5.
OVER-THE-TOP EGGS
When it comes to eggs, less is more (think the perfection of a soft-boiled or soft-scrambled egg, or the simple, unadorned omelet). But more is also more. Gilding the lily—and by “lily” I mean, obviously, the egg—is par for the course. We love to make eggs—already perfect in their packages—even more decadent: We mix eggs with mayonnaise, itself an egg product, to make deviled eggs (this page) and egg salad (this page) and Salad Olivier. We deep-fry eggs; we bathe them in cream and butter. Think about classic pairings like eggs and truffles, eggs and caviar, and the little egg on top of your steak tartare. There’s just something about eggs that lend themselves to such eggcess—they stoke our unending desire for too much of a good thing. But it’s not too much! It’s just much enough.
Included here, too, are the desserts we make from eggs: the custards made from just the yolks, the meringues made from just the whites—whipped to ethereal heights—and desserts that showcase the magical (okay, scientific; see this page) properties of both. We mix eggs with booze and drink them down as nog. And speaking of nog, we celebrate with eggs—encrust them with jewels (this page), hide them for children, eat chocolates shaped like them (or just admire the chocolates, too pretty to eat). That’s pure over-the-top.
Fit for a Tsar
Marian Bull
Here is the story of how one of the world’s most expensive eggs was almost scrambled.
Between 1885 and 1916, the Russian jeweler Peter Carl Fabergé crafted fifty gold Easter eggs for the Russian Imperial family. They were some of the finest works of goldsmithing the world had ever seen, intricate and opulent, the early iterations just a handful of inches high and bedecked in the shiniest representations of wealth an egg can accommodate. The first was a gift from Tsar Alexander III to his wife, Empress Maria Feodorovna, to celebrate the couple’s twentieth anniversary and also Easter, the most sacred holiday in the Russian Orthodox Church. Most Russians gift painted eggs to loved ones on Easter; tsars, apparently, call up the fanciest jeweler in town. In the years that followed, he commissioned more and more eggs, each with its own little “surprise” inside: a hen specked with rubies, a crown made of diamonds, portraits of the monarchy in miniature. The eggs became a family tradition that lived on even after Alexander’s death. And then the Revolution came.
In 1917, with the tsar abdicated, the Bolsheviks confiscated much of the art that filled the Romanov palaces, including a number of Imperial eggs. They sold them off to make quick cash, looking to fund their plans of industrialization. So off the eggs went, dispersed into the world, stripped of their royal family. The majority of the lot was scooped up by Armand Hammer, an American entrepreneur and art collector (who founded—get this—Arm & Hammer baking soda). But a handful of them remain lost to this day, their provenance murky, their identity unknown to their owners.
Almost a century after the eggs left home, in 2014, an anonymous man walked into London antique dealer Wartski with photos of what he thought to be one of those lost eggs. He had bought the egg for the sum of its parts, about $14,000, somewhere in the American Midwest, and had planned to sell it for scrap metal—in which case it would have been melted down, its history obliterated by alchemy. But then he found a name! A name on the little surprise watch inside, the name of Vacheron Constantin, he who had made the watch. A quick Google search shocked Anonymous Man with the realization that he may have something so small and so valuable that every square inch was worth over a million dollars: Constantin had also made the gold watch that hid inside the Third Imperial Fabergé egg, a treasure at that time considered lost. And so he went to London bearing photos, and Wartski’s Kieran McCarthy quickly flew back to the States to confirm the egg’s identity.
“The story was so incredible that it really had to be true,” says McCarthy, a longtime scholar and admirer of Fabergé’s eggs. But a visit and verification were in order. Upon entering the house that was housing the egg, McCarthy found it sitting on the kitchen counter, a few inches away from a cupcake. “It was just such a wonderful juxtaposition,” he remembers, delighted: “The cupcake is almost the picture of America, and then next to it was this Imperial treasure from Saint Petersburg. It wasn’t a small one, either—it was a monster-sized chocolate cupcake.” Covered in sprinkles, no less.
It was real, and it was intact: a golden egg just 2½ inches tall, decorated with diamonds and sapphires and set atop a stand with intricate golden feet that resembled the base of a very fancy chair in sparkling miniature. Shock and elation ensued. Wartski arranged a sale to an unnamed buyer for an unnamed but surely outrageous sum of money (before its discovery, the egg’s worth was estimated at $33 million). After the purchase, the buyer let Wartski exhibit it in their own galleries, just before Easter 2014.
The news went worldwide in seconds. “It was like an art historical lottery win,” explains McCarthy. “It really struck a chord: that this could happen to anyone. The world is a lottery, and although you can work very hard, you sometimes have to rely on pure luck. This is an example of how chance can work on anyone: You can walk along the most unlikely places and find the greatest treasures.”
But how does a treasure like this become lost in the first place? How could anyone forget or overlook what it was? In 2011, Fabergé researchers figured out that the egg had been last sold, unknowingly, in 1964. But art dealers in 1964 knew about Fabergé. They knew about his eggs. How could anyone with this in their possession not know its provenance?
The thing about provenance, McCarthy told me, is that it’s very delicate. As in a game of telephone, all it takes is one person not relaying whence an object came, or mixing up a fact or a name, to lose the provenance of even priceless, world-famous works of art. The art world calls these “sleepers,” orphan objects that have lost their identity. The egg had last been owned by Rena Clarke, who had a lavish apartment on Park Avenue in New York. When she died, her entire estate was likely sold off, McCarthy guesses. There were ceramics, paintings, porcelain…so many items to sort through that the sellers in charge of the whole shebang likely didn’t have enough time to spend investigating each one. And so the egg went off to its next owner unrecognized, and its own little game of telephone landed it somewhere in the Midwest.
Two Imperial eggs remain lost: They could be anywhere. The Cherub with Chariot Egg was last seen in 1934, on display at Lord & Taylor in New York City. The 1889 Nécessaire Egg, McCarthy says, is “almost certainly under somebody’s bed somewhere.” Maybe it’s in your grandmother’s attic, or on the next episode of Antiques Roadshow. This is the special allure of hidden treasure fairy tales: that something gleaming could be around the next corner, or under the cushion you’re sitting on reading this. That what was once a king’s could be in the hands of us paupers. And, hopefully, that we’ll have the good sense to cherish the small treasures we find, instead of melting them down.
Lourdes’s Deviled Eggs with Tuna
When you make egg salad or oeufs mayonnaise or deviled eggs, you’re putting eggs on eggs. To take eggs and then put egg mayonnaise and foie in it, and then to have a fatty fish like tuna, it’s really over the top. And yet it’s hyper delicious. I actually thought the concept of it was kind of revolting, but then it was so good—it had such a delicate and elegant flavor. They’re at our Christmas table every year: Every Christmas, my husband Eder’s Aunt Lourdes makes these eggs para picar, or “to nibble,” before the main courses. I appreciate that she buys a foie gras terrine and then uses it to make these doped-up surf-and-turf deviled eggs. They’re pretty old school and would be very much at home at a fancy San Sebastián pintxos bar.
—Alex Raij
Makes 4 to 6 servings
½ cup mayonnaise
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
+ salt
2 tsp black truffle paste (optional)
1 can (4 oz) tuna in olive oil, drained on paper towels and crumbled
3 tbsp minced chives, plus more for garnish
1 can (2 oz) foie gras terrine, at room temperature (optional)
1. Peel the eggs and halve them lengthwise. (Alternatively, for a more modern presentation, peel them, then trim the ends and cut them crosswise through the center.) Remove the yolks and set aside. Rinse off the whites. Fill a bowl with water and hold the whites in it until ready to serve.
2. Place the yolks in a food processor and add the mayonnaise, mustard, and a pinch of salt. Process until smooth. Pulse in the black truffle paste (if using) until evenly combined. Transfer the mixture to a bowl.
3. Fold the tuna and chives into the yolk mixture. Use a fork to smash the foie terrine, then fold that into the egg yolk mixture as well, making sure there are no lumps. Taste and adjust with salt if needed. Spoon the yolk-foie mixture into a piping bag with a wide star tip, or into a large plastic zip-top bag (snip off the corner after chilling). Chill for 1 hour.
