There are certain moments in life that signify proper adulthood. Home ownership, marriage or co-creating a tiny, angry version of yourself are some of the most ubiquitous (certainly where social media is concerned) but having spurned a career and our flat in favour of a year of travel, none of these are particularly within reach. But no matter. For me, there’s a much more significant indicator that I’ve become a proper grown-up: I’ve started to eat eggs.
This may seem insignificant to many, and it probably won’t make front page news. I doubt world leaders have gathered to discuss the economic impact of an extra half dozen eggs being bought every fortnight; the housing market and world population (other than for a handful of would-be chickens) will remain unaffected. Nonetheless, this is a large gastronomic step for me – for three decades I have spurned the oddly globular foodstuff that is such a staple for many. In part this was through necessity, as breakfasts throughout Central and South America will often be egg-heavy and it’s an undeniably cheap way to guarantee some sustenance at some point in the day.
However, things have gotten so out of hand that I now actively seek them out on menus. Where once I’d have to sigh and order another round of toast (an odd thing to do when you almost always have bread – and a toaster – at home) the world’s of Florentine, Benedict and Sakshuka are now open to me, though boiled eggs can stay safely in their shells surrounded by the crumby remains of their fallen soldiers, thanks all the same. It must also be said that my own cooked eggs would make Gordon Ramsay weep into his chin gristle, usually fried out of all recognition as a wobbly white is still a step too far, though I’m coming round to a soft-poached as long as there’s plenty else to mop up the golden goo.
Luckily there are lots of cafes offering to cook eggs pretty much any way you please. One of the finest examples we’ve found was The Lighthouse Coffee Shop in La Serena, a Chilean beach town that’s unfailingly popular despite (or perhaps due) to the giant malls, central screaming motorway and uninspiring beach. A quick internet search will proclaim The Lighthouse ‘best for breakfast’, and though the pitchfork-wielding hoardes of TripAdvisor are so often wrong, in this case they are undeniably wise.
The cafe and tea shop are secreted down a side street, away from the pedestrianised shopping centre and therefore far more tranquil. A small space indoors spreads out to a wood-heavy courtyard decorated with bright bird boxes and battered metal signs, upside-down umbrellas and hanging plants, and as the menus are delivered one thing is clear – they take their coffee very, very seriously. Coffee weight, temperature and milk proportions are listed to the decimal point, presumably meaningful to the better informed; either way, the coffee’s delicious. More exciting was the promise of brunch served until 4pm, and with a days’ worth of bus travel only just behind us, we set about it with gusto. Soon great plates of poached eggs, spinach, homemade bread and some unusually decent bacon and sausages were before us. They didn’t last long. After another coffee we left with an over-caffeinated wave and a promise of “hasta mañana” – little did they know we’d be back every day until we left town.