bumping your hip against him, “Good thing I traded up.”

He leans down to kiss you, smiling into the kiss and not even bothering to hide how you stroked his ego just a little bit.

“My favorite breakfast?” You ask him,

“Aside from my dick?” Bakugou pretends to be hurt when you punch his arm before giving the correct answer, “Overnight oats and waffles.”

[talos-stims]

bacon, egg & cheese on brioche | source

[tropes-and-tales]

Care and Comfort

CW:  Richie being Richie, swearing. Angst and fluff. Mentions of Mikey's death and addiction.

Word Count:  2070

AN:  Requested by an anonymous person!

February 22.

It’s a tough day.  You’ve been with Richie long enough now—two years—to know what the date means.  What it is the anniversary of.  You came into Richie’s life after Mikey exited it, but you knew enough of your boyfriend’s best friend. 

What a charming, larger-than-life man he was.  Mikey Berzatto.  Mikey Bear.  Charismatic.  Filled the room with his presence, his stories, his ability to make a person feel like the most important person in the world.

Also an addict.  Also, probably, a narcissist. 

So it’s a tough day for Richie.  Mikey’s suicide blew a hole in the lives of those who loved him, and Richie loved Mikey like a brother.  Two years out from his death, Richie is no closer to any real closure:  he misses his friend.  He loves his friend.  He hates his friend for what he did, all the shitty behavior before he finally made a choice that couldn’t be taken back.

February 22 is the day that Richie’s feelings break loose like a storm.  He rages, he goes sulky and quiet.  He gets mad at Mikey, and because Mikey isn’t there, he lashes out at those closest to him.

You, namely.

But you can handle it.  What sort of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t help him weather these hard days?  Because you know, deep down, the person Richie is angriest at is himself:  that he didn’t see it coming, that he didn’t do more to help his friend.

-----

Your first year together, Richie was snappish.  He tried to start fights with you all day, and you—not understanding him completely—were too bewildered to rise to any bickering.  Your confusion took the fire out of him, and he spent the rest of the day maudlin, full of apologies, rife with terribly negative self-talk.

This year? 

This year, Richie is just sad.

He stays in bed past noon.  He gets up around one in the afternoon, wanders out into the living room of your shared apartment, then promptly plants himself beside you on the couch.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, soft.  You glance at him, take in the red-rimmed eyes, the deep lines etched between his brows.

He answers with a grunt, a non-committal noise.

“Hungry?”

Another grunt, and this one sounds sort of like a no or a nah.  A beat later, though, you hear the snarl of his stomach, and you laugh softly at it.

“Let me make you something.”

That, at least, earns you a grumble, a string of unintelligible words, but he doesn’t object when you stand up and make your way to the tiny kitchen.

-----

You’re no Carmy, and you’re no Sidney.  You’re no Tina or Marcus or Ebra.

Still, you can hold your own as a home chef.  You had a mother and a father who cooked, who taught you how to fry a chicken breast, how to make a simple fresh pasta, how to roast a piece of beef or pork.

So you can’t do a Hamachi crudo or a lamb ragu, but you can do comfort food.  Food that sticks to the ribs and warms a person from the inside out.  For Richie, on this difficult day?  You make him breakfast for early dinner or late lunch. 

You slice up the brioche you got earlier in the week and find it perfectly stale for French toast.  You put cinnamon and a pinch of cloves in the egg batter, fry up the slices to perfection.  You fry some bacon to the crispness Richie likes; you make a pile of buttery scrambled eggs with goat cheese and chives folded in.

You finish it all off with strong coffee in the French press, which Richie used to scoff at as needlessly fussy but now can’t live without.

You don’t bother to plate it nicely.  This isn’t the Bear, and no one is going to give you a star.  This is food as medicine, and you heap everything on a plate and carry it—along with silverware and the coffee—into the living room.

Richie has gone horizontal as you cooked, stretched out on the couch with his face to the back, but the scent of the food makes him turn a bit and glance up at you.

“Said I wasn’t hungry.”  He sounds peevish.

“Just have a bite or two.”  You set the silverware down with a clink, and Richie heaves a sigh, rolls over, sits up.  He doesn’t quite glare at you, but it’s glare-adjacent.  A slight narrowing of his eyes as he looks at you.

“Didn’t have to fucking do all of this.”  His voice has a rough edge, but you know him well enough to hear the faint thread of gratitude underneath all the gruffness.  Richie never knows how to handle being taken care of.  He’s used to being the one taking care of others:  his daughter, his ex-wife when they were still married.  Mikey’s mother, after Mikey’s suicide. 

He’s the real-life version of setting himself on fire to keep others warm, so he is always surprised when someone else cares for him.  Even if it’s something as ordinary as making him a comforting meal on a day when he’s too paralyzed by grief to feed himself.

-----

As you had guessed not hungry wasn’t true.  Once Richie gets a few bites into him, his appetite awakens and the plate is cleaned of crumbs in an appallingly short amount of time.