4. Remove the egg whites from the water and pat them dry. Pipe the filling into the egg whites and decorate them with chives, if you like. (I like to decorate them with truffle shavings, too.) You can make the filling up to a day ahead and chill it until needed, and the whites can be stored immersed in water in the refrigerator for the same amount of time. Make sure the whites are at room temperature before serving or they will be tough. The filling should be slightly chilled, so it may need a little tempering, too, if it’s been chilled too long.
Anglesey Eggs
Anglesey eggs is that old-school British meal that is quintessentially British because it’s at least 50 percent potato and frequently devoid of spices. In this dish, which is known as wyau ynys môn in its homeland of Wales, hard-boiled eggs are nestled in a leek-studded mash (i.e., mashed potatoes) and covered in a cheesy sauce blistered from the grill (i.e., broiler). Named after the northern Welsh island, it is thought that the wives of fishermen who lived on Anglesey created this dish by melting the local Caerphilly cheese into a sauce and flavoring mashed potatoes with boiled leeks, a symbolic Welsh vegetable because it was, until relatively recently, one of the only vegetables that grew in Wales.
The Welsh reverence for leeks has long been linked to Saint David, the patron saint of Wales who’s been canonized as a vegetarian ascetic monk. He brought Welsh soldiers to victory against the Saxons in the mid-sixth century when he told them to wear leeks in their hats in order to distinguish themselves from their enemies. Since the twelfth century, the first of March has been a national holiday honoring Saint David, for which men and women wear leeks and feast on leek-heavy dishes such as cawl cennin (leek soup), leek pasties, and Anglesey eggs.
This recipe gives the holy leeks their due. Leeks get sautéed in butter, then added to a mustardy mash. The sauce is made with a classic sharp white English cheddar (which should be replaced with Caerphilly if you have access to it), spiked with smoky paprika and more mustard.
—Aralyn Beaumont
Makes 4 to 6 servings
2 medium russet (baking) potatoes, peeled and quartered
+ salt
2 tbsp butter
2 leeks, rinsed and finely chopped
3 tbsp warm milk
1 tsp Dijon mustard
½ cup grated sharp white cheddar cheese (see Note)
½ cup bread crumbs
1 tbsp finely chopped parsley
+ freshly ground black pepper
6 Hard-Boiled Eggs, halved
+ Cheese Sauce (recipe follows)
1. Make the mash: Place the quartered potatoes in a large pot, cover with 1 to 2 inches of cold water, and season with salt. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer, cooking until tender, about 15 minutes.
2. While the potatoes are simmering, melt the butter in a pan over medium heat. Add the leeks and sauté until they’ve cooked down and released juices, about 5 minutes. Set aside.
3. When the potatoes are cooked through, drain and mash them with the warm milk and mustard. Fold in the leek-butter mixture and season to taste with salt. Set aside.
4. Heat the oven to 400°F.
5. Combine the cheese, bread crumbs, parsley, ¼ teaspoon salt, and a few turns of pepper in a small bowl.
6. Assemble the dish: Spread the mashed potatoes in an even layer in the bottom of an 8 × 8-inch glass dish. Nestle the hard-boiled egg halves over the top, softly pressing them into the mash. Evenly pour the cheese sauce over the top and cover with the bread crumb mixture.
7. Bake until the top is golden brown and the sauce is bubbling, about 20 minutes.
8. Serve hot.
Cheese Sauce
Makes about 1½ cups
2 tbsp butter
3 tbsp all-purpose flour
1¾ cups milk
1¼ cups grated sharp white cheddar cheese (see Note)
1 tsp Dijon mustard
¼ tsp smoked paprika
½ tsp salt
5 turns freshly ground black pepper
1. Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add the flour and whisk until smooth.
2. Remove from the heat and add the milk a little bit at a time, whisking until smooth with each addition.
3. When the milk is incorporated, warm over medium-high heat to a simmer, stirring, until the sauce has thickened. Remove from the heat and add the cheese, mustard, paprika, salt, and pepper and stir until the cheese is melted and the sauce is smooth. Adjust the seasoning to taste. Keep warm and stir occasionally until ready to use.
Note: Caerphilly cheese is traditionally used in Anglesey eggs, but since it’s difficult to find outside of the UK, this recipe calls for sharp white cheddar. Use Caerphilly if you can!
Kwek Kwek
Kwek kwek is Filipino street food: deep-fried quail eggs on a stick. Vendors will hawk fried foods, tofus, barbecue, maybe even chicken balut. Kwek kwek might be just one of maybe five different things in their arsenal. It’s super simple. The eggs get their reddish orange color from the annatto. They’re dipped in batter, then fried, put onto a stick, and that’s it. You dip kwek kwek in all types of sauce. There’s a sweet-and-sour sauce, there’s Maggi sauce—it just depends on whatever the vendor’s feeling for the day. Anywhere in the provinces, you can find kwek kwek. You might see it in the cities occasionally, but it’s really a provincial barrio thing—in small villages, it’s always available readily.
Here’s our very easy and delicious recipe. We’ve added vodka to the batter to help keep the breading crispy.
—Chase and Chad Valencia
Makes 2 to 4 servings
12 quail eggs
+ salt
3 tbsp cornstarch
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tbsp ground annatto
1 cup cheap vodka
2 cups vegetable oil, for deep-frying
+ sukang maanghang (Filipino spiced vinegar) or hot sauce, for serving
1. Hard-boil the quail eggs: Bring salted water to a boil and cook the eggs for 2½ minutes. Shock in ice water to stop the cooking. Peel the eggs (see Note).
2. Dredge the quail eggs gently in the cornstarch.
3. Make the fry batter: In a bowl, combine the flour and 1 teaspoon salt. Dissolve the annatto in the vodka, and pour the mixture into the bowl with the flour and salt. Mix well.
4. Place the dredged quail eggs into the fry batter and coat as best as you can.
5. Pour the oil into a heavy-bottomed pot. Heat the oil to 350°F. Fry the battered quail eggs until golden brown, 2 to 3 minutes, rolling them in the oil so they brown evenly. Remove with a spider and drain on paper towels.
6. Skewer the fried eggs onto wooden skewers, 3 to 6 eggs to a stick. Serve hot with sukang maanghang or hot sauce for dipping.
Note: Quail eggs can be a little bit trickier to peel than chicken eggs. Crack the bottom (large) end of the egg and start gently peeling from there.
Cactus Wren
Egg Salad
I had somehow forgotten about egg salad, but with the spring herbs plentiful in the garden, eggs just coming in with the lengthening days, and some very good bread in the house, egg salad suddenly came sharply into view. I also add a small, finely diced pickled shallot to egg salad just to insert a little zing into the creamy richness of real farm (or backyard) eggs. We buy eggs from a farmer who lives on the road where my husband Patrick’s studio is. You put money in their jar, and you just go in and get some. They’re huge. I asked Sam, the farmer, about them, and he said they’re from Wallace chickens. Henry Wallace was vice president under Franklin Roosevelt, and when he left office he started raising chickens, and he developed this breed—it’s named after him—and the eggs are really big. Sam is so impeccable as a farmer: His eggs are super fresh, they’re big, the whites really stand up, and the yolks are really yellow and perky; they’re just a pleasure to use. I don’t buy eggs anywhere else.
—Deborah Madison
Makes about 2 cups
1 small shallot, finely diced
1 tsp red or white wine vinegar
1 heaping tbsp minced tarragon leaves
1 tbsp finely snipped chives
1 tbsp minced parsley or lovage
3 tbsp mayonnaise
+ salt (preferably sea salt)
+ freshly ground black pepper
+ chive blossoms, if available
1. Toss the diced shallot with the vinegar and let stand for a few minutes. The color will change right away to a soft pink.
2. Meanwhile, peel and chop the eggs. (If they’re very fresh and hard to peel, I just cut them in half crosswise and carefully scoop out the egg with a spoon. It works every time!)
3. Put the eggs in a bowl with the herbs and mayonnaise. If you use commercial mayonnaise you might not need much salt. Taste, add ¼ teaspoon, then taste again. Season with pepper.
4. If there is excess vinegar with the shallots, drain it off and add the shallots to the mix. Pile the egg salad into a serving bowl and garnish with chive blossoms, if available.
