STREET, EAT, REPEAT. Give us today our daily egg

You only realise the value of something when you lose it.

The truth of these words hit me decades ago in a clatter-y, crowded eatery in Latur. I had just staggered into the dusty town after a sleepless journey that involved switching trains in the middle of the night and listening for hours to an aggrieved freedom fighter. My room at the government guesthouse was not yet ready. And as a rookie journalist with a story to research, I was frantic to get going.

But first I needed breakfast. So I stumbled into the first “decent” restaurant in sight and gratefully ordered an omelette and chai.

Minutes later the chai arrived slopping from chipped cup into saucer. Then came the omelette. Except that, whatever it was, it wasn’t an omelette. It was whitish. It was leathery and it looked like an uttapam with spots and a severe personality disorder.

I summoned the waiter and complained. “I ordered an omelette. This is not an omelette. It’s something... else. Not egg.”

The waiter was indignant. “It’s a vegetarian omelette,” he declared, looking at me as if I had demanded a plate of tandoori baby toes. “We are a pyooor veg restaurant. We do not serve yegg .”

So there I was. Stranded in Latur without a room, tired, grouchy and now yegg -deprived. And as I eyeballed the smug, goody-goody omelette on my plate I realised just what a wonderful thing an egg is.

After all, egg is the magic ingredient in so many quick-fix, never-go-wrong meals. A buttery scrambled egg with warm pav . An Irani-restaurant-style akuri , whipped with milk and then fried with onion, kothmir ( dhania ) and spices. A fat omelette stuffed with melted cheese and chicken. Or some leftover keema whipped up into an irresistible keema ghotala .

Perhaps a fried egg on toast, topped with cheese and plenty of green chillies — just the way Devi Prasad Kejriwal liked it. French toast as a treat for the kids. Or even a Filipino breakfast involving rice mixed with fried garlic, green chillies in vinegar, coarse salt and two fried eggs.

Then, of course, if you are prepared to spend a little more time in the kitchen there’s a lot more you can do with eggs. There’s eggs Benedict — that ultimate Sunday brunch classic, involving toasted English muffin, poached eggs, bacon and lemony hollandaise sauce. Or eggs Florentine, which replaces the bacon with spinach. Then there’s okonomiyaki, the fat Japanese pancake stuffed with cabbage, spring onions, eggs, bacon and topped with mayonnaise and dried fish flakes. Or a boiled-egg-mayo-and-lettuce salad to stuff into a brown bread sandwich.

Or why not go all the way and whip up an airy soufflé or crunchy meringue. A spicy egg curry of the sinful kind — the one in which the eggs are boiled, then deep-fried and then plopped into the curry. Or even a redolent egg biryani so reminiscent of those glorious, messy railway meals of our childhood.

Indeed, it seems strange that my eggy epiphany came so late in the day, given that I’m half-Parsi. Parsis are acknowledged egg addicts. The average Parsi veg dish involves a thin layer of bhindi or potato camouflaged under a blanket of egg. The average Parsi heart patient spends his energy sneaking in a six-egg poro (omelette) for a mid-morning snack.

As a child, though, I abhorred eggs. This was partly because I was sickly and skinny, and grew up in an age when eggs were considered the answer to all problems of a sickly, skinny nature. “Feed her half-boiled eggs,” various grand-aunts would say, prodding my ribs and clucking. As you know, great-aunts must be obeyed. So I spent innumerable breakfasts drooping and moping in front of a small bowl of gloopy yellow stuff. And promising myself that the moment I reached the age of consent, I would banish eggs from my life.

Which, of course, did not happen. As a student in LA, the idea of a meal that required neither slicing nor simmering was too appealing. And as long as the egg was firm — I still run a mile from runny yolks — and combined with cheese and butter, I could eat it with equanimity. I even joined my Bengali room-mate when she indulged in her favourite comfort food — a boiled egg smashed into rice, mixed with lashings of butter and then topped with finely sliced green chilli. And that was just the beginning.

Over the last few years, the tables have turned quite dramatically. One of the disadvantages of being a responsible adult is that I have to make sure that the family gets its chapatti and bhaji, dal and rice, chicken and salad. But I secretly look forward to the days when the cook plays hookey and I can fix us all a sinful, scrambled extravaganza.

COMMENT NOW