After having spent far more time at museums than we originally planned to (whoops), we wound our way back through the metro toward our humble little abode, only to arrive and realize that, well, we were hungry. Like, really hungry. To make matters more difficult, it wasn’t exactly the Normal European Dinner Time, but we weren’t willing to wait for that, as we, well, were still sick and wanted to sleep (we’re wondering if we actually had two different things and just swapped diseases). So we decided to try a little restaurant right close to our hostel.
It was a little Italian place called Casa Nostra, we found, and the majority of the seating was designed to be outdoors (as is common), although this particular place also had a sort of loft/second floor, which gave them a bit more indoor seating (and protection from the weather). The food smelled quite good, although we were the only people in the restaurant (which is a very odd feeling). So we settled in and began perusing our menus, and finally decided the the appropriate thing to do in an Italian restaurant in France would be to…order pizza. I chose a sort of generic veggie and chicken one, and MK decided on one with a variety of breakfast toppings like ham and…egg.
But, hey, it sounded interesting, so we might as well try it, right? Right.
No. Bad idea. You see, what arrived looked something like this:
Mine’s the one closest. MK’s is the one farther away (note the fancy knife on the napkin). That thing in the middle is the egg. Of which the white was just barely cooked, and the yolk was entirely raw.
Now, this wouldn’t be the first time either of us had raw egg. Raw egg is not just a breakfast thing in Europe. It’s also a soup thing and a dinner thing and if you aren’t careful it might pop up somewhere bizarre like in a dessert. Or a pizza. Which raises a question. How do you eat a pizza with a raw egg on it?
You can’t cut it, or the yolk will get everywhere. You can’t take a slice and fold it in on itself like you might in New York. And so we ended up sitting and staring at it, trying to determine exactly how she should attack it, during which time the egg made the pizza under it begin to get soggy. MK finally gave up and attacked it with knife and fork, like some wayward Eggs Benedict that was too big for its britches. It was a gruesome, messy, sight.
But she ate it, and she thought it was actually quite good, despite its awkwardness. Mine was, too, so we paid the tab and retreated back to our hostel for the evening, and all was well.