After 8 1/2 years in our well-loved, hard-lived, cozy, crowded space on North 5th St., we’re finally moving to something a little more comfortable.
On February 19th we’ll open for breakfast around the corner at 109 N 3rd St., between Berry & Wythe. We’ll start a new chapter in Egg’s life. We’ll have a little more leg room and a little less waiting. More room means we’ll be able to try out new things, but we’re going to focus first on getting the basics right.
Parish Hall will go back to the drawing board for now while we pour all of our attention into making Egg the restaurant it’s always wanted to be but never had room to become.
We know, for all its flaws, Egg’s little shoebox of a room has grown to mean something to a lot of people. We’ve watched families come together, babies grow into 3rd graders, and new businesses, bands, and film projects emerge in that space. So it’s important to us to make sure you feel at home in our new space–that it’s just as welcoming and comfortable as this one has been. Let us know what you think! What will you miss about this space? What should we keep in the new one? Please email us and give us your thoughts, or–better yet–come by for some pancakes and coffee and tell us in person.
As you probably know, we’re big fans of “Goatober,” Heritage Foods USA‘s annual celebration of the goat (and the occasion for some of the most egregious wordplay this side of “eggcellent”). For the past 3 years we’ve tried to think of cool things to do with goat–we’ve made it into sausage, we’ve cured it like porchetta, we’ve smoked it, we’ve served it raw. We’ve served it here at Egg, we’ve served it at Parish Hall, and we’ve served it at Hash Bar. And with every new iteration, we’re more and more amazed by how versatile and delicious this meat is.
So this year, we’re going all out–celebrating not just with specials here and there, but with a full-blown all-goat dinner: 5 courses showcasing the best ways we’ve found to feature goat, from appetizers to dessert. We’ll have drink pairings if you like.
Best of all, it’s on Halloween. You can dress up if you want to, but wear a costume you don’t mind getting all covered in delicious drippings of the world’s most popular meat.
We were honored to be invited to present at this year’s Just Food Conference, held in late February at the Food & Finance High School in Manhattan. Here’s our talk–we were the last to go after Jacquie Berger, Tonya Fields, Joan Gussow, and Garrett Oliver. Each one an impossibly tough act to follow….
After regathering ourselves after being laid out by the rain and the blight and some bad decisions, we’re back on track, planting new seeds every week, gathering brand new lettuces and radishes, looking forward to September when we hope to gather the fruits of our second try at doing things right.
Some things that seemed to sit still during the monsoon season are now gthering speed and putting up table-ready leaves: chard has doubled in size in a week, as has our second planting of kale. Collards are starting to look like collards and not fruitless radishes.
We planted a lot of different things this spring, from herbs to beets to cabbage to corn, but we looked forward to nothing so much as we did the tomatoes. We sprouted them in early April on our roof in Brooklyn, taking advantage of a 10 degree temperature difference that meant the difference between germination and torpor.
The seeds sprouted beautifully-we had about a 95% germination rate-and in late May we drove the little plants upstate to the farm, where we’d made nice beds for them. In they went, rows of small but hardy-looking shoots of green against the near-black dirt of the Catskills.
And then the rain began. Our land drains poorly, we discovered, and when our soil gets a blast of rain, it hangs on to it. But even if we’d had Venetian canal diggers on hand to reroute the runoff, we would have been at risk of what finally wiped our every last one of our plants last week: the quaintly named, brutally effective fungus known as Late Blight.
It’s some consolation knowing that much better and more experienced farmers suffered the same fate, but nothing will assuage the pain completely until we’re slicing sun-warm brandywines from our garden, sprinkling them with salt, and laying them between a couple slices of mayonnaise-slathered white bread…next August.