Salad Olivier
Aka “Russian salad” outside of Russia, this is an eggy, mayonnaise-y Russian holiday staple first created in Moscow by a Belgian cook named Lucien Olivier in the 1860s. (Another story circulating puts forth that it was named after the actor Laurence Olivier, to whom it was first served. Unfortunately not true!) Lucien Olivier was tight-lipped about his recipe, which is maybe why the Salad Olivier of today bears little resemblance to his, which, in true no-holds-barred eggy fashion, included caviar, jellied broth, crayfish tails, a Provençal sauce with egg yolks in it, tongue pieces arranged around the dish, and gherkins, hard-boiled egg slices, and potato skins decorating the top.
Makes 2 to 4 servings
2 medium waxy potatoes, such as Yukon Gold
+ salt
1 medium carrot, cut into ¼-inch dice
¼ cup fresh peas (or frozen, thawed)
3 tbsp diced gherkin or other pickles, plus 1 tbsp pickle juice
½ cup diced boiled ham or bologna
½ cup chopped scallions
¼ cup chopped dill
¼ cup mayonnaise
1 tsp Dijon mustard
+ freshly ground black pepper
+ parsley leaves, for garnish
1. Place the whole potatoes in a medium saucepan and cover with cool water. Season with salt and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer until the potatoes are just tender, about 25 minutes. Drain and let the potatoes cool.
2. While the potatoes cool, clean the pan and refill with water. Bring to a boil, season with salt, and blanch the carrot until tender, about 4 minutes. Remove with a slotted spoon and add the peas, cooking until they are bright green, 30 seconds to 1 minute. Drain and let cool.
3. Dice two of the hard-boiled eggs. Use a sharp knife to slice into the third egg and remove the yolk in one piece. Thinly slice the white lengthwise into strips.
4. When the potatoes are cool, rub away the skins with a paper towel and dice them the size of the peas, about ¼ inch. Place the potatoes in a large bowl and add the carrots, peas, pickles, ham, diced eggs, scallions, and dill.
5. In a small bowl, whisk the pickle juice, mayonnaise, and mustard until smooth. Season with a pinch of salt and pepper and pour over the diced ingredients. Toss gently, taking care not to break up the potatoes and eggs. Mound the salad on a serving platter and garnish with parsley. Place the egg yolk toward the middle of the top of the salad to be the center of an egg flower. Arrange the strips of egg white to look like petals. Serve immediately.
Oeufs Mayonnaise
The French are unafraid of egg-on-egg action, and oeufs mayo are proof that they’re onto something. At Yves Camdeborde’s Comptoir du Relais in Paris, an order of “oeuf mayo” means a plate of halved hard-boiled eggs blanketed in a loose mayonnaise—lemony and bright—alongside a little segment of Little Gem, and an onion-plus-onion garnish of pickled onion and fried shallots. It’s eggs in egg sauce! I love it, yet I fear it.
Makes 2 to 3 servings
¾ cup Aioli or store-bought mayonnaise
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
+ salt
½ head Little Gem lettuce, quartered vertically
¼ red onion, sliced and quickly pickled in a splash of red wine vinegar and a pinch of salt and sugar
+ Fried Shallots (recipe follows)
1. Thin out the aioli by whisking in the oil and lemon juice. You want it thin enough to be pourable, but not too liquidy. Add a little bit of water if it’s still too thick. Taste, and add salt and more lemon juice to taste.
2. Peel and halve the eggs lengthwise. Arrange them in a circle on a plate, pointy ends facing out. Pour the aioli mixture over the eggs, so they’re completely blanketed. Put the Little Gem halves in the middle, and the pickled red onion slices on top of those. Sprinkle with fried shallots, and eat right away.
Fried Shallots
Makes 1 cup shallots and 1 cup oil
1 cup peanut or vegetable oil
2 cups thinly sliced shallots
+ salt
1. Heat the oil in a saucepan over medium heat and throw in a shallot slice. When it rises to the top and starts to sizzle, add the remaining shallot slices. Stir with a slotted spoon or spider to untangle and keep them from sticking to one another.
2. Let cook, stirring occasionally, until the shallots have browned, 13 to 15 minutes. (Reduce the heat if they start to brown too fast.)
3. Remove the pan from the heat and transfer the shallot slices to a plate lined with paper towels. Sprinkle with salt. Use right away or transfer to a jar or an airtight container. Strain the shallot oil and reserve for stir-frying or drizzling over things.
How to Understand an EGG
Arielle Johnson
Biologically
The egg is a chemically complex, sealed package of protection and food to grow a chicken embryo into a chick. Understanding what its parts are intended for by evolution sheds some light on what happens when we cook with them.
Eggs are built from the inside out, starting with the hen’s germ cell, which, if fertilized by rooster sperm, will eventually become a chicken.
Food for the growing chick is added next: This is the yolk, rich in lipids—fats, emulsifiers, and cholesterol—with about 17 percent protein. The yolk also holds fat-soluble, orangey-yellow molecules like zeaxanthin and lutein from the hen’s intake of leafy plants, similar to the carotenoids in carrots and other orange vegetables.
The white of the egg, or the albumen, is added in layers to buffer and protect the chick, starting with the chalazae, the twisted protein ropes attached to either end of the shell that suspend the yolk in the middle of the egg. Albumen proteins serve a variety of protective and defensive roles in the egg, in addition to cushioning the chick.
The white is wrapped in tough protein membranes, then the protein–calcium carbonate composite of the shell, then a waxy cuticle. The color of the egg—white, brown, speckled, blue, green—depends on the breed of chicken but is deposited only on the outer shell, and has no effect on flavor or functionality. The shell has thousands of tiny holes in it to let air in for the chick—these also let in carbon dioxide, which causes the egg white to gradually become more alkaline as it sits around.
Chemically
The different biological functions of the components of an egg help explain why eggs are so versatile, and so useful in cooking.
What eggs do, in food, mostly boils down to protein denaturation (foaming, setting, and scrambling) and fat-water emulsification. And these in turn all work on fat-water repulsion.
“Denaturing” a protein has to do with upsetting its formation. Every protein is a long, unbranched chain of smaller molecules called amino acids. In their natural state, protein chains are folded into a very specifically shaped ball, unique to each type of protein. The original folds are held not by permanent links, but rather by temporary interactions between the different amino acids that make up the protein chain. It’s possible to essentially unravel this ball into a looser shape or a totally unfolded chain by disturbing with heat (cooking), changes in pH (acid or alkaline treatment), or even just whacking it a lot (beating or whisking).
You may recall that water and oil don’t mix. The same effect is what drives protein folding and the behavior of denatured proteins. The amino acids that make up a protein chain are basically either oily, hydrophobic (water-hating) and nonpolar; or hydrophilic (water-loving) and polar. Since proteins are usually floating around in water, the hydrophilic amino acids are cool just chilling out next to the water. The hydrophobic amino acids don’t mix well with water, so they get wrapped into the middle of the protein, where they can be their nonpolar selves and not have to deal with water molecules. This nonpolar-hiding-wrapping is what keeps the protein in its particular folded shape.
But disrupt these folds by heating it up, or whacking it around, or changing the chemistry of the surrounding water to become quite acidic or alkaline, and the proteins begin uncoiling and stretching out. What happens next depends on what part of the egg you’re dealing with.
Whole Egg: Coagulation
Most of the basic, and some of the nonbasic, ways to cook an egg deal in coagulation. Boiled, fried, steamed, poached, scrambled, or baked eggs; eggs mixed with dairy to make a custard or flan; or even salted or century eggs all get their delightful texture this way. Heat (but sometimes chemical changes, like alkali paste) causes the egg proteins to start unraveling and denaturing. They go from being tight little globules to loose and floppy strings, and begin connecting and binding with one another. This makes a loose net that traps water inside it, resulting in a solidified texture.
Where coagulation can go wrong: If you heat the coagulated proteins too much, their net will get tighter and tighter, squeezing out all the water, making for curdled custards and weepy scrambled eggs.
Egg White: Foams
More advanced techniques with eggs get into separating the yolk—which contains a lot of fats in addition to protein and water—from the white, which is essentially fatless: 90 percent water and 10 percent protein. Whip a whole egg and you’ll get a creamy pale yellow liquid; whip egg whites and you’ll get a growing cloud of foam.
