These Are the Eggs

In my case, it didn’t involve sacred temples or the like. It happened in my kitchen. Over eggs.

To be even more Stanley Tucci about the matter, this moment of realignment and remembering what truly matters, was all centred around trying to perfect a fried egg.

Let me explain.

It started as a date-night night-cap, polishing off the rest of a sparkling Spanish white wine. I was solo in the lounge watching YouTube videos into the wee hours of the morning and stumbled upon the exhaustive amount of fried egg content. It was then that I became fixated on getting my eggs to Jacques Pépin level. For months, I’d forsaken my standard Jeff Goldblum recipe for Jacques’. But something was missing. They were almost too perfect, too polished.

Funny enough, the real breakthrough began months later at the Mandala Hotel during a visit to Berlin.

This trip was a privileged pilgrimage of pampering with an upside of high-level content creation and productivity. Or the other way around? Sometimes you just need to see the people you’re working with.

I’d been questioning my direction, my ambitions, my purpose in work, and what to prioritise. I had been contemplating these things late into the night after dinner and cigarettes at Baret.

When I awoke, I got dressed in my typical blue Sunspel x CDG t-shirt, a pair of khaki trousers, and my Star Wars Crocs (a gift from my daughters who I missed dearly). I then strolled down to the hotel restaurant, Facil.

It’s astonishing how exposure to places changes your perspective and comfort. In my early 20s, I was intimidated by places like this: Michelin stars and such. Look up the origins of the Michelin guide and you’ll feel a lot less concerned. These days I feel at home in these places and enter the building with the intention of being looked after. You should too.

I gave my room number to the host, was seated next to a fountain and ordered a simple breakfast: two fried eggs, black americano (obviously) and bacon. I served myself some fruit from the open continental bar. I took in the ambience: many smiling guests, patrons looking at me. Perhaps they liked my sunglasses, which I left on for the meal. Despite the German stereotypes, the staff was incredibly chatty and welcoming. As an aside, I’ve never met a rude or overly blunt German. Perhaps that’s just my perception because I spend far more time with the Dutch? For the record, they’re lovely too.

The eggs. When they arrived, I was floored. Not just by the service or the atmosphere, but by the eggs.

They were flawless.

Each yolk sat perfectly in between runny and jammy upon a delicate crust. The tiniest bit of colour on the edge. Crisp, but not audibly so. Soft, and just barely set. I remember staring at them for longer than anyone should.

These are the eggs.

I told everyone I could about them. The Mandala, Baret, Facil. But these eggs were exceptional. A standout.

On the drive back from the airport, my father-in-law asked if I got the recipe. And it sank in.

Not only would I need to create my own standard recipe, my own spiritual successor to Pépin’s eggs, but I had no idea where to start.

Back home, amidst company upheaval and the quiet grind of trying to figure out what’s next, I thought about them daily. I’m no slouch in the kitchen. I’ve slow-cooked ragùs that would make an Italian nonna nod in approval, crafted Valenciana-style paellas only missing wood-fired heat…

But these eggs, they became a symbol. A fixation.

On control.

On refinement.

On returning to something basic and doing it well.

Each morning, while work plans shifted and side projects took shape, I zeroed in on my eggs. I experimented. New oils. Butter. Varying heats. Non-stick versus cast iron. Lids on, lids off.

It wasn’t just breakfast. It was a ritual. But moreover, this was me doing something that was of personal value to start my day. The day job wasn’t giving that.

As I cooked, I noticed I was also thinking more clearly. Smiling. The occasional spin move in my blue striped John Lewis apron.

The future didn’t feel like a fog of shoulds anymore. It started to feel like an open menu. The perfection of a fried egg reminded me that the smallest things, when done intentionally, can become anchors. When life feels uncertain, building something small and excellent is its own kind of virtue. And therapy.

We often glorify breakthroughs as massive, explosive things. But maybe the real breakthroughs come in the quiet moments where the cheaper olive oil sizzles just right, the yolk holds, and you realise you’re returning to form.

Today, I sit down at the breakfast bar, plate in front of me, coffee still warm. The window sill teeming with life. The floral scent of purple and pink roses whisks across the kitchen with the misty mountain breeze. The light hits just right.

And all is well.

And I take a bite.

These are the eggs.

Not the definitive fried egg recipe, it’s largely personal. Intentionally vague, but specific where it matters:

Note:

No sauce recommended. But if you must: Tapatio, Valentina, or Frank’s Original. Ketchup will result in abject failure.

Mess it up a million times. Do it better.

Have fun. Find stillness in the process.

The kit behind the eggs, no gimmicks: Five Kitchen Tools for the Domesticated and Dangerous.