Tag Archives: food

Monday Night at the Budvar Bar.

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I wasn’t paying attention to the calendar when I happened in here tonight. I’m at the Budvar Bar (actually the name is U Kmotra, not to be confused with some big tourist trap that is actually called Budvar Bar), the bar closest to home and also a place to get a plateful of cheap, if not inspired, food. The tea costs more here than at Little Café Near Home, but the food swayed me.

Incidentally, word on the street is that the Little Café Near Home is going to get larger. What’s cool is that the plan is to grow vertically downward. Beverages are always tastier when consumed subterranealy. This probably means tripling the size of the Little Café — there would be no point in spending so much on construction just to increase the capacity from twenty (when packed to the gills) to forty. If the Little Café has fifteen tables, rather than the current six, will it still be the Little Café?

Tonight I’m at the Budvar Bar, however, and I”m feeling bloated and slow-witted after a filling meal. It is crowded tonight. I am at the table directly under the television, as there is a game on and I don’t want to take up a seat that someone interested in the game might want. The place began to fill up quickly soon after I arrived, the tables filling first on the sides facing the television. Tonight’s match is Prague Sparta (rhymes with New York Yankees) vs. Kladno (rhyme pending) in a grass-kick-hockey (rhymes with soccer or football, depending where you live) match. This game has had relatively few cases of grown men lying on the grass pretending to be hurt (apparently an integral part of this sport), so it hasn’t been too painful to have it flashing in my peripheral vision, demanding my attention.

Directly behind me is the table where the guys play cards. The man with no nose is among them, and after this much time I must assume that he is not getting a new nose, and that he is content to wear a rectangle of gauze affixed to his face with a big X of tape forever. The guy with no larynx was here earlier, sitting at the table I prefer when things aren’t crowded. Also departed are the men who like to do shots with the matronly waitress, who may or may not be related to the owner.

(One of the Spartans just had made contact with a defender, and had the sense to make a crisp pass upfield before the agony of the violence done to him was too much and he collapsed to the turf in agony.)

All these things are going on around me, and that’s just the normal vibe for this place. No distraction at all. What is distracting me is the tattoo of the leaping tiger that the waitress who recently came on is sporting. Could it be that she’s a fan of the Liberec Bily Tigri, my favorite ice hockey (rhymes with real sport) team? She’s very pretty, so the idea is enticing.

There’s also the matter of where the tattoo is. It is a large piece, right between her shoulder blades and extending down her slender back. At times it is partially concealed by her long, blonde hair. Her nose crinkles when she smiles; I think she is secretly laughing at my resolute determination to look at her eyes rather than her breasts. She has very pretty eyes.

Thanks!

Vinárna Jana

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There is an awkward time in the day for a restaurant to have customers. During the slow times in the afternoon the staff counts on not having customers so they can do the preparation work for the evening. When I worked in a pizzeria, it was the time we cooked up the sausage, made the dough, baked the rolls, or whatever else required doing. When a customer came in, someone would have to put down what they were doing and prepare a meal. That’s not to say that customers weren’t welcome, in fact some of our favorite regulars came in during those hours and we would chat with them once we got back to our prep tasks.

I get the feeling they like being disrupted here less than at other places. Then again, they’re czech, and in fact I might have caught them in an especially good mood but they would never let a customer see that.

Vinárna Jana is fairly close to my house, right next to the post office, but most times I pass this way the place is closed. I think that’s because it’s just a bit off my regular track, and I get over this way mainly when everything else is closed as well. The restaurant is divided between a vinárna (wine bar) and a pivnice, which translates literally as “beer place”. (As with the mythical many names of snow, it seems like the czechs have a lot of diffferent ways to say ‘bar’.) I think the two are connected, at any rate.

When I first stepped inside and looked around my reaction was favorable. There is lots of dark wood, floral cloths on the tables, and only a faint smell of tobacco. I took the smallest table in the place — I don’t like to take more than I need, even though I am the only customer. This is not a place where I will be facing communications challenges; I will not be confronted with more than “Yes?” “One more?” and “You’re welcome.”