Why the difference?
Like heating, whipping begins unraveling and denaturing proteins. It also incorporates air, which in nonprotein circumstances would just bubble away. But recall that the egg proteins have sections that want to get away from water. If there were fat around, these would just face toward the fat. In the absence of fat, they do the next best thing and face toward the air, with the polar amino acids on the unfolded proteins remaining pointed toward the water. This is a stable way to hang out, so the air bubbles remain incorporated into the liquid of the white, held in place by tiny, nonpolar “hands.”
And this is why detergent residue on your whipping bowl, or a speck of egg yolk, spells doom for your meringues and soufflés: nonpolar amino acids would much rather get cozy with fats than with air, so the only way to get them to foam is to make sure their only stabilizing friend around is air.
Egg Yolk: Emulsification
We would be remiss not to look at the chemistry that makes luscious egg sauces, like mayonnaise and hollandaise, possible in the first place. Egg yolks are largely fat and water, which don’t like to mix. To keep them together, the yolk is full of molecules that have both hydrophobic and hydrophilic parts. These are called phospholipids or lecithins, and come in the form of a fatty tail with a polar, phosphate head. We can take advantage of their capabilities by adding yolks to mixtures we want to contain both fats and water, and slowly mixing them together. Like air bubbles in egg white foams, the fats will form little droplets, and the phospholipids will gather around them, their nonpolar, fat-loving tails dipped in the droplets, their polar heads sticking out into the surrounding watery environment, and this in aggregate turning into a thick and creamy sauce.
Lecithins may not unfold as dramatically as proteins, but they are workhorses for keeping fatty things suspended in emulsions. In a mayonnaise they enable a yolk to emulsify about fifteen times its own volume in fats.
Shiso sprouts
French Meringues
In the family of meringues, French meringue would be considered the most basic. Compared to its Swiss and Italian cousins, which require heat, French meringue is whipped egg whites with a simple addition of granulated sugar.
When the meringue is baked, the sugar holds on to the water molecules, giving the protein structure of the egg whites time to coagulate into a permanent foam before all the water evaporates. This needs to happen slowly, at 200°F or lower. In the professional pastry department, I employ a dehydrator set to 180°F and leave them for 4 or more hours, depending on their size. At home, I set my oven as low as it can go, which is 200°F. I bake them for 3 hours, turn the oven off, and leave them in there for another hour or two.
Baked meringues can be shaped as simple kisses or fluted rosettes, piped and baked into individual nibbles. Bake meringue in large disks and you can layer them with mousses, whipped creams, custards, and fruits for a meringue cake. Little meringue nests can be filled with cream and fruits to make the classic French vacherin.
—Dana Cree
Makes about 1 quart meringue (enough for about 50 kiss-shaped meringues)
6 egg whites
2 tsp cream of tartar
½ tsp vanilla extract (optional)
1½ cups superfine sugar
1. Heat the oven to 200°F.
2. Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment. Add the vanilla, if using. Whip on medium speed until the egg whites are thick, have grown to about eight times their original size, and are forming soft peaks. This could take anywhere from 5 to 10 minutes.
3. Sprinkle in 2 tablespoons of the sugar. Let the meringue whip for 1 minute, then add another 2 tablespoons sugar, and again let the meringue whip for 1 minute. Continue adding the sugar in 2-tablespoon increments, letting the meringue whip for 1 minute after each addition, until all the sugar has been added to the bowl. This should take you more than 10 minutes.
4. When you’ve added all of the sugar, let the meringue whip for an additional 2 minutes, then check the texture of the meringue to see if it’s holding taut, glossy peaks. To do this, remove the bowl from the stand mixer, dip the whip into the meringue, and extract it. Position the whip tip-up and watch the way the meringue behaves. Does the tip of the meringue fall over and disappear into the mass it sits above? If so, you have soft peaks—keep whipping for about 4 more minutes. Does the meringue keep its shape, but the tip falls over on top of the mound? Then you’ve created medium peaks—you’re so close! Continue whipping for 2 more minutes. (If you were folding your meringue into a recipe, you’d likely stop here.) Is the meringue stiff and keeps a tall, proud point on top like a stalagmite? Those are stiff peaks. Congratulations, your meringue is ready to be shaped and baked! Does it break off into multiple peaks, and is kind of chunky? I’m so sorry, you’ve over-whipped your meringue and you’ll have to start over.
5. Working quickly, shape your meringues on a Silpat-lined baking sheet and get them in the 200°F oven ASAP! Bake the meringues for 3 hours, turn the oven off, and leave them in there for another 1 or 2 hours, to ensure they are very dry. (Alternatively you can hold them in a dehydrator at 180°F for 4 hours.) Once baked, let the meringues cool completely at room temperature, then transfer them to an airtight container to help preserve their crisp texture. If you have any of those “do not eat” packets of desiccant that come in your shoes and bags of beef jerky (you can also find them for sale at most hardware stores), throw them in the container with your meringues. They will absorb any moisture in the container, preserving the meringues’ crisp texture.
King Penguin
Lemon Meringue Pie
Lemon meringue pie, arguably the most beautiful of pies, is the glorious coming together of yolk and white, lemony custard coupled with sky-high Italian meringue. This pie’s a cute couple: Mary-Frances Heck’s perfectly tart custard is toweringly piled with all 6 cups of Dana Cree’s foolproof recipe for soft, glossy Italian meringue. We ate the (Mary-Frances) HECK out of this pie. You will, too.
Makes one 9-inch pie
¾ cup plus 1 tbsp sugar
¼ cup cornstarch
1¼ cups water
1 egg
3 egg yolks
+ pinch of salt
1 tsp grated lemon zest
½ cup fresh lemon juice
4 tbsp butter, cubed
+ Pie Crust (recipe follows)
+ Italian Meringue (recipe follows)
1. Whisk ¾ cup of the sugar and the cornstarch together in a medium saucepan. When combined with no lumps remaining, add the water and whisk until smooth. Set over medium-high heat and bring to a simmer, stirring, until thickened. Remove from the heat.
2. Beat the whole egg and yolks with the remaining 1 tablespoon sugar and the salt. Pour one-third of the hot cornstarch mixture into the eggs while whisking. Pour the tempered eggs into the saucepan and whisk gently to combine. Switch to a heat-resistant spatula and set the mixture over medium-low heat. Cook until the mixture simmers, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan with the spatula. Remove from the heat and stir in the lemon zest, lemon juice, and butter until smooth. Strain the hot lemon custard into the baked pie crust and place in the refrigerator to cool.
3. Heat the oven to 400°F and arrange a single rack in the lowest slot of the oven.
4. Spoon a cup or two of Italian meringue over the cooled lemon custard, sealing the custard below the meringue. Pile on more meringue, creating peaks and valleys around the pie. Use at least 3 cups of meringue, or more for a mile-high effect. Bake the pie until the meringue is toasted to your liking, 10 to 15 minutes. (Alternatively use a blowtorch to toast the meringue.) Let cool before slicing.
Pie Crust
Makes one 9-inch pie crust
1½ cups all-purpose flour, plus more as needed
½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
1 stick (4 oz) cold unsalted butter, cubed
¼ cup ice water
1. Pulse the flour, baking powder, salt, and butter in a food processor until the butter is broken down into small pebbles. Drizzle in the water and pulse just until the mixture begins to come together. Dump onto a lightly floured work surface and fold and press until the dough comes together. Shape the dough into a disk, wrap in plastic, and chill for at least 30 minutes and up to 2 days.
2. Heat the oven to 400°F.
3. Roll out the dough to an 11- or 12-inch round and fit into a 9-inch pie dish. Trim to a 1-inch overhang, crimp the edges, and dock the dough with a fork. Lay a piece of parchment over the dough and fill the pan with baking beans. Bake for 20 minutes, remove the beans and parchment paper, and continue baking until the crust is firm and tan colored, another 10 to 15 minutes. Let cool.
Italian Meringue
Makes about 6 cups
6 egg whites
1 tsp cream of tartar
6 tbsp water
1 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1. Place the egg whites and cream of tartar in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment and begin mixing on medium speed.
