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Battle of the boil

HAVING MOVED MY TOOTHBRUSH into Mrs H’s house, I found myself eating very well, though a surprising deficiency in her abilities emerged early in the day. After I’d cooked the breakfast egg for perhaps a dozen times on the trot, it occurred to me that Mrs H didn’t do boiled eggs.

‘Of course I can boil an egg,’ she insisted.

‘But have you ever done a soft-boiled egg?’

Her resistance crumpled like a toast soldier encountering a ten-minute egg.

‘Well, rarely.’

‘When did you last do one?’

‘Can’t remember. My father was always in charge of egg boiling. I followed my mother’s example.’

‘You mean you both just sat there and waited for them to arrive?’

‘Yes. Like chicks in a nest with our beaks open.’

‘Just like you do with me?’

‘Yes.’

Of course, it was no great hardship to plug this unexpected gap in Mrs H’s culinary repertoire. It gave me a raison d’être of sorts. But her lack of enthusiasm for this little dish was mystifying. In my view, the breakfast egg is 0-shaped bliss. I formed this opinion at an early age. While other boys invested their spending money on footballs or Ian Allan train-spotting books, I bought a humorous egg-cup etched with the injunction, ‘Get cracking!’

Mrs H’s take-it-or-leave-it approach to the soft-boiled egg did not prevent her pointing out my occasional failures with some vigour. I concede that it is not a good start to the day when you crack open your egg and find a yolk surrounded by a mainly liquid white. Still, I generally press on and eat the sad swirl. Not so Mrs H. ‘I think that’s the worst egg you’ve ever done for me,’ she said once, pushing away her untouched breakfast. She was so disturbed that it was several days before she could contemplate another boiled egg.

In order to improve my technique, I began to explore the unexpectedly vexed business of boiling eggs. Though the war between the Big Endians and the Little Endians about the best way to tackle an egg was a Swiftian satire, this stalwart of the breakfast table sparked a vigorous conflict in 1998. The cause of combustion was Delia Smith’s advice in her BBC programme How to Cook. Her method involves making a pinprick in the big end to prevent cracking, then simmering for ‘exactly one minute’. You then remove the pan from the heat and leave the egg in the water, resetting the timer for five or six minutes, depending on whether you want a white that is ‘wobbly’ or ‘completely set’. This advice was described as ‘insulting’ by fellow telly chef Gary Rhodes. ‘I really don’t believe the majority of people cannot boil an egg,’ he huffed. Obviously, he hadn’t met Mrs H.

In 2005, there was a further kerfuffle when Loyd Grossman tested the boiled egg techniques of five chefs for Waitrose Food Illustrated. Giorgio Locatelli’s method involved constantly stirring the egg in boiling water for six minutes. The resulting centrifuge, he claimed, should keep the yolk exactly in the middle of the boiled egg. Antonio Carluccio insisted that the egg should be boiled for three minutes and then left to stand in the water for thirty seconds. But it was the procedure advocated by Michel Roux of the Waterside Inn at Bray that caused feathers to fly. In his book Eggs, he recommends that an egg should be placed in a small pan, covered generously with cold water and set over a medium heat. ‘As soon as the water comes to the boil, count up to sixty seconds for a medium egg,’ Roux explained to me. ‘It requires neither a watch nor an egg timer and it is infallible.’ Grossman reported disaster when he attempted this method: ‘It was so close to raw that I didn’t want to eat it.’ I met Roux a few months after this criticism and he was still incandescent about Grossman’s comments.

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.

