Ah, shame. That burning, torturous feeling of having done something terribly wrong.
My friend Craig and I ordered the Scotch Eggs at the Lafayette Brewing Company yesterday. One look at the menu and we knew we had to. We ordered the Scotch Eggs because we liked what we read about them, and because we'd never had hard boiled eggs wrapped in sausage and coated in breadcrumbs. The fact that they were deep-fried didn't make us hesitate at all when the waitress took our order:
Waitress: Have you decided?
Nate and Craig (in unison): Scotch Eggs, please!
W (horrified): Um, ok. You know that they're sausage wrapped eggs, right?
N & C: Scotch Eggs, please!
W: And deep fried?
N & C: SCOTCH. EGGS. PLEASE.
W (shrugging): Whatever. It's your funeral.
Across the table our wives tsk-ed and cast looks of profound disapproval. Twice Craig's wife, Jessica, commented on how delicious she thought the garden salad sounded, but our resolve was not to be tested on this day. Craig and I took deep draughts of our handcrafted ales and sat back in silence, hands clasped beneath the table and privately bracing for the arrival of Scotch eggs.
And arrive they did, sausage-wrapped and deep-fried as promised, and positively sweating hot oil.
They were quartered for easy handling, and we dove right in, squealing with the delight of a pig who, amid the refuse and scraps in its trough, discovers a Scotch Egg.
All that remained, 14 seconds later, were a few breadcrumbs drowning in a pool of brown grease. Delicious? Yes. Deadly? Almost certainly. How much shame do we feel at having devoured a couple of sausage-wrapped, deep-fried Scotch Eggs? About as much as we will next time when we order the Bavarian Beer Nuggets.