I just took a break to shovel down some very tasty chicken in a blue cheese sauce. The place is dark on this gloomy afternoon and they are doing nothing about it. Suits me fine. The radio is on a station that plays Glen Campbell and his associates from America and domestically raised. The song playing now is in Czech, occasionally punctuated with a “Goodbye Joe”, while the backup singers are straight out of ’70’s classics like “Big John”.

It’s a good place. My meal out of the way I am no longer disruptive to the workflow of the kitchen — in fact, I believe I was overconcerned before, as they are all sitting around now, enjoying an afternoon meal. The sound of czechs singing to banjo music is pleasant, and there’s still plenty of time on the laptop battery. I think I’ll be here a while.

Thanks!

A troubling sign

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This may not be news to locals, but I don’t think they understand the true import of the event. TGIFriday’s has arrived in Prague. Sure, McDonald’s has been here for a while now, as has KFC, and I assume there’s a Hard Rock Café around here somewhere. (Note to self: If there isn’t, make a deal with a bootlegger at a flea market to buy up a bunch of fake Hard Rock Prague t-shirts and flog them in Old Town Square.)

If McD’s and The Colonel are the cavalry, the vanguard of capitalism sent to root out the native businesses and push them into the locations no one wants, TGIFriday’s and the others sure to follow represent the next wave. They are the settlers. Moving into areas firmly established by those that came before, they will gradually push the boundaries, creating expanding zones of Urban Interchangeable, where local businesses will have the choice to play the game or move out.

TGIFriday’s will succeed here, no doubt about it. A few other restaurants in town have good burgers, but they don’t have a continent-leaping marketing machine. Now there is a place in town that every American will associate with a higher grade of burger than the fast-food places. They will go. The locals will follow. Why? Because burgers are good. Better burgers are better. I have no idea what the replaced business was selling. That in itself is telling, because I walked past the place regularly. Oh, the power of a name.

I may not know what the previous establishment sold, but it wasn’t burgers. It was different. Maybe not better, but different.

Thanks!

Viva Zapata!

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Last night I went to a place I really, really, liked. It’s not going to translate to the written word completely, but allow me to introduce you to one of the pinnacles of human society, the tapas bar.

In most parts of the world, one goes to a restaurant and orders a meal, or one goes to a bar and (perhaps) has snacks. The Spanish, however, don’t want to rush, they don’t want to be presented with a big pile of food, wolf it down, and then leave. Oh, no. Down here, not being in a hurry has been raised to an art form. If you’re going to spend a pleasant few hours in a place, perhaps chat with friends, perhaps read a book, you will drink slowly but steadily, and you will eat the same way.

Many bars here will have on display a limited variety of tasty little dishes that you can order for a reasonable price. It’s not always obvious what those dishes are, but there is generally food that fits any level of adventurousness. You can order several things at once, or you can periodically have another dish.

Zapata is somewhat unusual; many of the delicacies on display were uncooked, and prepared on order. Also unusual was that their menu actually reflected what they had, and they had some good, stuff, let me tell you. The Monteditas (little sandwiches) were a good value and really, really, tasty, especially the Zapata (pork, cheese, and stuff) and the salmon with roquefort.

We stayed quite a while, enjoying the atmosphere, some good wine, and nibbling on a wide variety of tapas. It doesn’t get much better than that. So if you find yourself wandering the streets of Cadíz and come across the place, do yourself a favor and pop in.

Thanks!

Sometimes you just have to take a chance

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I just ordered one of today’s lunch specials here at U Kormidla. My near-worthless dictionary translated Vepřový vrabec as “Pork sparrow”. I ignored the little voice in the back of my head saying “if there’s no translation for that part of the pig, you probably don’t want to eat it” and decided to give it a try.

As I finished typing the above my meal arrived, and I can confirm that nothing on my plate bears even a fleeting resemblance to a songbird. Between the chunks of fat there are some nice morsels of meat, however, and piled up with the pickled cabbage and dense potato dumplings, they are quite tasty.

Thanks!

At the Helm in Strašnice

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U Kormidla is a new place (I think). It is a longer walk to come here than it is to go to Little Café Near Home, but if today is an indication, there are definitely times when the extra walk is worth it. The bar has a nautical theme, celebrating the Czech Republic’s long and highly regarded maritime tradition (‘Ahoy’ is, after all, the most common informal greeting.)