2. Meanwhile, place the water and sugar in a small, heavy-bottomed pot and place over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring only enough that the sugar dissolves, until the syrup reaches a boil. When the syrup starts to boil, use a pastry brush dipped in water to wash any sugar crystals off the sides of the pot as they appear. Continue cooking until the syrup reaches 240°F.
3. Ideally, the meringue will reach soft peaks at the same moment the syrup reaches 240°F. You’ll have to keep your eye on both items as they progress, increasing and decreasing the heat under the syrup if necessary to achieve this. If the egg whites reach soft peaks before the syrup has reached that temperature, turn the mixer to low speed, but do not stop it. Once you stop the motion, the proteins in the meringue continue to bond with each other, locking it in place, and will break when you begin whipping them again.
4. When the syrup has reached 240°F, reduce the mixer speed to medium-low, to prevent splatters of hot syrup flying at your face. Begin adding the syrup in a slow, steady stream. Aim for the place where the whisk and the bowl come closest to each other. Once all of the syrup has been added, turn your mixer to medium-high speed. The heat from the syrup will denature the proteins on contact and can overcook them if you don’t start moving the mixture fast and grab as much air as you can.
5. The Italian meringue will reach full volume and form stiff peaks, but it’s not completed until the meringue cools to below 120°F, or is warm—not hot—to the touch. Just before stiff peaks form, add the vanilla extract and whip until it’s completely incorporated.
6. Bask in the glossy glow of your tall-peaked Italian meringue. Take your time—it’s not going anywhere for a little while. Once you’re done admiring your hard work, send it on its way to its final destination.
Crème Brûlée
You expect to see crème brûlée at a steakhouse, next to the molten chocolate cake or tiramisu. But other desserts don’t actually hold a flame to crème brûlée’s perfection, even though it’s just yolky custard and burnt sugar. Maybe it’s the simplicity, maybe it’s the specks of vanilla bean flickered throughout, or the foreign accents. Most likely it’s getting to theatrically break the sugar crust with your silver spoon.
—Aralyn Beaumont
Makes 4 servings
2 cups heavy cream
+ pinch of salt
1 vanilla bean
6 egg yolks
½ cup sugar
4 tsp turbinado sugar
1. Heat the oven to 300°F and heat a kettle full of water.
2. Slowly warm the cream and salt in a medium saucepan over medium heat, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat. Split the vanilla bean lengthwise, scrape the seeds out of the pod, and add the seeds to the pot along with the vanilla bean. Cover the pot and let steep for 15 to 20 minutes.
3. Meanwhile, mix the egg yolks and sugar until you reach the ribbon stage: When you lift the whisk, it should leave a trace of a ribbon on the surface that slides back into the mixture in a couple of seconds.
4. Bring the vanilla cream back to a simmer. Pour a small amount into the egg yolk mixture to temper it and whisk, adding a little at a time until the eggs are heated. Pour the egg mixture into the cream and return to the stove over medium heat. Constantly stir in a figure-eight motion until the mixture has thickened, 3 to 5 minutes.
5. Strain the custard through a fine-mesh strainer into a pitcher or large measuring cup. Divide the custard among four 8-ounce ramekins. Place the ramekins in a large roasting pan and fill the pan with the heated water so that it reaches two-thirds of the way up the ramekins. Bake until the center has a slight jiggle but the sides are set, 30 to 40 minutes.
6. Remove from the oven and cool on a cooling rack. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
7. Once they’re cooled, it’s time to brûlée: Evenly coat the top of each ramekin with 1 teaspoon of turbinado sugar. Torch according to the directions on your handheld torch, or stick the ramekins under the broiler for 5 minutes.
8. Let them sit for 5 minutes before serving so the sugar can cool and harden.
Limoncello Zabaglione
Traditionally zabaglione is made with Marsala. I first had it at Felidia in New York, where Lidia Bastianich makes a very traditional Italian zabaglione—super light and fluffy, served in cups and topped with whipped cream. It’s very simple.
Years later, when I started developing a menu at Mozza, I had to revisit all my memories of desserts and dishes and put my own little spin on them. I thought about the zabaglione and how I wanted to make it different and work with lighter flavors. Italy doesn’t really have a lemon curd, so I thought of using the limoncello as a way to introduce a lighter element into the dessert as opposed to a boozy Marsala zabaglione.
We tend to serve it in the dead of winter, even though it’s still 75 degrees here in LA. Since it is made with limoncello, we can pair it with fresh citrus fruits, such as grapefruit or blood oranges or tangerines, which are seasonal in the winter. And that’s really one of my favorite ways to have it: chilled and spooned over fresh fruit. You can also layer it in a glass with cake and berries.
—Dahlia Narvaez
Makes 8 servings
8 egg yolks
½ cup sugar
¾ cup limoncello
¼ cup heavy cream
+ berries, for serving
1. Prepare a large bowl of ice water and set aside.
2. Fill a medium saucepan less than halfway with water and heat to a gentle simmer. Whisk together the egg yolks, sugar, and limoncello in a large metal bowl until well blended. Place the bowl over the saucepan and immediately start whisking at a moderate speed.
3. Beat the egg mixture with large strokes, frequently scraping the whisk around the sides and bottom of the bowl to heat and cook the zabaglione evenly—be careful not to scramble the egg yolks. Continue to steadily whisk as the zabaglione expands into a thick frothy sponge, about 5 minutes longer.
4. When the sponge is warm to the touch and thickened enough to form a ribbon when it drops back on the surface, take the bowl off the saucepan and transfer it to the bowl of ice water. Whisk the zabaglione until it’s cool.
5. When the zabaglione is cool, whip the cream to medium peaks. Fold the whipped cream into the zabaglione. Chill the zabaglione until ready to serve, or refrigerate covered tightly for 1 day. Serve with berries.
Îles Flottantes
For the French, this dessert is not only a classic, but often a childhood touchstone. In a country where people are more likely to buy their desserts from a neighborhood pâtisserie than prepare them at home, îles flottantes (floating islands) remains a mainstay in the make-at-home repertoire, in some part because it is so easy and in some part because it’s a naturally showy dessert. The islands, soft-poached meringue puffs, float in a smooth crème anglaise, which is even better when refrigerated overnight. Served in a large bowl (the dessert looks great served in a grand footed bowl) or in individual portions, the islands can be presented unadorned or given their traditional decoration—caramelized sugar strands. Making the strands is a last-minute job, but it takes only a couple of minutes and adds more than a couple of minutes’ worth of oohs and aahs.
—Dorie Greenspan
Makes 6 servings
4 cups whole milk
6 egg yolks
¾ cup sugar
1½ tsp vanilla extract
4 egg whites, at room temperature
+ pinch of salt
+ Caramel (optional; recipe follows)
1. Make the crème anglaise: Bring 2 cups of the milk to a boil in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat.
2. Meanwhile, put the yolks and ½ cup of the sugar in a heavy saucepan and whisk vigorously until thick and pale, 2 to 3 minutes.
3. Still whisking, drizzle a little of the hot milk into the yolks—this will temper, or warm, the yolks so they won’t curdle. Whisking all the while, slowly pour in the remaining hot milk. Put the saucepan over medium-low heat and, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, cook until the crème anglaise thickens, lightens in color, and coats the spoon—if you run your finger down the spoon, the track should remain; this will take about 10 minutes. The crème anglaise should be cooked until it reaches 180°F on an instant-read thermometer.
4. Immediately remove the pan from the heat, strain the crème anglaise through a fine-mesh sieve into a bowl, and stir in the vanilla. Press a piece of plastic wrap against the surface of the crème anglaise to create an airtight seal and refrigerate until thoroughly chilled, 2 to 3 hours, or for up to 3 days. (The crème anglaise will improve with at least an overnight rest.)
5. Make the meringue islands: Spread a few clean kitchen towels on the counter near the stove and have a large slotted spoon at hand. Line a baking sheet with wax paper. Put the remaining 2 cups milk in a wide saucepan and bring it to a simmer over low heat.
6. Meanwhile, put the egg whites in the clean bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment (or use a large bowl and a hand mixer). Beat the whites on medium speed just until foamy, then beat in the salt. When the eggs turn opaque, increase the mixer speed to medium-high and add the remaining ¼ cup sugar about 1 tablespoon at a time. Whip until the meringue is firm but satiny and still glossy, about 5 minutes.
