Some friends and I recently visited Lone Wolf, located at 1089 Broadway in Bushwick (Brooklyn, New York) for some drinks and possibly a few rounds of pool.
While ordering beer, I noticed that behind the bar there was a food menu. It featured a cryptic message in miniature marquee letters: on one line the word “Pickles,” and directly beneath it “Egg.” At first, I thought that they were two different items: Pickles, and Eggs. Then a friend appraised me to the fact that there was a typo, and, apparently, Pickled Eggs are a classic bar snack.
After a shot of Fireball, a shot of Jameson, and a shot of Tequila it was decided that, since we had nearly exhausted our other options, we would make the brave choice of ordering a pickled egg to share amongst us.
I love eggs, though I must admit that I have a bit of an aversion to the hardboiled sort. Not so much in taste or texture, but in their too often unappealing appearance and presentation: you see four hardboiled eggs in a basket on the counter of your deli, or packed with a bologna sandwich and a Sunny-D in a ten-year-old’s school lunch, or delivered alongside disappointing plane breakfasts or chopped salads.
Hardboiled is not the sexiest egg iteration, I think the world can agree on that. The pickled eggs at Lone Wolf were no exception: they floated in a murky liquid, inside of a gallon mason jar which sat on the bar.
We ordered one.
The bartender gave us a skeptical look, as if it were a request that she’d never actually expected that she’d be asked to fulfill. Somewhat apprehensively, she took some tongs and reached into the abyss, at first grabbing two eggs, then allowing one to plop into the mystery liquid with an unpleasant splash. I gagged.
She placed the orb before us. Rubbery, and pungent, it awaited our consumption. Being the brave soul that I am, I took the first bite. It was chewy, eggy, sour, and surprisingly spicy.
My comrades followed suit. Each of them seemed to have the same reaction that I did: it was unexpected, not unpleasant in flavor, but somehow repulsive.
I don’t necessarily regret drunkenly eating a pickled egg at a sketchy Brooklyn bar at 2:00 a.m., though I’m not positive I’d recommend doing so either.
The bar egg is definitely not for the faint of heart.