“Good?” you ask, and he mumbles a sheepish “thanks,” so you clear away the empty dishes, take them to the kitchen, rinse them off.

When you return to the couch, though, Richie is sitting up straight and gazing right at you.  He waits until you meet his eye, and then he says, slowly and deliberately, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He clears his throat, seems embarrassed by himself.  So much of his bluster and cockiness is an act, a smokescreen.  Richie is often insecure, chagrined by his own behavior, and you can guess that he’s berating himself for being curt with you earlier.  For dozing in bed for so long when the two of you have so few days together.

“Really didn’t have to do all that though, sweetheart,” he starts, and you wave him off.  You sit beside him, and he lifts his arm automatically, the gesture for you to tuck yourself against him, but you shake your head.  You settle against the corner of the couch, then pat your lap invitingly.

“C’mon, Jerimovich,” you tell him.  “Let me scratch your head.”

Your first impression of Richie is the most lasting one, even two years in.  He puts you in mind of a shelter dog—kicked and mistreated in some prior life, yearning for affection, baring his teeth at the thought of being kicked again. 

And like a dog, the man loves to be petted.  It’s not necessarily sexual; it’s the simple fact of human touch, the feel-good chemicals that release in his busy brain when you skate your fingertips over his bare skin, when you press your own body against his, when you scratch your nails over his scalp.

Which is what you do now.  You let Richie settle in your lap.  He tucks one arm underneath him, but he wraps the other over your thighs.  Once he’s situated, you just…pet him.  Scratch his head.  Sometimes you press your fingertips in the small muscles that go tense and bunched at the base of his skull, but mostly you just pet him.  Let the repetitive motion lull him, and you feel him relax against you little by little.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after a long stretch of silence.  The T.V. is on, some true crime cop show, but it’s muted.  The only sounds are those of city living:  faint doors opening in the hallway of your apartment building, traffic in the street, the occasional gust of wind against the window.

“No.”

A beat, and then you ask him to tell you a story about Mikey.  It makes Richie sigh, and he starts with the well-worn story about Bill Murray, but you interrupt him.

“No, tell me a story from when you were kids,” you clarify.  “Tell me about Baby Mikey, and make sure there’s lots of Baby Richie.”

He chuckles against you, and it sounds warm.  Genuine.  He’s never said it, and you’ve never asked, but you can guess that it helps him somehow, when you ask for Richie stories in the guise of Mikey stories.  How you gently try to frame him as the main character in his own life instead of Michael Berzatto’s side-kick and sometimes-stooge. 

Now, Richie tells you a story from his high school days, and it’s his own story, and Mikey is just a supporting character, but an important one—a supporting character before the crush of adulthood, before Papa Berzatto took off and left Mikey as the man of the house.  Before the Beef as it skidded into bankruptcy, before the arson attempts and shell games with Unc’s money, before the pills and the dealing out of the alley, before whatever darkness in Mikey swallowed him up and put him on that bridge with a gun two years ago to the day.

It's a funny story, some prank on some stodgy old teacher, and Richie chuckles as he tells it.  You can hear his own darkness bleed out of his voice, can hear him remembering the good ol’ days instead of wallowing in the bad ones.  You can hear him remembering his friend who was more like a brother—remembering him in all his bright promise and not as he left.

The story ends, and then you hear it:  a weak sniffle.  You lay your palm over the curve of his skull, hold him, and think that a cry might do him good.  Richie holds so much in; tears might be healthy, might help him grieve Mikey in a more healthy way—

“I know it, you know,” he says against your lap, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

“Know what, baby?”  You wonder at what revelation he is going to share with you, what understanding in his own psychology or Mikey’s has come to him.

“I fucking know I don’t deserve you,” he replies, and it surprises you.  You gape wordlessly above him.  It wasn’t what you were expecting him to say.

“All this shit,” he explains.  “My life’s a fucking mess, and every year, I fall into this black hole and you have to pull me out.”

You smile down at where he’s settled in your lap, and you feel a wave of love for him wash through you.  Your boyfriend, Richard Lawrence Jerimovich.  Rough around the edges and then some, but underneath all that trauma and hurt lies the biggest heart you’ve ever seen.  A heart of gold.  A man who wants desperately to belong, to be loved, to be needed.

“You’re putting a lot of weight on have to,” you tell him.  “I don’t have to.  I want to.”

He shakes his head.  “Shouldn’t fucking have to or want to.”

“It’s just life, Richie.  It beats us up.  What’s the point if we don’t take care of each other when we’re feeling a little more beat up than usual?”

“You take care of me more than I take care of you.”

You scoff, and you resume scratching his head.  Dragging your nails through his short hair.  “Bullshit.”

“You do.”

“You keeping score on me, Jerimovich?”

He grumbles at that.  “You’re not keeping score?”

“In love?  Never.”

As usual, the mention of love makes him squirm.  Makes him uncomfortable.  He’s perfectly fine saying it to you, says I love you easily and without a bit of hesitation.  Hearing it said back to him, though?  That’s entirely different.

