#34 - Fabergé Egg

The day before the party, Peter called to ask if he could bring anything for the barbecue. He had stopped by Deering’s to fill up his gas tank and had decided to grab a bag of chips or something to contribute to the meal the next day. He paced the short aisles a while, examining overpriced bags of Chili ‘N’ Cheese Fritos and Chipotle and Cheddar flavored Kettle Chips. Finally, he dialed Alex’s number.

“Don’t worry about it.” Alex said. “We’re just happy you can come.”

“I feel like I should bring something.” Peter said.

He strolled away from the snack aisle and walked aimlessly toward a double glass-door refrigerator containing dairy products, lunch meat, and a few other items. On the lowest shelf were cartons of AA grade eggs.

“Hey,” Peter said, opening the refrigerator door and removing a carton. “Do you guys like deviled eggs? They go well with barbecue, right?”

“Sure, if you want to bring some.” Alex said.

“How about Maria? It’s her birthday, after all.” Peter said. He was carrying the eggs to the cash register at the front of the store.

“Yeah, she likes ‘em. But don’t worry about it – really – we’ll have plenty of food.”

Peter laid the eggs on the counter and handed a few bucks to the guy standing at the register.

“I think I’ll bring some – it’ll be fun to try my hand at it. All I ask is that, if they suck, you guys lie and say they’re awesome.” Peter said.

“They’ll be great, I’m sure.” Alex said.

At home, Peter boiled the eggs and let them cool on the countertop while he watched TV. Once they were close to room temperature, he cracked and peeled each one, and sliced them lengthwise to remove the yolks. He laid the empty halves out on a paper plate, like porcelain spoons without handles. The yolks he dropped into a clear glass mixing bowl and they stared at him like twelve foggy-yellow eyeballs. He added what he thought he should: mayonnaise, grainy brown mustard, a few spoonfuls of sweet pickle relish, salt, pepper, finely chopped onion. He mixed these together until the contents of the bowl looked like a mess of pastel mud. It wasn’t until he went to return the mayonnaise to the fridge that he saw the opened package of bacon, and it occurred to him that, though he couldn’t remember ever having eaten deviled eggs with bacon in the filling, it sounded pretty good. Eggs and bacon, how can you go wrong? He fried up a few strips, broke them into tiny pieces, and added them to the bowl of yellow yolk-mush.

After filling the egg whites with the mixture, Peter dusted them lightly with red paprika, the way his mother had when he was growing up. He covered them with a sheet of cellophane and stuck them in the refrigerator.

The following day at Alex and Maria’s, Peter carried the plate of eggs out to the backyard and placed it on the picnic table between a bowl of fruit salad and an array of condiments. Alex and Maria’s daughter had made a banner that had been taped to the edge of the table; in giant block letters it read HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOMMY. Everyone hovered at the fringe of the patio, maybe twenty-five or so. Some of the faces were unfamiliar, but most of the guests were from the office at Stu-Co, where Peter and Alex had met. They all stood around in the grass making small talk and drinking from red plastic cups.

Peter wandered around, making sure to acknowledge the people he knew from work. He introduced himself to some of the unfamiliar faces, but quickly moved on before any real conversations formed. He filled a cup with lemonade, found an empty lawn chair near the grill, and plopped down in it. Alex was flipping burgers in a cloud of smoke.

“Looking good there.” Peter said.

“Yep. What a beautiful day, right?” Alex said.

Maria walked over with a plate of uncooked hotdogs.

“There’s the birthday girl!” Peter said, raising his cup of lemonade. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks!” Maria said. She darted off again, towards the house.

Alex loaded up a cake pan with a pile of brown, puck-like burgers. “Burgers are done!” He shouted out as he placed them on the picnic table beside a massive bag of buns. The guests casually wandered over to the table, continuing to talk as they filled their plates. Peter watched from his seat near the grill.

“You’d better get over there and get some food!” Alex said when he returned.

“Just waiting for the crowd to die down a bit.” Peter said.

When he finally did make it to the table a few minutes later, his plate of deviled eggs was empty. He glanced around and spotted one of his eggs balanced at the edge of a woman’s paper plate. Just as he was looking at her, she picked it up between two fingers and took a bite. She looked at the remaining half, nodded enthusiastically, and said something he couldn’t hear from his position near the table.

With his plate filled, he returned to his seat near the grill. “Looks like my eggs were a hit. They’re gone!” He said with a chuckle.

