In the basement, I pull eggs from the low boy fridge and place them in a cambro, a heavy-duty plastic container, and climb up the steep stairs. The oven I need to cook the eggs won’t be ready for another couple hours, so I fill the time by thinly slicing leeks, brining chicken livers, and peeling potatoes.
Receiving a text that the oven is free, I throw my coat over my apron, and off I go with my cambro. I’ve got two blocks in 30-degree weather to travel.
On this walk, the eggs are light. I carry them with one arm as I weave through tourists, professionals, and dogs. The women dressed in designer strutting down the sidewalk compared to my Carhartt-Blundstone ensemble and egg accessory make me question my life choices.
Reaching my destination, I make my way through the empty dining room to where the combi oven looms. In the second basement of the day, I grab a perforated hotel pan, head back upstairs, transfer the eggs, and go back down to make an ice bath. With each step I wince at the idea of Natasha, Mr. Big’s estranged wife, running down the stairwell after Carrie Bradshaw and chipping her tooth. Unlike her, I’m wearing Australian rubber, so I should be okay.
The eggs are in the oven. I set a 15 minute timer and walk back, chop garlic, peel onions, and frantically put away milk bread before retracing my steps.
Back with the eggs. I pull them from the oven and topple them into their ice bath tub, spilling water on the floor. Deviling happens down the street, so I push through the doors swaddling the tub and walk past people staring at me. They’re probably thinking, “Is she alright?”, “Does she just really like eggs?” All I’m thinking about is why the entirety of New York decided to come outside and stand in my way.
The container begins to slip in my arms – it’s too heavy. I screech to a halt, slip through the crowd, and pour some ice water into a snow bank. As the water flows into the snow I watch two of my eggs jump out. My face reddens with embarrassment. I grab the lost soldiers and throw them in the nearby trash before I think anyone’s noticed.
A block into my trek, a little boy screams at me. His guardian laughs and asks, “Why are you afraid of eggs?” I know it’s less the eggs scaring him and more so the haggard woman in grease-stained paints and a bleach-spotted apron. In his eyes I must be a monster and the eggs, my children.
I don’t blame him ... On this walk an ovular, protective power takes over me. My vision hones in on the necessary path ahead. I dart between people, ignoring traffic signs, trying not to splash myself with ice cold water.
Across the street I see the restaurant doors. My fingers and arms are cramping, my whole being knows I’m just an egg’s throw away. Right before my feet leave the sidewalk, an old woman steps in front of me, pointing to the eggs and asking, “Is this a prank?” Still moving, I shake my head and tell her I’m at work as I jaywalk before the light turns green.
I make one last heave towards my finish line. A passing pedestrian sees me and steps to open the doors. I exhale a “THANK YOU,” enter and set my vessel on the bar. The eggs have to chill and I have to rip my coat off my sweaty body, still breathing heavily. I’ve got to grate cheese, make family meal, toast almonds and attend to other items on that prep list. The eggs lounge in peace, watching me rush around the kitchen.
With loose ends tied up, I return my attention to the eggs in an effort to process them before the front of house arrives and can associate me with the sulfurous fart smell soon to choke the air.
Pluck eggs from ice bath and peel. Don’t make a mess.
Cut the eggs in half. Wipe your knife routinely, and watch those fingers.
Separate the yolk from the white. If a white is torn, you can eat it. Consume the casualties.
Stack the egg whites into to-go containers. Careful not to smush, and don’t forget to label. Set aside.
Mix together the yolk filling. Easy on the salt.
Spoon the mixture into piping bags. Use a bench scraper to push out air bubbles, and tie tightly.
Gather and return everything into the egg locker downstairs. Set your final, deviled products next to flats of their untouched, innocent siblings. Slide the low boy shut, cross EGGS off your prep list, and think to yourself, “Thank fucking God.”
Other work will fill my day until clocking out at 4:00pm. With the eggish hellscape behind me, though, I feel like I’m in heaven as I cut lemons and wash dishes.
TUESDAY
I’m at my restaurant, this time spritzed with perfume and draped in my “fur” coat, with friends for drinks. We sit down at the bar that yesterday, I leaned over in exhaustion with a tub of ice bath eggs next to me. I smile at my coworker and order five plates, begrudgingly finishing with, “And three eggs, please.”
Next to my glass of Pet-Nat, a plate of deviled eggs lands in front of us. Pillows of yolk garnished with chive batons sit in their white hard-boiled palms. Unfortunately, they are endearing, so contrasted against the chaotic, exhausting, public-weaving work they require. I look around me to see more eggs along the bar being enjoyed by others as my friends and I do the same. Little does anyone know, what they can order and eat in a matter of minutes takes hours of strife dedicated by the person and prep cook sitting nearby.
Deviled eggs are deviled to me because of the twisting contortions I perform to get them out of the low boy. They’re deviled because I serve as their personal escort, hauling them up and down a New York Avenue, enduring little boy screams and old lady questions, protecting them with every step. They’re deviled because they smell bad, they’re fragile, they take forever to process, and shoving their yolky mixture through piping bags haunts my dreams. That all matters little to me, though. I get to bring joy to people, and at the end of the day, facilitating the satisfaction of others and the beauty of a dish is the pleasure of being a cook. ∎
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