I made my way down the stairs from street level, and my immediate impression was highly favorable. Two pretty girls sat at the corner of the bar, not smoking. There was a large group filling the back of the place, all dressed in black (we’re in cemetary country, out here in StraÅ¡nice), also not smoking. I made myself comfortable, enjoyed the smoothness of a Kozel dark, and communicated easily with the waiter with his nice, slow diction.

It is not a big place (although it dwarfs Little Café Near Home), dim but not dark, filled with rich wood and occasional brass highlights. It tiptoes dangerously on the borderline of kitsch, but overall it works. All these non-smokers in here is probably a fluke, but even when someone does light up the fumes are whisked away from where I sit. There is a staircase that leads up to a few more tables and the kitchen. My Bora-Bora chicken was heavier than I would expect from an island delicacy, but hey, this is the Czech Republic.

It is time for me to mosey along, now, but I will be back.

Thanks!

Sunday Morning

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It is a balmy morning, well above freezing, easily the warmest day of this year. The sun was shining brightly as I made my way through the quiet streets of Strašnice; the only others out at this time on a Sunday morning are the old men and their wiener dogs.

What is any right-thinking non-wiener-dog-owning person doing out on a Sunday morning, no matter how bright and shiny it may be? What Siren song drew me from my home, my fortress of solitude, my haven in the hurly-burly world that is Strašnice? Fast food.

It was late when I got home last night. Really late. I was at Roma with fuego, and we all know how that can go. It was a night of Pirates and hockey. Pirates of the White Sand, I’m happy to report, is making progress. The version fuego brought back from the secret underground laboratories of North America is good enough we can actually show it to people, and many of the tweaks to make it even better are quite simple. Last night we worked up a list of improvements, and except for one really stupid bit that fuego seems to find delightful we’re in good shape. The last hour of the evening was dedicated to me finding new ways to explain how stupid that bit is.

I staggered home as the wee hours of the morning were growing up. I mounted the stairs and when I opened the door I was not hit by the blast of tropical air that Soup Boy prefers. He was still awake. Well, moving, anyway; awake might be a bit of a stretch. “Heater’s not working,” he managed to mumble. “No hot water, either.” I tried pushing the reset button on the heater, just as Soup Boy had already done, but you never know. He might not have pushed the button correctly. In this case, my button-pushing was no more effective than his, so I shuffled into my room and flopped into bed, too tired even to plug in the electric heater in my room.

This morning I awoke, perhaps a little later than usual, but usual is difficult to define. I shuffled around a bit, found a valve on the water heater to allow more water into the radiator system, and groped my way to the kitchen for some tea. Ah, tea, the leaf that built an empire, where would I be without your magical alkaloid? As the kettle hissed and burbled I stood, semi-conscious, contemplating the paper bag on the counter. Slowly the friendly logo and happy marketing slogans sank in. McDonald’s. As I looked at that bag the craving started, the conditioned reflex born of forty years of exposure to relentless marketing. I wanted some of that.

And so now I sit, far from home, tired, muddled, sated, nibbling the last of my fries, watching parents struggle with children who are not yet finished crawling through the giant hamster tubes. Man, I wish they had those when I was a tot.

Thanks!

El Parasol

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It is one of the simple pleasures of life, sitting down to a well-constructed cheeseburger, taking a bite, and tasting the green chile, feeling the burn but more than that appreciating the pungent flavor.

There is something going horribly wrong in our nation right now, as restaurants compete to put more and more beef on their burgers. Half pound and three quarter pound burgers are supplanting more rational sizes as the marketing departments of restaurants and fast food chains have decided that More is Better. This is a very American sort of trend, but now we are faced with burgers out of balance. Sure, beef is an important part of the burger, but a carefully crafted hamburger is not only about the beef, it is an ensemble, with each element making a valuable contribution. This is especially true of the green chile cheeseburger.

The pinnacle of humanity’s culinary progress, the properly-constructed green chile cheeseburger is a delicate — and subjective — art form, an organic sculpture that bursts in your mouth with the first bite and lingers long after the final swallow. The chile must be hot and flavorful, and abundant, yet the meat, cheese, and other fixings must not be overpowered. Each ingredient has a role to play, from the crunch of the onions to the smoothness of the cheese.

I just polished off a darn fine green chile cheeseburger here at El Parasol. For those who know the town, it is located where Los Alamos Building and Loan was when I opened my first bank account there a bazillion years ago.

