English Version | SSUF: Sunny Side Up Forever

20 Jul 2022
By Nuno Miguel Dias

We’ll make the egg the star of the show. That is, we’ll fry it under the stage lights. With everything we’re entitled to. Except for the shell. But with the yolk, whites, chalazae, vitelline membranes, and germinal disc. The fact that the majority of people are unaware that all of these are the integral parts of an egg, a cell that can be seen without a microscope, is enough proof that this text is, not only necessary but urgent.

We’ll make the egg the star of the show. That is, we’ll fry it under the stage lights. With everything we’re entitled to. Except for the shell. But with the yolk, whites, chalazae, vitelline membranes, and germinal disc. The fact that the majority of people are unaware that all of these are the integral parts of an egg, a cell that can be seen without a microscope, is enough proof that this text is, not only necessary but urgent.

It is, beyond any doubt, the epitome of versatility in single-celled form. There is no other food that, in its simplicity, simplicity, parsimony, and even candor, can shine so brightly in a kitchen. There is no foie gras that comes close. No caviar can match it (wait a minute, caviar is eggs, so not the best example). There is no pastry shop without eggs, and no restaurant that will admit a chef who does not know that scrambled eggs cannot be overcooked, that the perfect omelet takes a little cream, and that only butter is admitted (olive oil shoots out of the pan), that vinegar poaches, that onion shells cook to make the egg redder and therefore more appealing, traditionally displayed on a salted plate in a tavern window, where it is so well known that you cannot drink without eating the egg. Ah the egg, which meets all the protein needs that will balance not only the nutritional requirements but also the whole body that, staggering, will eventually get home. What came first? No way to answer that it was the chicken. The egg is the one that holds the germ of all creation, universally symbolizing birth, creation, and all the fertility that goes with it, to which not infrequently concepts such as rebirth, renewal, transformation, and the purely divine are associated, hence Christianity relates it to the resurrection period (which may also be associated with Anglo-Saxon springtime celebrations dedicated to the fertility goddess, Eostre). Back in faraway Asia, it is associated with Yin and Yang, the perfect union between two energies that complete each other in their dis- parity so that the world is perfect, the yolk representing the female egg and the white, the male side. For a foodie like me, usually repelled by esotericism, it is on the plate that magic happens. In the most diverse forms, from Quiche Lorraine to the ovos moles aveirenses [a delicacy from the North of Portugal, essentially an egg custard], in lamprey strings, almost raw in the epicenter of a broa de Ló [a Portuguese regional cake], scrambled in a hotel with a morning hangover, accompanied by avid sips of grapefruit juice, to the forgotten gemada [a drink made of milk and egg custard] that muscled the 1980's generation because they saw it in the 70's Rocky. Perhaps it would be interesting to try to explain, historically, who the hell discovered that that strange object, which came out of the anal orifice of already unsanitary animals, served as food. I suspect, using all my ethnological vein, that it was someone who was hungry. Very hungry. The other day, in an urban garden, I witnessed an episode worthy of Sunday morning television. I even thought of calling Sir David Attenborough, but I feared the man would not arrive in time, due to his advanced age. A common jay (Garrulus glandarius) was insinuating itself in front of a blackbird (Turdus merula) nest in the crown of a plane tree (Platanus acerifolia). It was a woe until the alarm call of the brood's sire (literally) brought together a group of half a dozen winged black warriors who swooped down on the provocative corvid. The latter took to the air (also literally) and the chase extended to the impossibility of my dioptres. It turned out that another jay was waiting on a narrow branch for the nest to be free of defenders so that he could calmly steal an egg that he had in his beak. It was a cunning maneuver by the most intelligent species of our avifauna. It impressed me, I confess. But there is a very specific reason why this phenomenon can be observed in a city environment: hunger. Therefore, I imagine that the first hominids, excellent observers of nature for lack of other entertainment, would not have to hunt if they limited themselves to stealing eggs from nests, because hunger did not allow waiting for birds to be born or grow up, because if there is something that characterizes a bird, it is the fact that its flight makes it a little too treacherous to be easily caught, at least until the domestication of chickens, a sweet animal that never expected to be the most exploited living thing on earth, created for the sole purpose of giving us omelets or meat. Except for Sissi. Sissi was the pet of the lady who lived across the street from my first job, in an architectural atelier in Rua da Amendoeira, Mouraria [a historical neighborhood in Lisbon]. Sissi was a sociable old chicken that wandered up and down the sidewalk, indifferent to the onslaughts of a highly irritating albino Pekinese. She would go to the neighbors' houses to receive pats, to the grocery store to get a few grains of something, she would beg for the lap and attention of all passers-by, and when the slanting sun lent those golden tones that are so characteristic of Olisipponians, she would be more attentive, as another episode of the soap opera Tieta was imminent. At the sound of the generic song, sung by Luiz Caldas, Sissi would run wildly home, jump up to the wicket with a flutter of her wings and watch the episodes there, every single day. It was also practically daily, the laying. But her eggs were never eaten. Out of respect, they said. She wasn’t just another hen. It was Sissi. And her favorite character on the soap opera was Perpétua, the owner (who looked a lot like Cinira) said. Mine was Leonora, because she was played by Lídia Brondi and I was, after all, a teenager. The albino Pekingese, however, was nowhere to be found.

