by Anonymous, London
I was staying with an American family one spring in Connecticut. I was twenty. My host, a woman whose family my mother had au paired for when she was young, was leaving the house for lunch. In order to ensure that I had food to eat she had ordered some simple food from a Chinese restaurant that we went to collect before she delivered me home. I can’t remember if there was anything else to the meal except this – but I remember the egg drop soup, not just for its elegantly self explanatory name. It was a broth with a few scant noodles and silky filaments of egg that must have been dropped and stirred into not quite boiling soup. Every time I have tried to replicate this I have ended up with a cloud of shapeless egg fragments or great hunks of fluffy egg. I think the secret must be to do with the temperature and the way the egg is dropped. It is one of those meals I sometimes think about researching – to find out exactly what it was I ate and how I should make it. It is better left as a mystery, and when I finally manage to replicate the effect of that simple and delightful lunch, it will be all the more satisfying.