There are two weeks in August when British tomatoes taste the way tomatoes are supposed to taste. Warm from the vine, split-skinned, slightly imperfect, smelling of the greenhouse and the sun. That's when you make this. Not before.

I brought a boxful home from the market last Saturday. Mixed heritage varieties: some deep crimson and ribbed, some pale yellow streaked with green, a few dark ones almost purple at the shoulder. They sat on the windowsill for a day, and the kitchen smelled of summer. A tomato that smells of something will taste of something. That's the only test you need.

This isn't really a recipe. It's an assembly. A sharp knife, a good plate, some oil, some salt, some basil torn at the last moment. The tomato does everything. Your job is to not get in its way. Slice thickly, season properly, leave it alone for ten minutes, and carry it to the table. There's bread for mopping up the juices, which are the best part. We're only making dinner.

I wrote it down in the notebook years ago: tomatoes, basil, salt, August. That's the whole entry. It didn't need anything else.