7. You have two choices in shaping the floating islands: You can just scoop up some meringue—specifically, an amount about twice the size of an egg—in which case you’ll have the equivalent of a rocky volcanic island, or you can smooth the meringue to get a manicured island. For the smooth look, use a large oval spoon to scoop up the meringue, then use another large oval spoon to very gingerly transfer the meringue from spoon to spoon a couple of times to form a smooth oval.
8. Either way, one by one, lower the islands into the simmering milk, adding only as many islands as you can fit into the pan without crowding.
9. Poach the meringues for 1 minute, gently turn them over, and poach them for 1 minute more. Then lift the islands out of the milk and onto the towel. Repeat until you’ve poached 12 islands. Put the puffs (which will have inflated when poached and will deflate when cooled) on the lined baking sheet and chill them for at least 1 hour, or for up to 3 hours.
10. Either pour the crème anglaise into a large serving bowl and top with the meringue islands, or make 6 individual servings. If using the caramel, working quickly, dip the tines of a fork into the caramel and wave the fork over the floating islands to create threads that will quickly harden.
Caramel
Makes about 1 cup
½ cup sugar
⅓ cup water
1. Stir the sugar and water together in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan and cook over medium heat, stirring, until the sugar dissolves.
2. Increase the heat, bring the syrup to a boil, and cook without stirring, swirling the pan occasionally, until the caramel turns a pale gold color, 6 to 8 minutes.
3. Pull the pan from the heat and let the caramel cool just until it is thick enough to form threads when it is dropped from the tines of a fork. (If the caramel hardens, rewarm it slowly over low heat.)
Chicken Consommé
Okay, so you have too many egg whites from making all those custards, and you’re feeling a little queasy from this chapter, too? What you should cook now is this simple chicken consommé, clarified with egg whites.
This is a recipe I made a couple of dozen times in culinary school. The ritual of slicing and mixing the ingredients methodically, then carefully watching the mixture simmer and the raft form, offers a form of therapy to the cook. A recipe doing exactly what it’s meant to—something that you can’t otherwise achieve with any piece of kitchen equipment—brings one back to the basics of the French kitchen. The bit of time invested produces something deeply nourishing for ill and well alike.
—Mary-Frances Heck
Makes 4 servings
1 leek or small onion, thinly sliced
1 celery stalk, thinly sliced
1 carrot, julienned
¼ cup 1-inch pieces parsley stems
1 tsp cracked black peppercorns
10 thyme sprigs
1 lb lean ground chicken
6 egg whites, beaten
8 cups homemade chicken stock
1. Toss the leek, celery, carrot, parsley, pepper, and thyme in a taller-than-wide stockpot. Add the chicken and egg whites and break up and stir with your fingers or a wooden spoon.
2. Pour the stock into the pot and set over medium heat. Bring to a very gentle simmer, then slide the pot one-quarter of the way off the burner (taking care that it will not tip over or spill) and “convection simmer,” so the liquid bubbles up the side of the pot that’s directly over the burner and up and over the raft of coagulated egg and meat that has formed. Cook in this manner until the consommé is perfectly clear and flavorful, about 45 minutes. Do not let the consommé boil or allow the raft to break up lest the stock become cloudy. Remove from the heat and let settle.
3. Gently ladle the consommé into a coffee filter–lined strainer set over a clean saucepan. Reheat to nearly boiling, then pour into heated bowls.
Gin Fizz
I absolutely subscribe to the belief that an egg makes everything better. If you have leftovers, put a poached egg on top, and they’re better. Put an egg on a burger, great! Put an egg in a drink—it will make the drink better, too.
The Gin Fizz is very classically a brunch drink, and now it’s the kind of thing that cocktail nerds like to order at night. But it was originally a Sunday morning kind of thing. Using an egg white makes the drink extra silky, extra foamy—gives it this extra texture that changes the drink, gives it a thicker mouthfeel, and makes it more exciting. And the other good part about egg white drinks is that you can make cool designs on the top.
—Meaghan Dorman, as told to Lauren Ro
Makes 1 cocktail
¾ oz fresh lemon juice
¾ oz simple syrup
2 oz gin
1 small egg white (about 2 tbsp)
+ ice
3 oz club soda
+ lemon peel
1. Shake the lemon juice, simple syrup, gin, and egg white together briefly in a cocktail shaker to emulsify.
2. Add ice and shake again, then strain into a Collins glass without ice. Add the club soda and the drink will foam up higher. Express lemon peel over the top, discard, and serve.
American Kestrel
Yuen Yueng
What’s that? You have too many eggshells left over from cooking the recipes in this book? A recipe for you:
Perhaps the most famous of the milk tea drinks in Hong Kong is the yuen yueng (a half tea half coffee drink filtered via eggshells), whose name comes literally from the male and female names of Mandarin ducks who mate for life, and more figuratively from the complementary forces of yin and yang. When Lan Fong Yuen opened in the 1960s, the owner’s wife sewed all the socks for their “silk stocking milk tea.” Now they have them custom-made by a local seamstress. But that’s not the real secret, says the guy manning the sixteen pots bubbling on the stove. The secret is not to boil your coffee and tea all sloppy, and then mix it all together! This process takes concentration and coordination, he says. If you really do it right, the whole process takes half an hour per pot.
—Tienlon Ho
Makes 4 servings
2½ tsp black tea leaves
4 eggshells, crushed into small shards (mostly uniform in size, each about ⅛ inch across)
1 cup coarsely ground coffee
+ sweetened condensed milk
SPECIAL EQUIPMENT
2 cotton coffee socks or 1 pair of new stockings
1. For the tea, mix the leaves with half of the crushed eggshells and put in a coffee sock or stocking. Bring 1 quart water to a high simmer in a pot, add the coffee sock, and steep at this steady temperature for at least 10 minutes.
2. For the coffee, mix the ground coffee with the rest of the crushed eggshells and put in a coffee sock or stocking. Pour 1 quart of 195ºF water through the sock into a second pot set over a low flame. Pour that pot through the sock into a third pot set over the same flame. Repeat. You want the coffee water to pass through the sock a total of six times.
3. Fill a serving pot with the tea, then stir in sweetened condensed milk to taste (you’ll want it overly sweet). Top off with an equal amount of coffee. (Lan Fong Yuen finds balance in an unbalanced 7:3 ratio of milk tea to coffee.)
4. Pour the yuen yueng into heavy mugs and serve.
Cowboys do it, too! A classic trick at church socials, camping trips, and anywhere there are no coffee filters is to drop a whole egg into coffee grounds, shell and all. The calcium in the shell neutralizes one of the seven main acids that can give coffee its acrid flavor. At the same time, the egg proteins bind to some of the bitter components, just the way egg white is used to clarify the tannins from wine, allowing them to be strained out.
Crested Tinamou
Confetti-filled eggs from Mexico City
Life of the PARTY
Lucas Turner
The Easter egg hunt, as we know it today, is a cocktail of traditions and mythologies. Eostre was a fertility goddess, who, according to Anglo-Saxon legend, saved a broken-winged bird by transforming it into an egg-laying hare. During Easter in Germany, children are sent to find the hare’s hidden egg nests. After the Christian church adopted the pagan festival of Eostre—which was a celebration of spring and fertility—as a way to celebrate Christ’s resurrection, “Pace Eggs” followed. Eggs were dyed red to represent Christ’s blood; the shell symbolized his three-day entombment—the breaking of which represented resurrection, and the breaking of the bonds of sin and death. In Lancashire, En-gland, pace eggs are carefully boiled with onion skins to give their shells the appearance of mottled gold. Ukrainian pysanky eggs are intricately and brilliantly decorated with beeswax and successive dips into dye baths. In Germany and other central European countries, egg trees are made by stringing up emptied, painted eggshells with ribbons on evergreens or small leafless trees.
Today, the Easter egg hunt is executed in myriad ways: Some people plan out elaborate scavenger hunts with clues. (My own experience with them, growing up in California, was a free-for-all melee with eggs scattered around a park or backyard.) In Mexico, children bump cascarones (hollow chicken egg shells, painted and filled with confetti and sometimes small toys and sweets, closed again with a colored square of tissue paper) onto one another’s heads. The most famed American Easter egg celebration is the White House Easter Egg Roll, a race where children push a decorated egg through the grass with a long-handled spoon, celebrated annually since the early nineteenth century. (President Rutherford B. Hayes made it an official White House event in 1878.) Different versions of the egg races abound in Scotland and England, mostly of the downhill variety.
