What better way to mark Easter than a meditation on eggs? Forget the chocolate variety, however, and turn instead to the crisp-crumbed, meat jacketed picnic staple turned posh pub favourite: the scotch egg. How do you eat yours?
(from Flavour First)
Taken from SideDish Magazine (14th March 2013)
The first time I heard of scotch eggs, I thought ‘scotch and eggs don’t sound like they go together.’ But that’s also what I said about whiskey salad and the tursammock (turkey sandwich hammock), and we all know the genius of those… wait. Those were dreams. Scratch that. So what did I know about scotch eggs? Not much, turns out. Scotch eggs have nothing to do with scotch (whew!), and everything to do with wrapping hard boiled eggs in sausage and frying them. OK then. As a friend put it to me recently, ‘I like (expletive) wrapped in different (expletive). And fried.’
And I’m a fan of hard boiled eggs. Let’s be honest though – hard boiled eggs, and by extension many dishes featuring them, are not sexy.* There’s something decidedly old-mannish about hard boiled eggs (no offense old dudes, as I plan to proudly join your ranks some day), like they’re best enjoyed straight from the pocket of a high-waisted track suit, while playing chess at a park. With that in mind, I’ve done here what you can nearly always do to improve a dish’s image: I made it bite sized. Everybody loves smaller versions of foods** (see: sliders, tiny enchiladas, mini-quiches, meatloaf muffins etc). They’re portable, adorable, and resistance to their charms is futile (evil laugh). And, in this case, since the servings are far smaller than regular-sized scotch eggs, you can eat more than one without fear of PICR – Possible Imminent Coronary Reprisal.
The egg arrived cut in half, depressingly revealing the obvious over-boiled egg. A dank grey ring circled the egg like a foreboding signal of what was to come. The sausage meat was thick and dry like chewing on Royal Mail parcel-packaging. It was lukewarm, something a Scotch egg should never ever be. Serve fresh and piping hot or cold in a picnic hamper, but never that dangerous space in-between. By my second mouthful it was stone cold; chewable fleshy meat, unseasoned and putrid.
A side of gravy – once top skin was removed – lifted the bland meat and wet breadcrumbs, but this was a failed product from the beginning. Some salad garnish became the most exciting thing on the plate and that really sums it up.
America, learn how to boil an egg, season meat and present this English classic, otherwise don’t do it at all. Stick to your meatloaf.