My Dear Morela: Since people insist on forcing on me the delusional thought that I am a real chef, I will offer up, as though I were a chef, my "recipe", if you will, for what I would call on my "small plates" or "appet-teaser" menu "Devilishly Good Eggs," or if I thought my clientele to be sufficiently pretentious, "Gatsby's West Eggs." First, as a chef, I must insist on the finest, costliest, rarest and most seasonal ingredients and over-use them to a degree unthinkably crass in that ingredient's native region--out of season and outside of all cultural and culinary contexts that give the ingredient value in the first place, of course. This recipe, therefore, would begin with only the freshest, local-sourced Faberge Eggs, preferably from the Catherine The Great era, but certainly from no lesser than the Nicholas the Second Regium Caesarus. These I would bring to a boil, starting with cold, acidulated Volvic, for precisely the attention span of one of my girlfriend's while watching TRL with Carson Daly, or forty-seven seconds. Next, I would remove the insides and fold (what non-chefs would call "mix") them with Sysco Extra-Heavy Duty Mayonnaise mixed with turmeric, paprika and roasted garlic. Except this mixture I would call "Roasted Garlic Aioli ala Mahon" so that a food critic would be able to use the word "garlicky" in a review of the dish, a prerequisite for any favorable review today, n'est ce pas? Next, in a startlingly inventive display of my creative genius, I would repeat the same process with the freshest, brownest, organic-est, most locally-sourced egg and place that egg WITHIN the Faberge egg. Done? Mais non!! I would next, in a move sure to springboard me straight to Rocco status, repeat the above procedure with a quail egg and place THAT within the egg WITHIN the Faberge egg. Those of you who know me already know what is next--that's right--a THOUSAND YEAR EGG obtained on my last helicoptor-dropped, sky-diving, hang-gliding, motorcycle-riding trek through the Himalayas where I have never been(actually, they have them at Hope Key) INSIDE the quail egg INSIDE the egg WITHIN the Faberge egg. Now for plating: I'd mix some green stuff in a blender with oil and call that an emulsion which I would squiggle on a plate with a--sorry guys, I hate to be the one to give away our secrets--ketchup squirt bottle. Then I would take some root that used to be thrown away when the vegetable that we really wanted got dug up, preferably something that not too many people have heard of yet so that they don't know whether what they are eating is really good or not and so I can get the credit for being the first person to "discover" this ancient food source. This I would pass through this really cool Japanese crank kind of thing that you see on late night TV sometimes that makes everything all spirally and bird's-nest-y. The real coup-de-grace comes when I incorporate an obscure condiment or seasoning that I have appropriated from another culture that I have absolutely NO knowledge of with another obscure condiment or seasoning that I have appropriated from another culture about which I know absolutely NOTHING. This combination must make no sense whatsoever and be completely and pretentiously discordant with whatever dish I was trying to prepare in the first place. The more dazzlingly out of place this combination is with MY native cuisine the better, since then no one can tell whether I can really cook or not. Especially since everyone in the local market is too provincially insecure to place any value in simple food well cooked and why we glorify any huckster with an accent and a fugitive warrant in his home country (come on, would YOU leave Italy, would YOU leave France, would YOU leave Spain? If you loved, truly loved, food and wine and exquisite cheeses? Didn't think so.). In this case it would be Uzbeki raw Yak milk creme fraiche with Tomiko, Nori and Bonito Flakes. Ketchup squirt bottle time again, but this time in a way that Tom Sietsema could describe as "lapping the eggs." Or is it "napping the eggs?" Whatever, just make sure to use protection. Next an egg "foam" and then an egg "powder" and then finally the server sprays you with an egg "aerosol," for an egg "eight-way" (gotcha, Mark--the Tomiko!!). Now comes the important part, what really separates this dish from something you could do at home. First I make up some story about Nonna Giuseppina and how she taught me this dish AND about life growing up in my native village, which if you didn't come from there and didn't have a Nonna Giuseppina, you couldn't possibly know how to cook at all so shut up. Next I pay a publisist a ridiculous amount of money which I recoup through inflated prices to get this story in some food column somewhere. This allows me to feature the dish in a special "Tasting Menu" --which I prepare personally for the select few, rich and priveleged, who delight in my very presence. Meanwhile I neglect the lesser diners who stupidly, as is their place, pay a premium for mediocre food and hostile service because my name is attatched to the forsaken, but lucrative, dining room. The final touch is to join an other-wise pointless trade organization and join in the craven orgy of self-congratulation, and maybe win a prize. There you have it--"Devilishly Good Eggs!" Prep Time: Four Years, Nine Months, Two Days, Six Hours and Twenty-one Minutes Serves: Approximately Three Egos