Pisco Sour
When I went to Peru I drank so many pisco sours I thought I was tapped out forever. They make them in blenders over there because they make so many. A sour is a really good showcase for pisco—which I love as a spirit, because it’s real floral, yet earthy. Support that with a little bit of citrus, and make it fluffy with the egg white, and it’s a great introduction to pisco. Everyone likes it!
—Meaghan Dorman, as told to Lauren Ro
Makes 1 cocktail
½ oz fresh lime juice
½ oz fresh lemon juice
¾ oz simple syrup
2 oz pisco
1 small egg white (about 2 tbsp)
+ ice
+ Angostura bitters
1. Shake the citrus juices, simple syrup, pisco, and egg white briefly in a cocktail shaker to emulsify.
2. Add ice and shake again until the shaker is frosty. Strain into a coupe.
3. Add a few dashes of Angostura bitters onto the foam, then use a spoon or straw to make the bitters into a design.
Blue Grouse
From left: Eggnog, Rompope, Indonesian Eggnog (STMJ)
Eggnog
George Washington, our country’s first president and fan of innumerable boozes, loved eggnog especially. (Is it any coincidence that our first commander in chief, who hobnobbed endlessly with powerful figures, was a fan of the world’s most important food?) I can’t really picture him swilling it (though I can picture him lovingly brushing his wig), but apparently George and Martha threw excellent parties at which they served a potent nog. They loved the stuff! This is the Washingtons’ (adapted) recipe, which uses four kinds of alcohol and a dozen eggs. Of course, it serves a crowd.
Makes 24 servings
2 cups brandy
1 cup rye whiskey
1 cup Jamaican rum
½ cup dry sherry
12 eggs, separated
¾ cup sugar
4 cups milk
4 cups cream
+ nutmeg
1. Combine the brandy, whiskey, rum, and sherry in a large measuring cup.
2. Whisk the egg yolks and sugar in a large bowl until two shades paler, about 30 seconds. Add a few drops of the liquor and whisk to incorporate. Begin pouring the liquor in a thin, steady stream, whisking constantly. Add the milk, then the cream, in the same manner. Set the eggnog base aside.
3. Whip the egg whites to stiff peaks and then fold into the eggnog base. Pour the eggnog into a gallon container, like a jug, or four 1-quart jars. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 day and up to 2 weeks.
4. When ready to serve, pour into small glasses and grate nutmeg over. Serve cold.
It’s ROM-PO-PAY
Naomi Tomky
That’s how you pronounce rompope, the eggy Mexican drink that’s ever present at holidays and special occasions. The ingredients—milk, sugar, spices, egg yolks, and rum—sound as much like the makings of a cookie as they do a beverage. So it’s no surprise that rompope pops up in pastries and on dessert menus—as an ice cream flavor, fruit topping, and cake moistener.
It takes lots of egg yolks to get rompope to be its brilliant yellow color. Those yolks—aside from bequeathing their color—make for a creamy drink, smooth and velvety. The basic building blocks are similar to eggnog (and it is often described as Mexican eggnog), though it’s made with cooked eggs—and only the yolks. Some versions are additionally thickened with nuts—usually almonds, though there are many variations (including the common and freakishly bright pink bottles colored by Mexico’s pink pine nuts, as well as chocolate, pistachio, and walnut). Like American eggnog, it’s often thought of as a holiday beverage, though that’s spread to a general cheery reputation, meaning it’s brought out for any special occasion, usually served chilled or over ice.
Versions of the drink abound in Latin America, but Puebla (birthplace of mole poblano and chiles en nogada, and a culinary center of Mexico) claims rights to the first and best version: Santa Clara brand, sold in large triangular bottles, is the original, named for the local convent whose nuns began producing the drink around 1600, after the Spanish introduced it. There, each nun had a culinary duty, including baking Santa Clara cookies and making camote enmielado, a crystallized sweet potato candy. Another of those jobs was to make what the Spanish had called ponche de huevo, or egg punch, rechristened rompope upon arrival in the New World. Sister Eduviges was the nun with the rompope gig, and it was her perfected recipe—she added an additional ingredient that she never revealed—that made the rompope wildly popular and profitable: It raised a lot of money for the convent. The story also goes that Sister Eduviges convinced the Mother Superior that the nuns be allowed to partake of their own product—and that was when the drink really took off.
Rompope
Mexico does it, too!
This rompope is a little lighter than the thirty-egg version I learned in culinary school but still decadent and aromatic from the addition of cinnamon and vanilla, and not too sweet. Drink it from a small chilled glass as a dessert or pour it on top of ice cream. Alternatively, you can serve it warm at a holiday party.
Cachaça, a distilled Brazilian sugarcane liquor, takes the place of the traditional Mexican aguardiente, which can be hard to find. (Cachaça adds a cleaner, more balanced flavor than the often-substituted rum.) You can also use a vanilla bean instead of extract for bigger vanilla flavor, or add a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg if you like. But definitely only use the egg yolks—adding the whites is a whole other drink.
The texture here is fairly thick; if you want it thinner, don’t reduce the milk as much.
—Lesley Téllez
Makes 8 servings
5 cups whole milk
1 cup sugar
2 whole cloves
1 Mexican cinnamon stick (3 inches)
1 tsp vanilla extract
12 large egg yolks, beaten
¼ cup cachaça or rum, or to taste
1. Combine the milk, sugar, cloves, cinnamon stick, and vanilla in a large, heavy saucepan. Bring to a gentle boil over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Reduce the heat to medium-low and stir constantly until reduced by about one-third, 20 to 25 minutes. Let cool to room temperature.
2. Slowly whisk in the egg yolks and warm the mixture over very low heat. Stir constantly until thickened to an eggnog-like consistency, 10 to 15 minutes. Stir in the alcohol. Strain the mixture into a bowl and discard the cloves and cinnamon.
3. If serving chilled, prepare an ice bath by placing some ice cubes and a little cold water in a large bowl. Nestle the bowl containing the rompope inside. Refrigerate until cool, then transfer to an airtight container.
Indonesian Eggnog (STMJ)
Plying the underground walkways beneath Blok M, Jakarta’s main bus terminal, hawkers entice morning and evening rush hour commuters with steamed or fried snacks. Their pushcarts—basically retrofitted cupboards or TV cabinets tricked out with bicycle tires on the sides and a peg-leg prop in front—go by the name of kaki lima (“five feet,” i.e., three feet for the cart itself and two feet for the itinerant vendor behind).
Many kaki lima are gaudily painted and some blare loud Indo-pop. But the stall of Indra Kurniawan and his wife, Nena, is relatively understated: just a grapefruit-size rotating mirrored disco ball and a stream of cool Sundanese flute music to evoke the misty hills of West Java that rise above Jakarta’s urban sprawl.
The Kurniawans sell a Sundanese potion designed to bolster the sick and weary and to rekindle flagging libidos on the cool winter nights in those misty hills. It’s a recipe so simple and so cherished that it is denoted by just the initials of its key ingredients: milk, egg, honey, and ginger (susu, telor, madu, jahe). But it requires a deft touch with a wire whisk and a blowtorch, cautions the Kurniawans’ fifteen-year-old son, Rakka, who runs the Blok M stall most nights.
—Melati Kaye
Makes 1 drink
3 egg yolks
1 tsp honey
2 tbsp sweetened condensed milk
1½ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp ground nutmeg
¼ tsp ground cloves
¼ tsp ground black sesame seeds (optional)
¼ tsp ground ginseng root (optional)
+ Ginger Tea (recipe follows)
3 whole cloves, for garnish
1. Place the yolks in a cocktail shaker along with the honey, sweetened condensed milk, and ground spices.
2. Hold a small whisk at the center of the shaker and twirl until the concoction is fully mixed and slightly frothy.
3. Pour one-quarter of the frothy egg mixture into a heatproof serving cup. Toast the surface with a blowtorch to caramelize to a light brown color. Repeat with two more additions, toasting each time. Add about ½ cup ginger tea, or to taste. Add the final frothy addition of egg and toast again.