Besides the repetitive but beautiful chorus of hundreds of Chaffinches and the sparse mooing of the Arouca breed of cattle, not even the abbesses' breathing could be heard in that Chapter House of the Monastery of Santa Maria de Arouca. Mother Genoveva took some pleasure in remaining thus immobile, demanding absolute silence, looking with her austere air at all the novices who could neither croak nor moo. After this, which for her was one of the most solemn moments of the day, she let out, her voice hoarse with secretly consumed liquor: "But are you Carmelites, Carthusians, or Poor Clares? This is a Cistercian monastery, my girls. They take monastic enclosure very seriously here. And I know you're hanging out with a bunch of outsiders who come to make contributions." The silence became boisterous as if even the birds outside were silent. She continued, "Vamolávêr, what gifts have you received today from the people around us?" Urraca Maria raised her hand to ask to speak. Unfortunately, and due to her size, which was the average height for Portuguese women at the time, no one saw. Sidonia spoke up: "Eggs, Mother." Genoveva's face got worse. Red as a tomato, abundant in the baskets handed out by the faithful in that verdant valley in September, but now that it was spring, they were still mere flowers, she cried out: "Again? But this now we iron our habits every day? When we only take a bath once a month?" she exploded. This time, Urraca broke her vow of silence as her chosen ascetic resource to procure mystical union with God and whispered, "Maybe we can make more Nun's Bellies or Egg Chestnuts or St. Bernard's Bread or Boron Stones or sponge cake or something, I don't know, you know?" Mother Genoveva glared at her. Urraca felt in her spinal cord the need to add, "But of course, none of that should interfere with silence, recollection, and prayer." All the nuns could have sworn they saw a rare but pronounced smirk on Mother Superior's lips. "Then go. Nun's bellies it is." And thus was born, to the delight of the gluttons of this modest rectangle by the sea, the Doçaria Conventual [conventual confectionery], from Fidalguinhos to Amarantinos, from Sestas to Pitos, from Pastéis de Lorvão to Toucinho do Céu, from Pastéis de Tentúgal to Tigeladas, from Esquecidos to Bicas, from Broas das Donas to Bom Bocado, from Sericaia to encharcada, from Formigos to Fidalgo. From the eggs, the greatest contribution of the faithful who felt obliged, by faith or decree, to offer what they had (and, you guessed it, they had almost nothing), the whites were mostly used to iron the habits, while the yolks had a very diverse and tasty destination. But the versatility of an egg is not only made of sweets. Although it is with those first ten minutes of energetic beating with sugar that it beckons, naughty as only he can, to the gastronomic epitome. Where, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, it belongs.

Eggs are so delicious that even salmonella, that extremely smart bacterium, cannot live without them. The result is such a poisoning of the human body that it can lead to really serious problems far beyond three days of horrible symptoms and another two weeks until complete recovery. Experts dish out advice that is even ridiculous, such as "store in the cold but not in the refrigerator door, where the temperature fluctuates a lot" and even "avoid dirty eggs," i.e., "something coming out of an animal's anal orifice cannot have any indication that it has just been laid, that is, that it is absolutely fresh." How then did our great-great-grandparents do it? How would the ancients have created an Abade de Priscos Pudding without an expiration date in red letters printed on the shell? Who would have had the effrontery to leave the eggs in the coolest place in the house in the days when there were no refrigerators, hoping to gather twenty yolks to be able to make a Pão de Rala? Cut the crap! Eggs are life! They increase muscle mass because they are pure protein. They help you lose weight because they prolong the feeling of satiety and have no carbohydrates. They are rich in vitamins A, E, and carotenoids, nutrients with anti-oxidant properties that strengthen the immune system and prevent cardiovascular problems. They drastically decrease the "bad" cholesterol, or LDL, by being rich in lutein and zeaxanthin, which fight free radicals (i.e., prevent the oxidation of fat cells). Inside, they prevent atherosclerosis, heart attacks, and strokes. On the outside, they improve the absorption of collagen, because they have large amounts of selenium and zinc, keeping the skin firm and hydrated. They fight anemia because they are high in iron, vitamin B12, and folic acid, strengthen bones with their vitamin D and phosphorus, maintain mental health by being rich in choline, preserve eye health, and help fight depression. We also have that, contrary to what was thought until just a few years ago, fewer and fewer nutritionists are pointing out the risk of overconsumption of eggs. It seems that recent studies indicate that, although they cannot replace other essential components of a healthy diet, such as fresh fruit and vegetables, there is no limit (within what we can call reasonableness) to the daily consumption of eggs for those who do not suffer from diabetes. But this is a theory that still has some critics. And heated ones at that. Any certainties? A few... Eggs are not fattening. As long as they are not starred in a puddle of butter and served to dip 1kg of bread. The yolk has practically all known vitamins except C. Eating eggs does not raise blood pressure, because the vasodilating properties of the egg white are now a certainty. And now, much to the chagrin of vegans and non-vegans, the truth that hurts: eggs are absolutely no substitute for meat consumption.

