Eggs-traoridinary

Words: 741

"You mean you'll only eat the stuffing, not the turkey?"

"I can do you bread and yoghurt ..."

"Pineapple, is that what you mean? Pineapple?"

When my Dad first went to the USA as a freshman at UCLA in 1952, most of the people he came across didn't know what a vegetarian was. It was like saying you ate only pickles or something. Hostesses were puzzled about what to feed him at a party, and his landlady let him cook for himself, for the time he stayed at her place before moving to the student co-operative dorm.

Dad paid most of his way through college, so he had a variety of different jobs. One of these was that of dishwasher at a restaurant that closed at midnight.

Now, the kitchen closed at midnight - but Dad, as the last in the chain and the lowest in the pecking order, finished work last. Depending on whether it was a weekend or not, it was often 1.30 PM by the time he would up, hung his apron on the hook and said goodbye to the security guy on night duty.

Then, Dad had to worry about his own dinner. Working in a restaurant doesn't leave you much time to eat. Food, food everywhere and not a bite to eat - to rephrase the famous proverb.

Waling back to his dormitory, he spotted an all-night cafe and stepped in. The lone waitress wasn't too thrilled to see him, she had been hoping for a good nap.

"Whad'ya' want?" she snapped.

"Something vegetarian, please," he replied.

"What does that mean?"

"Like you know, fruit and grass and stuff. Lettuce or cabbage maybe."

"Don't got that. I can do you eggs."

A silent prayer of apology to the powers that be, and a quiet 'forgive me' to his Mom, miles away in India, and Dad muttered, "Okay, then, eggs."

"What's that?"

"Okay, then, eggs."

"So how you want them?"

Dad had no idea how one had eggs. He decided to take the advice of someone more knowledgeable - his present company.

"How do you like your eggs?"

The next thing he knew, he was seeing stars. When things came back into focus, the waitress was rubbing the knuckles of her left hand with her right, in readiness for punching him again. "Nobody gets fresh with me, you understand?" she snarled.

"I wasn't getting fresh," Dad pleaded, his palm on his pulsing eye. "I just don't know how eggs are made, that is all. I have never eaten eggs before."

"Yeah, right. Well, I have them sunny side up."

"I'll have them that way, then."

Now here's a word of warning. If you are ever initiating a vegetarian into egg eating, do not serve them sunny side up the first time round. It's too sudden a jump. Start them with hard-boiled, or scrambled or the good old omelet. Sunny side up is, to put it mildly, not very enjoyable on a vegetarian palate.

Dad finished the dish somehow. It was that or starve for the night. He paid and left the restaurant, his eye black-and-blue.

But his eggs-traordinary adventure didn't end there.

The next day, the student head of the dormitory called a meeting. Weekly jobs were to be allotted to those who paid their rent in work. After much discussion, someone took on the laundry, someone took on haircuts ... and so on.

Dad had to cook breakfast for 164 students each Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

And the kitchen was full of eggs.

Dad would have to learn to cook eggs.

There were fifty gas burners with a pan each. Dad learnt to beat the eggs, blend in some milk, add salt and pour. By the time he had poured out the 50th panful, the first was ready for flipping. At the completion of the 50th flip, the first was ready to serve. He became an expert. His omelets actually became famous.

But nobody could guess the secret ingredient that he used just a pinch of, to give his omelets that unique flavour.

For the first time ever, I'm going to reveal that ingredient.

Reader, it was a pinch of Cinnamon. I've spelt it with a capital 'C' on purpose, it was so important to my Dad's stay in the dormitory. He, the vegetarian who got a black eye along with his first egg dish, had now earned a reputation for cooking the best egg dish ever.

Egg sighting, isn't it?