One side effect of not going overboard with the beef: the burgers are cheaper as well. The guy in line in front of me ordered a GCCB, as did the woman behind me. Looking around I see some people with burritos and other New Mexican fare, but the GCCB’s are all around me. And no wonder. Mine was damn yummy.

Perhaps I am being less critical, as it is the first green chile cheeseburger that I’ve had in a long time, but boy did it hit the spot. I wonder what it would take to get them to open one of these in Prague…

Thanks!

A (Chemically) Balanced Breakfast

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I’m in a mall right now, at the food court, surrounded by neon and bright decorations in a vaguely southwest style. Rattlesnake sculptures with glowing red tongues and rattles, gila monsters with neon haloes, and the like adorn the pillars in this boomy place, and all around me are the classics: Wendys, Dairy Queen, Orange Julius.

Of course I sat with a view of the Hot Dog On A Stick franchise. I don’t think they ever sell any food, rather I think the chain is funded by a sadistic old man performing a long-term social experiment to discover the lower limit of human pride by paying pretty girls to wear the ugliest clothes imaginable in public.

I chose none of the above delights to break my fast; I was drawn to a blue neon sign hollering “Ichiban” into the void. They were just bringing the first trays of chow from the back, and I looked over the vaguely asian fare as it lay glistening under the lamps. The red peppers I call “hot little mothers” were abundant in a couple of the dishes, and I knew I had found my chow.

I am woefully out of shape; the hot little mothers are really hot this morning. Still, after eating a few of them, I can feel the endorphins start to work. Add the fat, salt, and sugar from the food, top it off with a refill of Coke, and I’m processing a chemical cocktail that is working very well with the jet-lag, thank you very much. Synergy at its finest.

Now I’m off to Bigass Bookstore to look for a book about pet therapy that is technical, at least 150 pages long, and hasn’t been translated into czech yet. (It’s for a friend! Really!) Wish me luck.

Thanks!

Meat Parade

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I was a fuego’s, watering the plants, when the call came from Soup Boy. “You wanna come downtown?”

“I just came from there.”

“I know. But I have an idea.”

I was pretty sure I knew what his idea was. There’s a place down there in Slovansky Dům called Ambiente. The restaurant is based on a simple idea, modeled, I think on similar restaurants in Brazil. You sit, order drinks, and they hand you a menu. Only it’s not a menu, really, it’s more of a guide, explaining what all the different items are.

The subject of this restaurant had come up some time before when I was reminiscing about sushi. There are a couple of pretty dang good sushi places in San Diego, and it has been a long time since I’ve been to one. Ambiente has sushi.

Ordering is simple there; you have two choices. Meat or no meat. No meat means you must be content with the rather lavish “salad bar”, which includes lots of tasty things, including meat and sushi. If you order meat, not only do you have salad bar privileges, but you also get to partake of the meat parade. As it was my first time, naturally I had to get the whole experience. I ordered Meat.

When Soup Boy had first come to Prague, this location had been a bar called Joshua Tree, and his first job in town was bartending there. The ownership had changed, but the wood paneling on the walls still had U2 lyrics artfully carved into it. The place was well-lit and busy, but not uncomfortably so. They apologized; without a reservation there was only room in the non-smoking section. A bonus not to be take for granted here. After we ordered I was awarded a giant Meat Plate and a small set of tongs as a symbol of my quest. Soup Boy, recovering from illness as he was, chose to go small-scale.

He explained the tongs. “Sometimes when they are serving you meat, you will use these to help.”

Then began the Meat Parade. Between the tables passed servers carrying skewers of various dead animals, everything from chicken hearts to beef filet with Parmesan. Sausage, pork, various beef, veal, chicken (when the chicken wrapped with bacon came by, Soup Boy said, “Any time you take one animal, and wrap it around another animal, it’s going to be good.”), and fish. On and on it went, more than a dozen different dishes altogether, including roasted pineapple, which I discovered made all the other things on my plate less filling. The Meat Parade continued, and some of the servers were quite insistent that I take more of whatever it was they were flogging at the moment. Between that and two loads from the salad bar I ate a lot — I mean a lot, of good food. (Although, the sushi, truth be told, was limited in variety and not the best. Not the worst, either – I had quite a lot of it.)

