Egg Me On

My brother recently took me to lunch at a sweet little place called Mangiarini on the Upper East Side. As is customary with my brother, lunch was three hours long and an absolute hoot. He drinks wine, which only makes him even more hilarious than he ordinarily is. He likes appetizers. Big entrees. Dessert. And he pays. He’s the perfect gentleman, and doesn’t even try anything funny under the table, even when there are long tablecloths and I’m wearing a short skirt.
The menu offered only one item that was in keeping with my relative veganism. As I’ve said before, I don’t do dairy, but I make an exception with saag paneer at Indian restaurants. And if a cookie has egg or butter in it, who am I to refuse? So I had crescia (grilled unleavened bread) with spinach, roasted tomatoes and white bean puree, which although out of this world, hovered long enough in this world to make it into my hands and into my stomach, where it was welcomed warmly. (Oddly enough, I did not photograph it. This means I will have to return sometime soon to do so.)
I’d made a promise to my brother, however, to try something on the menu that wasn’t within the vegan realm but was the reason for our going to Mangiarini in the first place. My brother likes to “hate” me for not eating sushi anymore and for not participating in calamari with marinara sauce, so, with him egging me on, I decided to just try what he recommended so heartily. It was some sort of flat bread topped with arugula, ham (prosciutto, I think), and fried egg. He’d forgotten about the ham, so I was a bit put off when the dish arrived, but thrilled that the egg was fried enough that it didn’t look too eggy. He apologized for the ham (such a polite fellow), which I just lifted off with my fork (and fingers, because I’m a classy broad) and put on his plate. Thus denuded of ham, I lifted the flat bread to my lips, and, without holding my breath, allowed the egg-topped concoction to enter.
I must confess that it wasn’t as revolting as I’d thought, but I still could not get over the fact that I’d eaten eggs (unbornbabychickensunbornbabychickens). Not as an ingredient in something else, but as themselves, plain and simple. Later that night, as I lay in bed recalling the experience, I felt a strange rumbling in my stomach. “Oh no,” I thought. “I knew I’d get sick from the eggs. I knew I shouldn’t have succumbed to peer pressure. Damn it, he’s just my brother. It’s not like I had to, like, impress him or else he wouldn’t ask me out again!”
I hiccupped once. Then twice. And then, on the third time, it sounded like this! I suppose this is what happens when you don’t want your brother to think you’re a chicken: you turn into one instead. I do not want to even think about what would have happened had I eaten the ham. I’m having visions of me onstage as Buddy Hackett.
(One good thing about this whole thing, though, is that the DOG wakes up very early in the morning, so we don’t have to employ someone special to feed me.)