Christopher Hirst - Love Bites - Marital Skirmishes in the Kitchen

In order to achieve an impartial view, I tried the Roux method using an egg at room temperature. The result was a lightly boiled egg. To achieve a medium set, I had to count for another thirty seconds. Obviously, the time varies depending on the temperature of the egg before it goes into the water and the size of the egg. My main objection to the method is that counting up to sixty or, worse still, ninety is excessively demanding for some of us at breakfast time.

I attempted several methods that claimed to produce the perfect boiled egg, though I drew the line at St Delia’s suggestion of simmering for the time it takes to sing three verses of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. Eventually, I evolved a technique that eschews any form of timer, whether human or mechanical. It involves putting two eggs into simmering water, looking at the digital clock on the oven and adding another four minutes to whatever time is displayed. When this period clicks up, I add a few more seconds for luck, making (I hope) four and a half minutes in all. I then whip out the egg. It works, more or less. The result is usually a nicely set white and liquid but slightly thickened yolk. Mrs H’s customary response is ‘Very nice’. This is satisfactory, though on her scale of responses it is not as ecstatic as her top accolade, ‘Yum’.

Occasionally, for inexplicable reasons, this method produces an underdone egg and accompanying complaints from Mrs H, but I still prefer human approximation to mechanical certainty. ‘An egg is always an adventure,’ said Oscar Wilde. ‘The next one may be different.’ In that spirit, I stick to guesswork even if it means a variable outcome at the breakfast table. That’s me, living for kicks.

If Mrs H wanted a certain outcome in her boiled egg, she could, of course, break the habit of a lifetime and start doing them herself. Instead, she continues sitting there with beak open. Had she ever considered attempting the breakfast simmer in our two decades together?

‘Nope. See what you can get away with if you keep quiet.’

The scramble for success

The boot was on the other foot when it came to scrambled eggs. My inadequacy was brought home when I made some for Mrs H. ‘This is fine,’ she said, ‘as long as you like scrambled eggs that are pale, hard and rubbery.’ I scrutinised my effort, which leaked a watery residue that made the under-lying toast go soggy.

‘It’s not all that bad,’ I protested, risking a nibble.

‘Hmm,’ considered Mrs H. ‘Perhaps I’ve had worse scrambled eggs in hotels.’ Recalling my encounters with terrible hotel scrambles – friable, evil-smelling, desiccated – I realised that this was not saying very much.

‘Chuck it in the bin and buy some more eggs,’ said Mrs H.

Swallowing my pride, which was easier than my eggs, I reassessed my scrambling technique. At some point in the past, I’d conceived the idea that speed was of the essence with scrambled eggs. Plenty of heat and plenty of spoon-whirling guaranteed success. Occasionally, I would examine the chewy results of my speed-scramble and ponder, ‘This can’t be right.’

Mrs H put me right: ‘You need four eggs, plenty of butter and plenty of patience.’ Of all the culinary lessons imparted by Mrs H in this book, the one that has taken root most effectively, at least in her opinion, is how to do scrambled eggs. ‘You’ve learned to do them very well,’ she said, rather like an old master dispatching a talented apprentice into the wide world. ‘I like your scrambled eggs as much as mine.’ Since then, scrambled eggs have become my default snack. Nothing as simple to cook tastes quite so good.

For two people, five lightly beaten and seasoned eggs are added to a pan that is just warm enough to melt a walnut-sized lump of butter. Cooking at low heat is of the essence. Unlike boiled eggs, poached eggs and soufflés, scrambled eggs demand the near-constant involvement of the cook. They should also be consumed immediately. (That’s why the hotel breakfast scramble is usually hopeless.) Nothing seems to happen for ages while you keep stirring. Then, just when you have given up all hope, curds begin to form on the bottom of the pan. These have to be gently broken by the rotating spoon. When the eggs are heading towards setting but still liquid, you add another teaspoon of butter (a splat of cream also works well) and stir again, remove from the heat and serve. The final result should be a slurry, not a set.

If you’re trying to do anything else at the same time, especially the manifold demands of the full English breakfast, disaster is likely. But with unceasing attention and quite a lot of butter, you can produce a dish that is luxurious in both taste and texture. It is one of the few items where the amateur can achieve three-star finesse – or nearly. I must admit that Michel Roux’s formulation incorporating crab and asparagus tips, which I sampled once at his reataurant in Bray, has the edge on my version. ‘There are two schools of scrambled egg,’ explained Roux. ‘My brother Albert does his for hours in a bain-marie. I do mine over very low gas using a diffuser. His are still half-cooked when mine are finished. Less than three eggs in scrambled egg and you get nothing. Five or six are best.’

My decision not to use a diffuser was assisted by my inability to find the damn thing in our kitchen cupboard. Not that the lowest possible heat is always regarded as a sine qua non. In a heretical deviation, Roux’s nephew Michel Roux Jr, who is chef at Le Gavroche in Mayfair, dispenses with both diffuser and tiny flame. He recommends ‘a medium to high heat’ in his recipe for ‘the perfect creamy scrambled eggs’. It goes to show that there is no golden rule for a great scramble.

My in-depth research into scrambled eggs was curbed by Mrs H’s concern for my arteries. I would have tried Ian Fleming’s recipe – his obsession with scrambled eggs is indicated by their repeated appearance as James Bond’s breakfast – but requiring six ounces of butter and twelve eggs, it is as potentially lethal as Bond’s Walther PPK. Along similar lines, the scrambled egg recipe from the surrealist Francis Picabia in The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook calls for eight eggs and half a pound of butter. ‘Not a speck less,’ insists Toklas, ‘rather more if you can bring yourself to it.’ Since the result is described as having ‘a suave consistency that perhaps only gourmets will appreciate’, Mrs H’s prohibition was not too painful.

I had better luck with ‘Portuguese-style scrambled eggs’, one of the variations proposed by Michel Roux. Currently the Sunday breakfast de choix at Hirst HQ, it is a good dish to make if you happen to have some meat stock in reserve. (Years ago, I saw a tip in a newspaper about storing concentrated stock in plastic ice-cube bags in the freezer. Aside from being a bit fiddly to achieve – you tend to end up with a lot of stock on the floor – and the tendency of the frozen cubes to get lost in the freezer, it’s a fine idea.) The scrambled eggs are served in a soup plate topped with a sprig of grilled cherry tomatoes and fringed by a narrow moat of warm stock. Serve with buttered toast. Mrs H’s response is most satisfactory. ‘Simply fantastic. It’s the very best sort of brasserie food. Just the thing to revive an ailing spirit. Perfect for a late breakfast on a Sunday.’

A dish called scrambled eggs Clamart, which incorporates a sprinkling of fresh peas, sliced mangetouts and sweated lettuce, elicited a similar reaction from Mrs H. ‘Yum,’ she said, bestowing top gastronomic marks. ‘Sweet and crunchy. A perfect spring lunch.’ The only drawback is that it is a bit of a faff to do. You cook the peas and mangetouts separately, refresh in cold water, then reheat for twenty seconds before adding to the scrambled eggs with the sweated lettuce. In order not to break the unremitting attention required during the scrambling phase, this requires some deft before-and-after work. By the end, the lettuce isn’t the only thing that is sweated.