By the time I got home, I was approaching comatose. My belly was a ponderous mountain as I lay on my back. I had joined the Meat Parade, and I had done my share. I am honestly amazed at how much I was able to eat.

It has been about eighteen hours since I got the call, and now, as I write this, I’m starting to feel just a wee bit hungry again.

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Thanks!

I Like Potted Meat

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For lunch today I went the simple route – fresh czech bread, cheese, and a little tub of something that, according to the label, had once been associated with chickens in some way or another. I pulled back the heavy foil lid and there it was, pink and homogenous. Mmm… potted meat.

This stuff was on the pink side. I looked at it for a moment and wondered if there was any difference between this stuff and cat food, besides the label. Some cat food claims to have extra vitamins and provide a more balanced diet, so, ignoring issues of quality and health inspections in the factories, cat food may well be healthier.

Still, it doesn’t matter what other mammals like this stuff, it’s mighty tasty, and the Czech Republic is the place to go for potted meat. They devote more space in their stores to potted meat than they do for ketchup, and that’s a lot of space. Beer, of course, has more space on the shelves than any other product. And what better for washing the old chicken goo down than a nice cold one?

Thanks!

Just So

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I had brunch with Graybeard the other day, at a place popular with Americans. They serve big American breakfasts on the weekends, and that is always a Good Thing. Mmmm… Big Brain Scramble!

After we ordered the waitress brought us our utensils and napkins. Exactly two napkins. Graybeard, as you might guess, has a long, gray beard, and he likes extra napkins to keep it clean. He made a comment about how cheap the Czechs are, only bringing one napkin per person, but on reflection I think he’s missing something about Czech culture.

The czechs as a group are craftsmen. Do not confuse this with industrious or efficient, but in the little daily tasks most czechs I know like things to be just so. Rather than provide some napkins, the waitress will carefully count out the correct number. Not out of cheapness, but out of rightness.

I doubt this attitude would carry over to a repetitious task like working in a manufacturing plant. There’s little opportunity for craftsmanship there, and other czech habits, like drinking beer with breakfast, would probably reduce productivity. Where I would hire a czech would be for something that required skill and patience, but the deadlines could be a little looser. Perhaps manufacturing high-end musical instruments, or glass blowing.

Thanks!

Shooting – Day Two

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After a successful first day and a good night’s sleep I was floating across the clouds, feeling the return of prose to my cluttered and overtaxed little brain. The drive out to the location was glorious, and (as I have already written) I felt like a writer again. When I reached the White Horse Mesa Bar things were just getting underway. Pirates were milling about, waiting for makeup. “How’s it going, Jerry?” asked Nobby Pete, shaking my hand.

No need to feign enthusiasm. “I feel friggin’ fantastic this morning,” I said, or something like that. I went through them like a tornado of enthusiasm, and I could feel the mood lifting in my wake. Not that the mood needed much lifting anyway; things were going well and the pirates were already building up their reserves of chaotic madness. Today we would be shooting interiors, picking up from where we left off the day before.

There were some worries – flat performances by Ruthie and Miguel the day before threatened to undermine the production, and there just wasn’t enough food.

For all I appreciate the good work that the Duke City shootout is doing, and the unbelievable opportunity they are giving fuego and me, I do have a couple of bones to pick. One of them is about the food. I was told the catering budget for each crew was $200 a day. We have a big crew and we knew that we would have to pick up some of the slack, but this has just been ridiculous. Next year I’m going into the catering business. If Duke City Shootout is paying two hundred clams for peanut butter sandwiches, somebody is getting rich at their expense. At lunchtime Rudolph drove to the Route 66 Casino and rounded up a buttload of tacos to supplement the meal. That made him very, very popular with the crew.

Partly because of the lack of food I skipped breakfast and left the set before lunch time. No sense making things even worse. I had things to do in town anyway, and I wanted a chance to do some writing. I headed for our “Production Office”, the Flying Star Café on Central, where they have free Internet. I took care of some communications, farted around for a bit, and set to writing. A good way to spend an afternoon. I was in my happy place when I got a call from Rudy: “Can you go to the Bird and get us another keg?”