4. Arrange the whole cloves on top of the drink for garnish. Serve with a small glass of ginger tea the drinkers can use to dilute the potion to their preferred sweetness levels.
Ginger Tea
Makes enough for 8 servings
½ lb fresh ginger
8 cups water
1. Wash and towel dry the ginger. Roast over a charcoal flame, grill, or gas flame until lightly charred.
2. Pound the ginger with a mortar and pestle. (Alternatively, lay the ginger out on a plastic cutting board and smash with the flat side of a cleaver or a rolling pin.)
3. Put the ginger in a saucepan and fill with water (the roots should be submerged). Bring to a rolling boil, reduce the heat, and cook for 10 more minutes.
4. Strain and reserve the spicy tea in a warm spot.
White-Winged Chough
Vietnamese Egg Soda
When I visited Vietnam for the first time recently, I was surprised (and overjoyed!) to learn that people there love to drink eggs. I tried an “egg coffee”—strong, sweet coffee with a whole egg in it (the whites make an even more voluptuous foam than milk). Soda sua hot ga is another eggy beverage, which on the menu at my local pho shop, Pho Tan Hoa in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, is listed as “Soda with egg york.” Unlike the American egg cream, which contains neither egg nor cream, Vietnamese egg soda is made with eggs AND soda. And condensed milk, which nobody doesn’t love.
Makes 1 drink
1 egg
1 cup club soda
2½ tbsp sweetened condensed milk
+ ice
1. Crack the egg into a large drinking glass. Puncture the yolk with a fork and beat until mixed, about 30 seconds. Add the club soda—slowly, in case it wants to bubble out—and stir vigorously until the soda is incorporated with the yolk and uniformly pale yellow, another 30 seconds or so.
2. Mix in the condensed milk (more or less to taste) and stir vigorously to dissolve and to refroth the drink.
3. Add ice cubes and drink right away!
Chocolate Eggs
Alison Kinney
Eggs are so fundamentally about origins that even egg-shaped chocolates, which generally contain no egg, can’t help but point back to their antecedents. Half the pleasure—or disgust—in a Cadbury Creme Egg comes from its uncanniness: the fragile chocolate shell, the oozy innards, the fondant flavor whose intensity rivals that of a soft-cooked yolk. Then there’s the Kinder Surprise: What’s in that shell—food, fowl, or foul? They confuse and titillate our eyes and tongues; they evoke egginess when no real eggs are in sight.
Chocolate eggs are for philosophers, lovers, and Christians. In 1902, the French teachers’ journal Manuel général de l’instruction primaire published a romance, “Easter Story,” in which a chocolate egg transformed the love life of a melancholy schoolteacher. A century later, the (fabricated) tale of a Perugian couple’s mishap with a diamond engagement ring inside a dark chocolate egg—exchanged, by the lady, for a milk chocolate egg—went viral in the Italian media. Researchers have given children chocolate eggs to test the bounds of friendship; Slavoj ŽiŽek has used chocolate eggs to test our patience with his ideas on the central void of subjectivity; Ludwig Wittgenstein had the good sense just to give them as gifts to friends. At the outbreak of WWI, little Simone Weil was so moved by the suffering of war that, at Easter, she donated her chocolate egg to the soldiers. And in her 1986 performance The Constant State of Desire, artist Karen Finley “got gourmet Easter egg candy to sell. I sell these Easter eggs to gourmet chocolate shops,” in a way the Wall Street traders would never recover from.
In the chocolate shops of Paris, the Easter Chocolatier has laid the Easter eggs. It means springtime is here, gorgeous in pastel royal icing, edible gold, and velvety cocoa powder. At La Maison du Chocolat, a daisy with a mustache sprouts from a chocolate egg. Arnaud Larher has made clown- and elephant-eggs for the kiddies and glorious chocolate eggs bearing priestly breastplates made of mendiants for the adults. At Jean-Charles Rochoux’s shop, a giraffe hatches from one massive chocolate egg, and the bust of a bewigged man—the seventeenth-century playwright Molière—looms from another. Choco-Story, the Musée Gourmand du Chocolat in Paris, is preparing a giant chocolate egg for children to destroy with tiny hammers on Easter. (How giant? “Big, but not big enough to fall over on them,” a clerk tells me.)
My egg hunt had started in February in New York, when I took the subway to Jacques Torres’s chocolate factory on Brooklyn’s industrial waterfront. In the kitchens, pastry chefs painted chocolate molds, turning out bemused ducklings and saucy bunnies. In the lunchroom, Torres and I, wearing hairnets, hunched over his phone looking up the history of chocolate eggs.
In his native France, the traditional Easter symbols include eggs, fish, bells, and hens, but Torres noted, “In America, it’s rabbits. We sell more rabbits than eggs. I actually have a bell mold, but nobody buys them!” Eggs, though, inspire him. “Eggs are a very interesting topic. I think that has something to do with the baby. The egg is a symbol of birth, renewing, beginning, spring!” Easter eggs date at least to 1290, when England’s Edward I spent eighteen pence on 450 colored, gold-leafed eggs. But many cultures around the world have regarded eggs as symbols of creation, birth, fertility—or death or witchcraft. Egg-decorating traditions have crossed the boundaries of paganism, Judaism, Islam, Christianity, and communism, reinventing folk practices around the world, especially in Eastern Europe.
What came first, the chocolate chicken or the chocolate egg? The chocolate egg may even predate the invention of solid chocolate. The sixteenth-century introduction of Aztec cacao to Europe created another hot chocolate–drinking culture. At Versailles, chocolate was whipped with sugar, almonds or orange flower water, and—wait for it—an egg yolk. According to Elisabeth de Contenson in Chocolat et son histoire (2010), it was the eighteenth-century chocolate-drinkers who first blew out a chicken eggshell to fill with drinking chocolate. Voilà: chocolate egg! The 1830s saw the first molds for shaping solid chocolates—including egg shapes—and the chocolatiers never looked back.
If there’s something elementary about ovoid symbolism, the chocolate egg also constitutes part of a pastry chef’s elementary education. Jürgen David, Senior Coordinator of Pastry Arts at New York’s International Culinary Center, supervises students in tempering and molding chocolate eggs, then using the eggs for building. “If you think of the shape of a bunny or teddy bear, you can make a big egg that’s the body, and smaller eggs for the feet. If the eggs are hollow, they can become ears.” Even in France, there’s only so much a chocolatier can do with a whelk or an Easter bell. Eggs, on the other hand, are fundamental forms whose simplicity provides opportunity for creativity, meaning, and humor.
One chocolate egg summons up not only confectionary history but also the origins in the chicken egg. All over Paris they’re sold, singly from wire egg baskets or six at a time in egg cartons. I buy mine at Rochoux’s: a chocolate “oeuf dur,” or hard-boiled egg. It’s a real brown chicken eggshell, containing a hard chocolate shell filled with luscious hazelnut praline. Ronald Bilheux and Alain Escoffier, in the French Professional Pastry Series, called this an “Oeuf Surprise”: “Very often purchased by our clientele to be put in the gardens on Easter—it’s really a surprise egg!” How am I supposed to eat it? The staff at Rochoux’s say, “Cut it with a knife, and eat it like any egg!”
Surprise eggs are commonly sold in Parisian bakeries and supermarkets, as well as chocolate shops, but they aren’t common in the United States; usually it’s intrepid food bloggers who make them at home. It must be said that ganache eggs are fussy to eat. Like fresh hard-boiled eggs, they’re the damnedest things to peel; chips get stuck in the chocolate. Digging the ganache out with a spoon just feels anticlimactic.
All the same, they’re magical. They use the eggshell itself—the inedible, discarded, beautiful-till-cracked eggshell, upon which the egg depends for its characteristic form—and turn it into a chocolate mold. Chocolate eggs were born inside real eggshells, and now they’re back, as mysterious and strange as they ever were. In a way, they effect a resurrection of both chocolate and eggs, forcing us to rethink the uses of foods so common we hardly even register their marvelousness, telling us nearly forgotten food histories, restoring origins we didn’t even know they had. Spring is here, beginning all over again.
