I love eggs. I make them the way Julia Child did, stirring the curds slowly up from the pan. I buy good fresh eggs, which I guess cost about 40 cents apiece. But that is a fraction of the price of the egg that’s selling for £8 — $12.24 — at a restaurant in London called Dabbous.
What do you get when you pay 12 bucks for an egg? Here is the paean written to the thing by Isabel Lloyd of the Economist.
At the top, the egg has been sliced off as if by laser, and a rich, curdled-looking yolk-and-butter gloop fills it to the brim. Dark, razored discs of button mushroom are visible, folded in like gills between flecks of emerald chives. There’s a smell of earthy forest floor, warm meadow, sweet burnt toast … Half an hour later, I could still taste it all.
Well. Let’s say my three eggs cost $1.2o — one-tenth of what Lloyd paid for her amazing concoction. It takes me seven minutes to eat mine, so let’s assume the same on her part since she’s probably drinking a nice glass of Chablis and debating whether she should get her boyfriend a sweater at Paul Smith. But a half hour later, she is still tasting it all. And I am just like, not tasting anything, and writing about her? Hmm. Maybe the $12 egg wins after all.
A Hymn to Lipids, Economist.
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