My stress level jumped in an instant, partially fueled by one too many free refills of Iced Tea. Imagining that production had come to a screeching halt I hustled over to the place we had purchased the first keg. “I’m working on the movie with Rudolph,” I said. Rudy had told me they would know the name and could put the new keg on the same tab.

“I don’t know anyone, and I don’t know nothin’ about no movie,” the man answered, responding to my stress with stress of his own. I took a breath to calm myself. It didn’t matter. I just needed to buy a keg. They were out of the sort of beer we had started with, so I explained that we needed whatever beer looked most like the first. It took them a moment to realize I didn’t care in the slightest how the beer tasted. We would just be pouring it out, anyway.

Finally, armed with a few gallons of crappy American light beer I was on the road, gobbling up the miles between the suds and the stymied crew. I blew into the parking lot in a cloud of dust, jumped out and hauled the keg out of the passenger seat. Other people watched me with vague disinterest. “Do they need that inside?” Charles the First asked.

They were not out of beer. They had been planning ahead. Imagine that.

I stayed at the location for the rest of the day, generally not being helpful but enjoying watching the process. After we wrapped for the day, even farther ahead of schedule than the previous day, we paused and had a couple of beers. We were in a bar, after all.

I gave Giovanni a ride back into town, talking shop, mostly. He was on the phone, trying to arrange his next paying job, hoping to exchange the work for more equipment. He was thinking about how much better our opening car shot would have been if we had a longer boom and a remote-control head that could move the camera as it hung way down in the car, tilting it as the boom lifted and the car pulled away. We talked a little bit about writing; he asked if any of my novels would make a good movie. “Yes,” I said with complete confidence. I may be the wrong guy to ask, but The Monster Within would make a great movie. My answer got Giovanni to thinking. “fuego thinks it would take about $80 million to do it right.” Giovanni was a little taken aback by that, but not too much. “Keep making contacts,” he said.

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Thanks!

(Almost) the happiest guy on Earth.

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Tonight I said, “If you can plug in my laptop behind the bar, bring me Dos Equis draft and a Green Chile Cheeseburger, I’ll be the happiest guy on Earth.”

“No problem,” she said.

“Lots of green chile.”

“You got it.”

Then she plugged in my laptop, but it seems there is no juice in that outlet. That’s the “almost” part. It’s the only outlet in the bar that’s not in a closed section. I’m typing as fast as I can.

I’m not supposed to be here right now. I was taking a leisurely morning in Merry Olde England trying to find Internet access. I was foiled by little things at every turning. I was checking in quite early for my flight and a dude asked it I wanted to jump an earlier one. “Cool,” I thought. I’ll use the extra layover time in Dallas to get in touch with everyone.” I had to hustle to make the flight, but I was on my way dang near three hours ahead of schedule.

I didn’t notice that they also gave me an earlier flight to Albuquerque. Once I got through Immigration and customs in Dallas I looked to see what gate to go to. It was then I noticed the time to begin boarding had already passed. D’oh! After an airport sprint to the gate I took five minutes to try to get online but the pay service was so slow I hadn’t even managed to give them money before I had to go.

So I landed in the Duke City three hours early, and nobody knows. But you know, that’s OK. Of the airports I’ve been through on this trip, this is by far the best one to hang out in. Free Internet, green chile, and, of course, beer. It’s quieter, and just a lot less hectic. In the end, things worked out pretty well.

Thanks!

Eggs Over Easy: The Definitive Step-By-Step Guide – now with video!

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NOTE: If you don’t want the lowdown on the full meal you can go straight to the section The Eggs.

Before we begin

meal001.jpg

The Holy Grail

Let’s take a minute to look at where we are going. Picture it with me: a plate, two fine slices of bacon on one side, toast on the other, still warm, the butter melted into it. In between is a pair of fried eggs, steaming, the whites of the eggs firm. Your mouth watering in anticipation, you tear off a chunk from the top slice of toast and poke the corner into the yolk of one of the eggs. The lightly-cooked top of the yolk yields easily and out flows the deep yellow treasure within. Ohhhh, heaven.

Creating that perfect culinary moment is a dance with heat and time, a graceful ballet that is every bit as pleasurable as the final product. There are decisions along the way, opportunities to add the subtle nuances that make those eggs uniquely yours. This guide, then, is a framework in which your improvisation can succeed.