In the film, The Hundred Step Journey (adaptation of the book of the same name by Richard C. Morais by director Lasse Hallström), Madame Mallory (Helen Mirren), owner of a Michelin-starred French haute cuisine restaurant, decides to let the young chef of the Indian restaurant across the street (located a hundred steps away) show her his skills. With what? The making of an omelet. And it is at this moment that everyone who thinks they have a "gift for cooking" stops believing in themselves and opts for a righteous "damn, I don't know anything about this after all." It is not the cooking of a steak from the void that dictates a good chef. Nor the cooking point of potato, broccoli, or spaghetti. The barometer of a kitchen is the excellence of its egg. It is as simple as it is demanding. It is ordinary as well as delicate. It is not for everyone. Even the North Americans, who, let's face it, know as much about cooking as a Mongolian does about Arraiolos rugs [Portuguese needlework made traditionally in the small town of Arraiolos], make the waiters in their roadside diners know the difference between a sunny side up fried egg (yolk almost raw), over easy (the egg is turned and removed almost immediately afterward, being fully cooked but with some yolk still raw) and over hard (completely fried on both sides). But it is when we get into more specific and demanding cuisines that the egg lives up to its potential. Or is it the chefs who do justice to their profession, dignifying this giant cell? How could a French haute cuisine restaurant survive without the ratio of two whites to every yolk needed for a soufflé? Or without the mousseline sauce over a masterfully reinterpreted Œufs Bénédicte? Or a simple poached egg (poché) with hollandaise sauce? Or a brioche? Or the providential brushstroke with egg yolk on the thousand shapes that a puff pastry can take? Can those who have never experienced the kitchen of a hotel school dream of the mastery that has to be behind the cooking of an egg, if what you want is a Œuf Mollet, whose white has to be rigid but hiding a thick and creamy yolk, that state between Œuf à la Coque (undercooked) and Œuf Dur (extremely well cooked)? Because the cooking time varies according to whether the egg is at room temperature or fresh from the refrigerator, and even according to the altitude at which it is being cooked (the higher the atmospheric pressure, the higher the cooking temperature).What if we revealed here the primordial secret of scrambled eggs, the one that dictates whether or not a cook is admitted to the ranks of a restaurant, that brings them close to the state of a mousse? First of all, the pan (nonstick, preferably) has to be completely cold. And that is how the eggs and butter are deposited in it (no other fat is allowed), i.e. anyone who beats the eggs in a deep bowl or plate before depositing them in the pan is automatically flunked. Only then do you turn on the heat, which should be as small and minimal as possible (yes, patience is a requirement, as in everything that follows the dogma that slow food is the best food). Stirring vigorously, without stopping, will provoke a reaction that has a scientific explanation... When looked at under a microscope, egg proteins have the appearance of a ball of thread. When stirred, the "ball" unravels and, losing its shape, makes new connections in the form of a net that holds liquid. When heated, this trapped liquid will release vapor. Hence the soft, creamy texture. Pay close attention to the ideal point, when the eggs should be served, otherwise, they will continue to cook in the heat of the pan and become dry. But who needs haute cuisine when, in Portugal alone, and not counting desserts, we can't do without Peas and Eggs, Açorda ("Alentejana soup", for those who aren't from Alentejo), Ovos Verdes, Bacalhau à Brás or Gomes Sá style, any filet that needs breading, Pataniscas, Fricassés, Feijoada with Poached Eggs, that cover over the Duck Rice or Empadão, Mushrooms (míscaros) with Eggs, Grain with Eggs (Covilhã), Tomatoes' Eggs, Beldroegas Soup with Cheese and Eggs and Poejada? Just kidding, of course, we can. We should all try, at least once in our lives, a Soufflé. Just as it would be interesting to taste all the recipes from other countries that also can't survive without eggs, such as the Israeli Shakshuka, Tamagoyaki ("fried eggs" in Japanese), the English Scotch Eggs, Kuku Sabzi (Iranian omelet) the Italian Eggs in the Oven, the South African Bobotie, the Korean Bibimbap, Cuba's Huevos Habaneros, the amazing Italian Orsini, Sri Lankan Egg Hoppers for breakfast, or Kwek Kwek in the Philippines. The only thing that is really not worth wasting all the work of laying the chicken with is Tortilla de Patata and Huevos Rotos. Can you tell I'm not a fan of Spanish cuisine? Only those who are very attentive, right? 

Translated from the original on The Sunny Vibes Issue, from Vogue Portugal, published July 2022.Full stories and credits on the print issue.

Nuno Miguel Dias By Nuno Miguel Dias

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