You say it as much as you can.  You let him squirm and be uncomfortable and you let each mention of your love for him chip away at those rough edges a little more, revealing more of that big heart of gold.

“I love you,” you tell him, and sure enough, he squirms again.

So you say it again and again, over and over, until he finally surrenders to it, sighs and nestles himself in your lap, and he mutters it back to you as he allows you to comfort him, to take care of him.  To love him.

[a-roguish-gambit]

Rosemary loves grilled cheeses, and always asks for them, but when she's being babysat she never eats them when they are prepared for her. She always tells people they did it wrong and that it's not a real grilled cheese.

Jean finally snaps one day and complains to rogue and gambit about it. "She always says she wants grilled cheese sandwiches but then never eats them! Why? What are we doing wrong???"

Rogue sighs. "Sorry we should have told ya. She likes grilled cheeses but only the way her daddy makes them"

"and how does he make them?"

"brioche bread, Colby Jack, mozzarella, cream cheese, and sharp cheddar, den sprinkle some cayenne pepper on the cheese, den fried in garlic butter and served with tomato soup mixed with cream for dippin," Gambit explains simply.

"and you didn't think to tell us this sooner?!"

"is dat not how people usually serve dem?"

"Remy i've told ya a million times, sugah, no. No one serves childhood favorites like you"

"is this also why she hates Kraft Mac n cheese and gets angry at us for giving it to her?"

"are you not sprinkling in Parmesan, spicy bacon bits, n oregano?"

"no????"

"den yeah dat's why....."

[fatty-food]

bacon, egg. & cheese, on brioche toast (via instagram)

[housecow]

So what’s your go to fast food order?

idk if i’ve answered a question like this before. so!

Chick fil a: 2 sandwiches, 12 nugs, large fries/soda, couple shakes and cookies

Dairy queen: steak fingers basket w extra fries and gravy, large soda, their fried jalapeno things, and a large blizzard

sonic: 3/4 chicken sandwiches (they’re small but so good), fried jalapeno things, maybe popcorn chicken, route 44 coke zero, shake(s)

why is my mind blanking on fast food places?

do y’all have bill millers. anyways: breakfast, 6 bean and cheese n bacon tacos lol. anytime else: 4 piece fried chicken, loaf of bread, large order of their delicious soggy fries. fuck i’m craving this i miss it

ngl y’all i guess i don’t eat *that* much fast food?? my next choice is greasy mexican/texmex

pterry’s: couple chicken sandwiches. idk why i like chicken so much apparently.. also some shakes if their monthly one is good!!

in n out: at least 2 double doubles, extra onion, large soda and shake(s), animal fries

canes: whatever the biggest combo is w extra bread instead of slaw 😌

kfc: 2/3 famous bowls!!! extra chicken/mashed potatoes/corn. so much soda

wingstop: large combo, it’s like 20pcs, large fries, add a drink?

i don’t go to whataburger, mcdonald’s, chipotle, or subway much

i’m a liar. whataburger: 2/3 breakfast burgers (sub brioche bun and extra creamy pepper sauce), hashbrowns, large coke zero, maybe a large shake before 11am if i’m brave enough

used to get their patty melt but it’s not as good :(((

[justallihere]

Okay rereading SITQ right now and I need to know how you make a breakfast sandwich- it contains bacon, fried eggs and cheese and that already sounds good but I’m curious if this is something you personally cook as well and if so, in what way?

Yes! Breakfast for dinner was A Thing in my family growing up (more gravy and biscuits kind of vibe but still). I do bacon and egg sandwiches a lot for lunch. I’m like 50-50 if I actually put cheese on it but if I do it’s usually cheddar. When I fry my eggs I bust the yolk bc I hate runny eggs personally but you can do scrambled or whatever, and then just melt the cheese on top of the eggs in the pan and add to the sandwich with all the bacon, or sausage or ham if you like that better. You can do whatever kind of bread you want, I like sourdough best and I always toast it, but you could do like a brioche or just a biscuit or anything else that speaks to you. Waffles as the bread? French toast? A bagel? Go wild my friend

[dannysburgerblog]

Heart Stopper Burger / Oaken Barrel - Greenwood, Indiana

Burger topped with bacon, onion rings, lettuce, American cheese on brioche bun and served with side choice housemade chips. (10⭐️/10)

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

Today for lunch I tried making @inneskeeper's Scientifically Proven Grilled Cheese, and holy shit is it good. This is, I think, the first time I've actually made a recipe I found on Tumblr, and if they're all going to go this well then I gotta do it more.

(My particular build: pre-sliced Sara Lee "brioche," Cabot Seriously Sharp cheddar cheese, honey, red pepper flakes, oregano, parsley, minced garlic since I don't think we have any fresh cloves at the moment, and a slice of thick-cut bacon leftover from last night's dinner. All ingredients portioned out using the ancient and venerated measurement known as "some.")