That is not a mound of delicious, crumbly blue cheese you’re seeing there on my pizza. That is chopped egg. Chopped, fucking, egg. Did I order a pizza with chopped egg on it? Yes. Yes, apparently I did, because I cannot understand pizza menus that stretch beyond the realm of ‘mozarella, tomate y jamon.’
I know it’s my fault for getting a little experimental, you know, for jazzing things up and putting my dinner in the hungry hands of fate. But I ask you; who puts chopped egg on a pizza?
It’s not even one egg here either, is it? It’s ninety five carefully diced quail’s eggs, hacked to within an inch of their lives by a micro-knife; a knife so small that the pizza chef must keep it in a special zip up pouch on the inside of his monocle so he never loses it.
Also, to produce so many eggs this small, he must keep the quail herself, pecking about the kitchen, probably feasting on leftover pizza crusts covered in her own micro-diced whites and yolks. God knows the kind of eggs I am eating as a result of this. Can you get mad quail disease?
I would love to be able to tell you. Really, I would love to be able to tell you what goes on in the pizza-making, quail egg chopping part of the lovely little alien-infatuated town of Capilla del Monte, Argentina. But I can’t ask, because I can’t speak fucking Spanish.
And also, I am now quite drunk because apparently I ordered a three quarter bottle of wine instead of a glass by mistake and I was so pissed off with the quail’s egg coating on my dinner… which is really just a testament to my pathetic mono-lingual existence, when you think about it… that I decided I’d better drink it. All.
Well, sometimes you’ve just got to make the most of a bad situation, I suppose.