Theory

Just look at these babies!

Beautiful czech eggs

The theory is discussed more in-depth in the original article, but before we go rushing off to the kitchen, let us pause for the tiniest of moments to look at just what an over-easy egg is. It is an egg that has been fried so that the white is cooked but the yolk is still runny. It is the challenge of cooking one part of the egg without cooking the other that makes the over-easy egg the greatest egg-cooking accomplishment. It will take all our skill and timing to defy the laws of thermodynamics so.

Sunny-side up eggs also have the runny yolk, but the top layer of the white is not firm, either. Our goal is to flip the egg just long enough to firm up that top layer of white and then get it off the heat before the yolk cooks. It’s not really that difficult, it’s just that no one does it right, especially in restaurants. (Please feel free to refer the cook at your favorite diner to this page. While the equipment and procedures are different, this is really all about the flip. He’ll thank you later as the humble restaurant becomes internationally famous for the excellence of their over-easy eggs.)

Preparation

Sun Tsu, in The Art of War, says (something like) “A good general wins the battle before it begins.” This applies to cooking as well. Your success depends on what you do before you light the stove.

This morning we will be cooking three items, the three instruments in our little culinary composition. Once the music starts there will be no time scrounge up important tools or ingredients without casting a sour note; anything you can do now, before heat is applied to food and the march of thermodynamics cannot be turned back, will make things easier later. You will need: eggs, bacon, bread, butter, a toaster, a frying pan, a spatula (preferably metal – the thinner the better), paper towels, a plate, a fork, and a table knife. Get them out ahead of time and place them all within easy reach. Make sure you have room to work next to the stove as well.

Lay out your work space. Put the pan on the stove, the spatula and the fork nearby, and put a paper towel on the plate. Put the bread by the toaster. Check the butter to make sure it’s not too firm to spread on the toast easily. Touch each thing once with your hand so your body will remember its place. You will find yourself automatically putting things back in their places later, so you don’t have to expend unnecessary mental energy with the details. You’re an artist, baby! No time to be groping for brushes when the passion strikes!

Note: Years later I’ve learned from watching Worst Cooks in America that the above ritual is called mise en place – everything in its place. Taking sixty thin seconds now to lay everything out makes things so much easier later that you will suddenly feel like a good cook. Because you will be.

Take a deep breath. Relax. This is going to be great!

Ready? The conductor is stepping to the podium. A hush descends over the concert hall. It’s time to fire up the stove.

Bacon

Fine czech bacon

Some fine czech bacon

There are many reasons not to eat bacon: Political, religious, economic, environmental, and health issues abound. On the other hand, there’s only one reason to eat it: It’s yummy. Bacon has the side effect of providing grease to lubricate the pan while you cook your eggs as well. When cooking for myself (as is usually the case), two slices of bacon is plenty. Cooking bacon is simple, really; plop a couple strips into the pan and as it heats you will hear the sizzling begin. Keep a close ear on that sound; that’s your thermometer. If things start to sizzle and pop with too much abandon, turn the heat down a bit.

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Mmmm…. Bacon

I’m a “busy” cook, so I harass the bacon with my fork as it cooks, pushing it around to make sure it doesn’t get stuck, flipping it more than is strictly necessary, and generally robbing the bacon of any chance to relax as the meat cooks and some of the fat is turned to liquid. How long you cook the bacon is entirely up to you. While I want my bacon to be cooked through I don’t like it to snap when I bend it. If you’re cooking for strangers, always make it crispy. When your bacon is done turn the heat way down on the stove and hoist those puppies out. Put them on the paper towel to absorb some of the grease still bubbling in the strips.

There’s your pan, waiting for the main event…

Toast

But hold on, there, Sparky! That intriguing, inviting frying pan calling your name is trying to lead you astray! What started as a gentle waltz is speeding up now — it is a fugue, and the goal is to have all the lines of the music end at the same time. Once you’ve been around the block a couple of times you’ll know: the toast takes longer to cook than the eggs. There’s nothing worse than scooping the eggs out of the pan and onto the plate, steaming, gleaming, calling to you, and having to wait for the toast. Oh, I’ve been there many times, my friends, and it hurts. Send two slices down into the fiery maw of the toaster and turn your attention back to the frying pan.