I came across a robust hybrid in The Perfect Egg and Other Secrets by the designer Aldo Buzzi (oddly, the book does not contain much about eggs). Scrambled eggs Frankfurt-style is described as ‘more Olympian, Goethe-esque’ than the standard scrambled egg. This is pretty heady stuff at breakfast time, but I gave it a bash. You are directed to use one egg per person and one for the pan. They are whisked with a teaspoonful of water for each egg. Buzzi directs the reader to cook the eggs in ‘well-browned butter’ over a very low heat. A frying pan seemed to be the best utensil for this, since you have to ‘use a spatula to gently move the part that is setting while you make the still liquid part run on to the hottest part of the pan’. Turn off the heat when the eggs have achieved a very light set. The result is a cross between an omelette and scrambled eggs, though lighter and more liquid and glistening than either of them. I followed Buzzi’s suggestion of blending in ‘well-cooked pepper and tomatoes, in which case what you’ll have is a sort of Basque piperade’.

Mrs H was quite taken with it, though her praise came with reservation. ‘The tomatoes are nice and fresh, the peppers quite peppery. You’ve managed to capture the omelette-style scramble. Certainly worth bearing in mind for future, except…’

‘Yes?’

‘It might be better for supper than at seven thirty in the morning.’

Poacher’s pockets

After two decades of making poached eggs for Mrs H, I came to a sudden realisation. She can’t poach for toffee. I mean real poaching with eggs in a pan rather than using an egg poacher. She admits it herself. ‘My poached eggs are always rotten compared to yours. Don’t know why. One of the great mysteries of life.’

This is an unfortunate culinary omission considering the many admirable applications of the poached egg, a dish that provides its own sauce in a sachet. Hence the word ‘poach’, from the French poche (pocket). What could be nicer or simpler than poached eggs on buttered toast? They’re also splendid in a warm salad and in eggs Benedict, which happens to be one of Mrs H’s specialities. This is when the egg poacher makes an appearance.

Though some of us might look on this as cheating, it was a method advocated by Mrs Beeton. ‘To poach an egg to perfection is rather a difficult operation,’ she wrote. ‘So for inexperienced cooks, a tin egg-poacher may be purchased, which greatly facilitates this manner of dressing eggs.’ People in ancient Rome must have felt the same. A drawing of cooking equipment from Pompeii includes two utensils that look very much like egg poachers (one for four eggs, another for twenty-eight).

My objections to using the poacher involve danger (you are likely to scald your fingers when you remove the little pans from the saucepan), taste (the white of the steamed or buttered egg lacks the pleasing texture of a naturally poached white) and aesthetics. The perfectly round steamed egg is industrial in appearance. It is the kind of egg you get on an Egg McMuffin.

When I imparted my critique to Mrs H, she responded with a delicate yawn. She also pointed out that she never got scalded by the egg poacher because she has the gumption to turn off the gas before removing the egg, unlike others she could mention. However, she agreed that my orthodox version of the poached egg had the edge. Moreover, she expressed willingness to learn.

This reversal of our usual relationship in the kitchen did not prove to be a very happy experience, though we managed the first step of boiling a pan of water without dispute or mishap.

‘Get up a good boil,’ I pontificated, ‘then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer – no bubbles – and break an egg into a cup so we can gently introduce it into the water.’

‘What sort of cup?’

‘Just a cup.’

‘But what kind?’

‘What do you mean what kind? A cup from Buckingham Palace! Just get any old cup. Why are you so concerned about cups?’

What she was meaning, it turned out, was the size of cup. When I snatched down a half-pint mug, Mrs H rejected it and used a ramekin to introduce her egg into the water.

‘Aren’t you supposed to stir the water round so it forms a funnel for the egg?’

‘My funnels never last long enough. Just pour your egg in.’

After doing this, she peered sadly into the pan. ‘My egg is like a rolling blanket of fog. I told you it would spread.’

‘Never mind. Just get it out after four minutes.’

‘What with?’

‘I usually use the large slotted spoon.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘In the place where we keep slotted spoons!’

‘It’s not there.’

‘Grr!’

Eventually the slotted spoon emerged from its hidey-hole and Mrs H hauled out her dripping creation. ‘My poached egg isn’t anything like yours,’ she groaned. ‘Look at that yolk. Completely hard. Mind you, I had a hopeless instructor. You shouted at me.’

‘When did I shout?’

