Ode to the Scotch Egg


There are many things I miss about London – the sights, the people, the atmosphere (and I mean the vibe, not the cloudy mess the British call a sky).

But most of all, I’ll miss the Scotch Eggs.

Okay, maybe that’s slightly false. I suppose I’d be lying if I said I’d miss one curious little food oddity more than some of the more spectacular things London has to offer (here’s to you, Harrod’s).

But after the endless breakfasts of peanut butter toast and sadly weak tea that I’ve snacked on since my return to The States, my nostalgia for the gloriously unhealthy British delicacy has been almost overwhelming.

For those of you who don’t know, a Scotch Egg is a soft-boiled egg, cooked just to the point of runny perfection, delicately wrapped in savory sausage, and then deep-fried to a beautiful golden brown.

Hold on to your trousers, folks. It’s about to get steamy in here.

This wondrous culinary creation is at the heart of many of my finest memories of London. There was that time when I savagely munched on an Egg while perusing some of Harrod’s most exclusive clothing sections – sticky fingers, loud chewing and all – and probably giving some countess a coronary in the process. There was also the day I was so hung over that I couldn’t bear to leave my flat, and an Egg somehow managed to resurrect me enough so that I could watch Sherlock (but let’s be honest here, I probably would have made the effort for dear BAEnedict Cumberbatch regardless of my nausea). And we can’t forget the night a visiting friend and I came back from Ministry of Sound at 3 AM, hungry and desperate, only to weep with joy at the cheerful sight of Eggs waiting for us in the fridge. A critical situation of extreme “hanger” was mitigated immediately by the irresistible combination of fried meat and runny egg. I know, I know, a Lifetime movie is already in the works.

But alas, my incredibly fattening love and I can be together no more. I’ve yet to find a Scotch Egg anywhere in New Jersey, and honestly, I’m too lazy to drive to a specialty food store in Brooklyn where I can probably find one. But know this, dear Scotch Egg, no breakfast food will ever compare to your savory goodness. Not even – dare I say it – my former breakfast of choice, the Taylor ham, egg and cheese bagel sandwich that arguably makes New Jersey the best state in America.

So until I return to England, my one true food and I will be separated. It’s a crime worthy of Sherlock, so hopefully Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch will be around to give it a happy ending.


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