It was the fifth time he’d said it; “two eggs over easy and I want them NOW!”
“This ‘aint a magic act” I replied, “you’ll get ‘em when I’m ready!”
was new to the breakfast grill. It was already incredibly nerve
wracking for me, remembering the recipes and styles, keeping up with the
incredible speed at which everything takes place when eggs and cakes
meet 500 degree steel.
I suppose he was in the right; room
service was to get cook’s priority. Still, there were two obstructions.
One, he was snotty, and I have an aversion to contempt. The second, sad
but true, he was male, the house servers were female, and I was
incredibly sexist, or chivalrous as I liked to call it.
patience though finally gave out on his sixth shout. I set a plate on
the aluminum shelf between us, and another on the shallow table in front
of me. Into the lower I cracked two farm fresh eggs, and then asked the
gentleman if he’d said “over easy?” He gave me a sneer before mouthing
“about fucking time”.
It was then I raised the lower plate over
my head, inverting it at the zenith before slamming it down on the
shelved plate that he’d already been reaching for.
As pieces of
yolky commercial china flew, at least one shard to each of the 360
degrees that make up the “circle of life”, I said “Over easy it is sir.
Have a lovely day.”