The Eggs

You’re moving gracefully now from plate to toaster to pan, and utensils are jumping into your hand before you even think of them. The eggs are there, waiting, but first let’s take a look at that pan. You’ve got some big decisions to make. The bacon has left behind two things; grease and crispy critters. The first decision is an easy one based entirely on taste: Do you scrape out the crispy critters? Personally, I leave them in. They can become a sticking point during the flip, but I like what they add to the egg. The second question is tougher: Do you have too much grease in the pan? If you only cooked a couple of slices of bacon you’re probably OK. If you cooked more it’s time to take some of the grease out of the pan. I generally just soak some of it up with a paper towel. Pouring it down the sink is a bad idea, unless you’re looking for an excuse to have that cute plumber come over.

Remember, that’s hot hot grease there! Be careful!

Naturally, if you are not a bacon-eater, you will have to add butter or oil to the pan and you’re completely out of luck on the crispy critters. Also, without lovely bacon goodness, you’ll probably want to add a sprinkle of salt and maybe a touch of black pepper.

The pan is ready. It’s time to turn the heat back up for a few moments and put in the eggs. Eggs – check. Spatula – check. All right. Crack open that first egg and drop her in!

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Adjusting the sprawl

Not so fast there, buckaroo! I saw you reaching for that next egg! This is the first half of the secret to perfect over-easy eggs. Don’t put in the second egg yet! The reason will be obvious when we get to the flip. Instead, it’s time to use your spatula to adjust the sprawl of the first egg. As you look at the egg sitting in the pan, you will see three distinct parts. There is the yolk, the inner white part, and the outer white part. While the first two parts are relatively self-contained, the outer white will run all over the place. The farther it runs, the thinner it gets and the faster it cooks. If you like little crispy-crinkly bits around the edges, then some sprawl is desirable. If your stove is not level (mine isn’t) some of the outer white will make a break for it. Just push it back where it belongs and everything will be all right.

That other egg is calling to you. Your hand is starting to twitch. You can no longer resist the need to start the next egg cooking. Crack it open and drop it in, adjusting sprawl as above.

Pop! goes the toaster. Never taking your eyes off the eggs, pull the toast out and butter it. Dump the bacon off the towel onto the plate, and put the toast next to it.

The Flip

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4MB Video: The Eggs

The moment has come to flip the eggs. How do you know when that moment has arrived? It is when the inner white portion is almost completely cooked. Only practice, practice, and more practice will allow you to recognize this moment every time, but here’s the second part of the arcane secret for cooking eggs over easy: Don’t flip the eggs too soon! While the egg is sunny-side up, the yolk is floating on top and the white acts as an insulating layer, protecting the yolk from the heat of the pan. Alas, some of the white is also insulated, and to get that part firmed up we must risk everything and flip the egg over for a few agonizing seconds.

Before we go doing something crazy that could injure our precious yolk, make sure the egg is free and loose. Everything cool? Well then, flip the first egg, and only the first egg. This is why you waited before putting the second egg in. The egg will be flipped for such a short time that you don’t want to get caught fooling around with egg number two while egg number one overcooks. After just a few seconds scoop the first egg out and flip it yolk-side-up onto your plate. Now repeat the process with egg number two.

Turn off the stove, step back, and take a look at the beauty you have wrought.

Some final comments

emptyplate005.jpg While I have tried to be specific, there are many aspects of timing and temperature that I just cannot be exact about. Everything from how you like your toast to the weight of your frying pan will affect your outcome. Only experimentation will lead to your oval nirvana. If they don’t come out just right the first time, relax. I bet it’s still way better than what you would get at Denny’s. The process is, as I mentioned above, a complex and delicate composition, and like all great works of art, each performance carries with it some risk.

Finally, I did not include the preparation of any beverages in this framework. I know there are those who are as passionate about their coffee as I am about my eggs, and I invite your input.

I hope this little how-to helps you. If we all band together, perhaps one day we can rid the world once and for all of the scourge of too-soon-flipped eggs. And remember as Valentines day hurtles toward us that the best way to start the day is to bring your sweetie breakfast in bed. A beautifully orchestrated, lovingly presented plate full of grub says “I love you” like nothing else. (Don’t forget to clean the kitchen.)

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Thanks!