Alex looked at him with surprise. “I forgot you made those! I tried one right after we pulled the plastic off. Those are fantastic! I’ve never had deviled eggs with bacon before.”

“They were good?” Peter said, smiling.

“They were great!” Alex said.

The rest of the afternoon, people continued to comment on the deviled eggs. Several asked for the recipe. One woman said, “Come on, what’s the secret?”

“I guess just bacon.” Peter said, shrugging.

“The bacon’s good – but it has to be more than that.” The woman said, skeptically.

By the time he left Alex and Maria’s that afternoon, Peter had given out the recipe – as best as he could remember – to five women and two men. As he collected his empty plate, he said, “Jeez, I should have started charging people.”

“I’m surprised no one asked for your autograph.” Alex joked.

On the drive home, Peter’s thoughts were focused on deviled eggs. He reconsidered every step he had taken in the creation process: boiling and slicing, the amount of mayonnaise, the brand name of the spicy mustard, the size of the diced onion bits, the crispiness of the bacon, the paprika topping. It all seemed significant. And though he hadn’t tasted the finished product, he knew there were ways to improve upon what he had done with the first batch.

A week later, he was given the opportunity to perfect the recipe. This time, it was a family meal held at his mother’s home.

“I’ll bring some deviled eggs.” He said over the phone.

“Deviled eggs?” His mother said. “I’m not sure that goes well with lasagna, honey.”

“Trust me, Mom. You’ll love ‘em.” Peter said.

In preparation, he made a special trip to the market, and there purchased the ingredients that he believed would transform his great deviled eggs into the greatest deviled eggs anyone in his family had ever tasted. Larger eggs from free-range chickens. Hellmann’s mayonnaise (which, he noted, claimed to be the ‘best’). Thick-cut, applewood-smoked bacon. Scallions instead of onions. Artisan crafted Bread and Butter pickles for a homemade relish. And to top it all off, smoked paprika.  

Upon tasting Peter’s eggs, his family members unanimously agreed that he had successfully created a batch of deviled eggs unlike any they had tasted before.

His mother said, “These are too good to be called deviled eggs.”

His sister-in-law said, “I’d order these at a restaurant.”

Everyone ate happily, with plates of lasagna crisscrossing the table from hand to hand, an egg or two balanced on the side. Peter was able to taste his creation for the first time, and he agreed with his family’s consensus. Still, though he was glad to hear how much everyone loved the eggs, he couldn’t help but consider - before the meal was even finished - areas for improvement. And when his family members asked for the recipe, he remained vague in response.

“Oh, it’s just a basic deviled eggs recipe. Plus the bacon. But that’s the only difference.” He said.

In the weeks and months that followed, Peter pursued his recipe with diligence. He accepted every social invitation - dinner parties, company lunches, family get-togethers, house warming celebrations, wedding showers, sporting events, and office meetings – arriving with a rectangular Tupperware container in his hands, packed full of deviled eggs, the recipe always having been recently adjusted, tweaked, slightly enhanced in some surprising way.

Added to his original yolk-based filling, he tried variations with salmon, prawn, andouille sausage, capers, smoked eel, candied ham, lobster, sharp cheddar, pickled asparagus, dried apricots, sevillano olives, and roasted garlic. He surpassed the smoked paprika by topping the eggs with caviar, sliced almonds, toasted Asiago cheese, panko bread crumbs, or finely crumbled nori. His eggs became esthetically elaborate, and Peter concerned himself with not only flavor, but composition. He wanted his deviled eggs to be as beautiful as they were delicious.

For a very long time, his friends and family encouraged his passion, but they saw that it was taking its toll. Peter's online ordering of the finest ingredients had resulted in credit card debt. He wasn’t sleeping well. His work at Stu-Co was suffering. His kitchen was in shambles.

One day at work, while Peter had stepped away to make photocopies, Alex walked over and placed a small plate of deviled eggs on his desk. Maria had made them that morning. They were plain looking; very much like the eggs Peter had brought to the birthday party months before, minus the bacon. Alex waited for him there, and when Peter returned to his desk, Alex said, “Could you please taste one of Maria’s eggs?”

Peter looked at the plate on his desk. He laughed. “Why?”

“Because she made them for you. And because I want you to taste something.” Alex said.

“Okay.” Peter said. He picked up one of the eggs and popped the whole thing in his mouth. He chewed for a while, swallowed and smiled. “That’s pretty good.”

“Simple, right?” Alex said.

"Yeah, but good." Peter said.  

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To learn more about Fabergé Eggs, read the original Wikipedia article HERE.