Eggs Balzac
ive the artisan a piece of clay and he mixes it with straw. The result—a brick. Give the same clay to an artist—he kneads his genius into it and produces a work of art. So it is with an egg.
Whether it is to be merely a hodge podge of proteins, fats and solids or a dainty fit for the table of an epicure depends upon whether it has the good fortune to fall into the hands of such a genius as graces the kitchen of the Congress.
In preparing this dish, he breaks the eggs from the shell and places them in the oven until the heat gently broils them. Then they are girdled by ebony-hued truffles, exhaling a delightful fragrance. A libation of savoury tomato sauce, with seasoning ad lib—and the dish is ready for the table.
Well may those who know its delight exclaim that this product of Balzac's saucepans is as worthy a heritage as the most inspired works of his pen.
'Twould tempt the dying Anchorite to eat.
Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul
And dip his fingers in the salad bowl."
—Sidney Smith