 "Photo: Alan Berner/mct")
Don’t fuck up on the eggs. It’s alright if the Canadian bacon is a little crisp around the edges. The English muffin can be slightly stale and if the hollandaise is store-bought, don’t sweat it. These are all forgivable sins. Minor transgressions. Gastronomic misdemeanors. But please. For the love of God. Don’t fuck up on the eggs. Because if the yolk doesn’t run, (and by run I don’t mean a tiny stream that is instantly absorbed by a crumb of muffin, but a proper gushing, an explosion like in the beginning of that Dracula movie when that guy stabs that giant cross and it erupts with blood, coating the floor of that Hungarian palace or whatever that was) you might as well be eating dog food. If you’re not careful with the eggs, there really isn’t any point.
This is what you tell yourself as you stand over the stove at seven in the morning, while your girlfriend sleeps in the next room. When you got out of bed, she was on her side, curled up with her knees against her chest, a thin trickle of drool running out of her mouth and forming a miniscule pond in a sheet fold.
The water is simmering. Common knowledge suggests the addition of a little dash of vinegar to accelerate the congealing of the egg whites, but the problem with common knowledge is that it’s for common people. As lord of this kitchen manor, such vassal advice needn’t concern me. Forget the vinegar. Just be sure the eggs are fresh. Fresh means they don’t dissipate as easily. There’s nothing more depressing than watching your creation go down the drain because the eggs didn’t maintain their form. Also, you can hedge your bets by taking a spoon and making mini-tornados in the water. If you’re really proficient, you can use one hand to do this, crack the egg with your other and, as you remove the spoon, drop it into the vortex of your hand-made twister. If you’re into power, you can tell yourself that it’s kind of like playing God, creating cyclones with one hand and creating life (edible life) with the other. Or you could be up early making breakfast. Whatever you choose to believe.
* * *
“Well, yeah. Obviously it’s not gonna be covered by my health insurance.” Her voice is barely audible over the rattle of the subway. I guess it was a stupid question. I lean back and stare at the ads. Learn English. Learn Spanish. Mole removal. “We Treat Feet.” It’s a shame they don’t have “Poems on the Underground” like in London. A little lyric on the subway might be a pleasant distraction. Like that one about the turtle.
“The turtle lives ‘twixt plated decks
which practically conceal its sex
I find it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so-”
“I wonder if they let you keep it. Like, in a jar.” Her comment abruptly ends my reverie and reminds me why I’m on the subway this early in the morning, in this part of town. The woman sitting across from us looks as if she has just consumed a rotten tuna sandwich.
* * *
They’re almost ready. You don’t want to exceed three minutes cooking time or your chances of having a suitably runny yoke are virtually nil. For extraction purposes, a spatula will often suffice, but ideally you should be using a slotted-spoon with which to briefly cradle the egg so as to allow any excess water to drip back into the pot. If you are using a frying pan filled with several inches of water, you have given yourself the advantage of the egg being more confined and hence having less space to fall apart. However, the drawback of this method is that the egg can attach itself to the base of the pan. Should this complication arise, you need to ditch the slotted-spoon and use the spatula for a delicate separation procedure. The emergence of an ominous yellow cloud from beneath the white of the egg means that you have failed. Today, I have decided to live less dangerously and am using a large pasta pot. My prudence is rewarded as I lift two poached eggs from out of the bubbling liquid without any spillage. I gently deposit each wobbly little disc onto pieces of bacon placed upon a slightly buttered English muffin. I need another minute to whip up the hollandaise, so I put the plate in the oven, which is set on low heat, to keep my creation warm.
* * *
Five hours in a waiting room can be a long time in the absence of lowbrow celebrity magazines. Or when you’ve been sweating so much that your nipples have become clearly visible beneath your, now transparent, white T-shirt. When I hear footsteps approaching from the adjacent hall, I know it’s her by the brisk pace and the unique patter of her old Puma sneakers, the sole slightly detached from the body of the shoe. I rise and nod briefly to my grim-faced waiting room companions, whose morose expressions may at this point have more to do with my odiferous perspiration than with their own afflictions, which are at least private. As I walk toward her, I’m trying to think of something to say, but she beats me to the punch.
“How ‘bout a high five?”
“You can’t be serious.”
But she is and for the moment that’s all there is to it. We exit the building in silence and, as upon our arrival, I’m slightly surprised by the conspicuous absence of zealous picketers whom I’d expected to be wielding giant plastic babies with which to smash in our homicidal heads.
* * *
So here I am, holding my warm plate of immaculately prepared Benedict as I open the door to the bedroom. I put the plate down on the nightstand and run my fingers through her hair. Her eyes slowly open as she takes a deep breath, which morphs into a yawn.
“Eggs.”
She is still half-asleep as she rubs her eyes. I eagerly await some further comment on the one dish that I’ve prided myself on being able to make consistently well throughout my rather modest cooking career.
“How subtle.”
This was not the comment I’d hoped for, but I let it slide and hand her fork and knife, as she props herself up against a pillow. The plate resting snugly upon her thighs, she looks appreciatively at the two little, hollandaise-covered mounds, the steam rising affectionately into her face.
“I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.”
“I know, baby. That’s why a made you breakfast.”
“Hmmm. You’re a sweetie-pie.”
She slices into one of her eggs. I wait for the yolk to emerge around the base of the muffin, for it to discolor the white of the plate that has remained unblemished by my moderate dosing of hollandaise. I wait but . . . nothing. I lean over and put my arm around my girlfriend in an ostensible act of affection, but what I’m really doing is getting a better angle so I can check out what the fuck is up with the eggs.
And when I see it, I quickly pull away. And I actually feel myself becoming nauseous. And I don’t know why, because I took them out at two, two and a half minutes max and put them right in . . . the oven! They must have congealed in the oven! I usually don’t make the hollandaise myself and when I do, I make it before the eggs, so usually there’s no need for any kind of incuba . . .
“Something wrong, honey?”
Her voice is far away.
“I actually think this is one of the tastiest things you’ve ever made.”
I’d try to explain it to her, but she would think me crazy for getting so upset over a botched breakfast.
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