The Egg Project

File: 51-Food-UTT

Sec: Food

SubSec: Under the table

P/Q: I wondered if I would’ve been a more responsible person if I had to support an egg in my early life

It all started when a delivery man placed a parcel on my desk. “Be careful, it’s an egg,” he said in whispered tones. What is it… sleeping, I thought as I carefully opened the package. Inside a brown egg slept in a soft plastic tube. Who would send me an egg? I turn the plastic casing around and saw it was from La Maison du Chocolat.

I didn’t go to school in Hong Kong, but my girlfriends who had told me a story of how when they were little, their school teachers made them each take care of an egg to show them responsibility and to sustain them from pre-marital sex. One by one their eggs would break and the school children learned the efforts of raising a child. I was never privy to this experiment, and wondered if I would’ve been a more responsible person if I had supported an egg in my early life.

By some holy marketing miracle, an egg had arrived on my desk. This was not going to be a missed opportunity. I brought my egg to dinner at Miso that night and placed it on the table. “Are we going to eat it?” asked one of my friends (we were sitting near the teppenyaki grills). I moved the egg onto my lap for protection then turned to my boyfriend, “Honey, what are we going to name it?” His amusement turned into fear. After a beat he said “Cyril” to play along, probably wondering if he was witnessing the first signs of baby pangs. “Cyril is the hardest name for Cantonese people to pronounce,” I said, then agreed to it.

After dinner, I hand-carry Cyril to the Ok Go concert at Grappas. It was our first party together. In the tight crowd I held him close so no one would smush him. I lifted him in the air when the masses closed in. By the end of the concert, I was surprised he survived. Fully intact, I lifted the lid of his plastic carriage and I saw he had pooped. This was when I realised Cyril was filled with chocolate.

My chocolate baby and I went everywhere together, to meetings, to lunches, to parties, to work, I even took him to a chocolate tasting at a competitor’s brand. Though Cyril was quite boring, he sat around and observed. His charms were fast wearing off on me.

At a rooftop party at Cepage, he sat silent next to half-drunken glasses on the table. I’ve had him about one week now, and I was getting tired of thinking about his wellbeing all the time. “He doesn’t die,” I said to my girlfriends. “How long am I supposed to carry this thing?”

“Forever, that’s the point,” one said.

Later that night at Sie Jie, I get a phone call from Cepage. “You left your egg here.”

Oh geez, I totally forgot about Cyril. I felt so guilty throughout the meal for being such an irresponsible twat that I couldn’t enjoy the burn of Sie Jie’s mouth-numbing delights. I had to get up and collect my egg. And I dragged my boyfriend with me, guilting him to take on some responsibility, By now, I’m positive he had written me off as a nutter.

I shamefully collect my egg (yes, I’m a bad mother) and call it an early Friday night. On Saturday , I was exhausted from my week of responsibility. On Sunday, I spent the day in bed.

James mentioned taking Cyril to Drop one night, and I thought about how he would not be a bad father. Though a death at Drop would give a grand finale to this tale.

Cyril was the egg that wouldn’t die. I have to give him credit for that. It’s been two weeks, and he had kept up with my hectic schedule, and gleefully accompanying me in my goings. He was a good egg. Someone at work suggested I get a baby buggy (I have no idea what this is).

Serendipitously, I met the person who brought the La Maison du Chocolat brand to Hong Kong. I did not bring up Cyril as I had left him at home that day. We spoke about scheduling a lunch to try Alvin Leung’s sicko invention, Sex on the Beach (a “condom” made of ham, filled with honey, and then flung onto a bed of mushroom sand) at Bo Innovation.

At Bo Innovation, I brought Cyril to meet his maker. I wanted to tell the man behind La Maison Du Chocolat how his gift had changed my life. I now realised I am not a good mommy, and I’m not a responsible person. I’ve been caring for this egg for four weeks, and now I’d like to give it back. But before I could say any of this to him, the Demon Chef, Alvin Leung, grabbed Cyril and offered to cook him. I resisted. No way would he make a good godfather. But I wanted this episode of my life to end. I said goodbye to Cyril and handed him over to Alvin. I promised Cyril conjugal visits. But we both knew he wouldn’t survive a night in Alvin’s kitchen.