There are two things I truly love in this life: the knowledge that one day Ryan Reynolds may rub his manly body all over me, and a good poached egg. To that end, I today returned to Goldilocks for the third time in as many weeks. Unfortunately Ryan stood me up, but the eggs did not. I don’t even know what that means. I’m delirious with egg yolk.
Before I get carried away (and I will), a few bits of housekeeping. Goldilocks is hard to find. It’s off Camberwell Road in a kind of alleyway, behind Firechief Pizzeria which is sort of diagonally opposite the Rivoli Cinemas. But it’s not signposted by name – all you’ll see is “CAFE” and a yellow door. Use your looking eyes.
The service at Goldilocks has been excellent each time I’ve visited. It is light and spacious and not too noisy, and there is a cabinet filled with Little Bertha cakes and slices. My only gripe might be that the toilet is very close to the eating area.
But on to the show stealer.
It turns out that over the course of writing this blog – and sampling many, many breakfasts – I have become something of an egg yolk addict. And when I say “something” I mean “completely”. On the days I choose Special K instead, I am jittery and in many ways incomprehensible. I walk around the office shouting “OVERCOOKED” at colleagues, before bursting into tears.
So although I looked and looked and looked at that menu (and it’s a good one) I just couldn’t bring myself to order anything else.
Goldilocks is one of the few places I’ve been to in Melbourne that does a sous vide poached egg. That basically means it’s vacuum-sealed and cooked slowly in a water bath at moderate heat (Goldilocks calls it the 62.5C sous vide poached egg). Because I am Heston Blumenthal, I know that this means the egg is completely different from one that is cooked in boiling water and vinegar. Completely. Different.
The poached egg comes covered in the thinnest possible membrane – just enough white to keep it from falling off. That’s how it’s presented, just like that with all its clothes off.
I looked at it and thought I knew what to expect. I thought that if I prodded it with my knife it would explode like a man who’s been on a deserted island for 40 years and go running down the sides and under the bread and into the avocado mash and I’d have to lick it up with my literal tongue. But it wasn’t like that at all.
Exhibit A: egg yolk doesn’t usually look like this.
All I can compare it to is lemon curd. You know how it’s soft and buttery but also kind of solid? That’s what this is like. It’s not cooked, like a boiled egg, but it’s no longer runny. You can pick it up with your knife and spread it on your bread like jam. LIKE JAM. Except instead of stupid fruit and sugar, it is the best food in the known universe. And you can just spread it around. On your face. On your body. On the waiter. The way it folds open just invites the kind of lewd inappropriateness you might expect from a lesser breakfast judger.
Needless to say, I ate that bastard like nothing I’ve eaten before, and at the end I WEPT AT THE FEET OF THE GODS.
My breakfast associate had Panko crumbed eggs with miso and some kind of greenery. Phallic symbol jokes aside, they broke open like angels’ balls and cracked and crunched like cheese supreme Doritos. He highly recommends that you eat them.