So, I'm reading the Sunday New York Times and Sam Sifton's writing about hash browns, but also includes a recipe for scrambled eggs with trout caviar. Which might make some people cringe. Egg on egg? I was a skeptic, too, until I had the most sublime dish at the French Laundry.
I was tagging along with a whole lot of wonderful people from Viking and we were getting VIP'd, I knew it from the very start. Our amuse was a hollowed-out shell that had been filled with the most delicate custard and a dollop of caviar. It was pure bliss on mother of pearl spoon. Nobody spoke during those first few bites, just low moans of pleasure. Then we all agreed we had never tasted anything so incredible. At least until the next course. Which I do not recall... but I remember the egg.
Today, I'm making Mother's Bistro French toast for brunch. Without eggs, pain perdure would be milk toast. Which has got to be one of the most vile things ever fed to a person in the name of trying to make them feel better. My grandmother would occasionally use it to try and figure out if we were really sick. "Maybe what you need is some milk toast," Nana said, hands on hips. That would roust us quicker than the threat of a spoonful of castor oil. Another weapon in her get well toolbox.
Back then, she could have also given us the willys by offering to serve us... yup... fish eggs. When we were kids, those were the bright pink salmon eggs my grandfather used to catch trout. They stank. It was that sense memory that stuck in my head, putting me off caviar of any kind until I got hooked on the flying fish roe used on sushi. Thank goodness I turned the corner. So I could fully appreciate the caviar on that lovely November evening in Yountville in the company of Carol and Martha and LeAnne and John T.
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