‘Buckingham Palace! Slotted spoon!’ She drew a small figure with black fringe, toothbrush moustache and upraised arm in my notebook. ‘How do you think you rated as a teacher?’ she continued. ‘I’ll tell you how many marks you got out of ten.’ Mrs H made an O with her forefinger and thumb and squinted at me through the hole.

I felt it was time to return to her poached egg.

‘It’s quite nice but a bit, er…’

‘Watery and all over the place, you mean. I’ve done them before and they’ve consistently spread. I can’t get them into a nice little lump like you.’

Then I did a poached egg.

‘See – that’s perfect,’ said Mrs H when I got it out. ‘It’s all nice and round. You can just tell the yolk is going to be perfect. How annoying.’

‘I think I might have given you some elderly eggs.’

‘You might blame the eggs, but I say rotten maker, rotten teacher.’

Still, I might have been even more demanding as a tutor. Considering the beautiful simplicity of a poached egg, it is remarkable how much complexity some experts have managed to bring to the topic. Culinary titan Joel Robuchon says you should boil your eggs in their shells ‘for exactly thirty seconds’ before chilling them in iced water and starting an orthodox poach. This is supposed to ‘firm up the surface edge of the white a bit’, but in my view it indicates a chef who has had a battalion of sous-chefs doing his poaching for him for years.

Michel Roux recommends that you fish your egg out of the pan after one and a half minutes and ‘press the outside edge to see if it is properly cooked’. The picture in his book resembles someone pressing home a point by prodding the waistcoat of a rotund gent. ‘Now, see here, Carruthers…’ If the egg is not sufficiently poached, you put it back in the water. Roux does not say if you have to do more waistcoat-prodding to the egg after its second appearance, though I presume so. Some recipes say that a three-minute boil is sufficient, though I’d advocate four minutes if you stick to a bubble-free simmer. A slotted spoon helps no end when it comes to extracting the egg. Scooping out your egg with an ordinary spoon means waterlogged toast. Some authorities suggest that you should rest the egg on a towel to dry off, rather like a holidaymaker on the beach.

Many recipes suggest a dollop of vinegar in the poaching water to help keep the egg together, but Mrs H doesn’t like the resulting vinegar tinge and she could be right. Anyway, a really fresh egg doesn’t need any assistance in coagulation. Culinary scientist Harold McGee dispenses with vinegar since it ‘produces shreds and an irregular film over the egg surface’. His solution is to pour off the thin white that causes poached egg untidiness before simmering, but I wouldn’t bother. Michel Roux advocates post-poaching tidying. ‘Trim the edges with a small knife to make a neat shape. This will also cut off the excess white that inevitably spreads during cooking.’ Trimming poached eggs strikes me as cheffiness. As Mrs H will confirm, I am not a great devotee of neatness.

Mrs H’s recipe for cheat’s eggs Benedict

Our lovely friend Carolyn Hart was so knocked out with this dish, which I served at my birthday brunch party, that she included the recipe in her book called Cooks’ Books. Because I cooked for around thirty people, it involved the use of an egg poacher (you can handily whack out four servings at a time) and fresh ready-made hollandaise sauce from the supermarket. If the muffins are pre-toasted and kept warm (ditto the bacon), you can rapidly serve quite a crowd, although the quantities given below are per person. I heat the hollandaise in a double boiler at the gentlest simmer whilst poaching the eggs. A child still at the age of pliability is useful for handing round the eggs Benedict to your guests while you try to fend off greedy whatnots demanding seconds. A pitcher or two of Bloody Marys aids the party spirit.

1 toasted muffin

2 grilled rashers of good-quality back bacon (your choice of smoked or unsmoked)

1 poached egg

1 generous dollop of gently heated hollandaise sauce

After variously toasting, grilling, gently heating and poaching the four ingredients, assemble the cheat’s eggs Benedict in this order on top of each other: muffin, bacon, poached egg, dollop of hollandaise. Don’t forget to save some for yourself.