I Am The Eggman
I never consume as many eggs as I do when I'm visiting New York City. This is a town that’s dying to cook you some eggs if you’d just let them. Eggs Norwegian. Huevos rancheros. Poached eggs and braised short rib hash (not kidding). Having eaten six eggs in three New York meals, not even counting the yolks whisked into puddles of hollandaise that covered my bruncheon dishes, and several more whole eggs baked into starchy goodies, you’d think I’d have had my fill, but then I piled on two helpings of strada, an Italian (is it?) egg, cheese, and sausage bake, on Christmas night (post NYC), just to keep the vibe going.
How does one do this and maintain his svelte physique you wonder? Sadly, he doesn’t.
We have eggs in Boston (they sell them in the supermarket), and I’ll surely make my way through a couple in the coming days, but I doubt I’ll put as serious a dent in the world supply as I did over the last 3 days. But hey, that’s the difference between me in Boston and me in New York.