The Art of Egg Zen

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My father was a jet-setting sophisticate with gourmet tastes and a zest for experimentation. Except at breakfast. Then, he was strictly an egg man.

In Paris, in Rome, dating a stewardess in Dubrovnik, tanning on a Jamaican beach or skiing in Gstaad, my dad ate chicken embryos boiled, scrambled, over easy, runny, in an omelette or on toast,

“Nobody can screw up an egg,” said Feuer père. “No matter where in the world you are or who’s doing the cooking, an egg is an egg.”



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