I met a mortgage broker the other day while looking at an apartment. We got to talking about what I do, and he asked me what my cooking specialty was. I never know how to answer this question, and I've been thinking about omelets lately, so I just said, "Eggs."
This guy, it turns out, loves eggs. He eats them every day, in every form. He scrambles them, fries them, boils them hard and soft. He's in his mid 50's, big and tall and round. He's still talking about eggs. Soon, I realize that he's the only person I've ever met who is more interested in talking about eggs than me. Now he's talking about eating eggs outside of the home.
"It's hard to get eggs the way you really want them in a restaurant," he says. "They never know. Especially poached eggs." He seems genuinely concerned about this. "So one day, I says to the waitress, 'You remember the movie '10'? Remember the part when Bo Derek is running down the beach?'" He's got his hands cupped in front of his chest. He's pumping his arms up and down vigorously. ''That's how I want my eggs,' I says to her. It works every time. I get my eggs the way I want them.
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