The Fried-Egg Sandwich Trail
by Peter Bradford

I have never seen a woman eating a fried-egg sandwich. I'm not saying they don't eat them, or won't, just that I've never seen it. Maybe it's the oddity of the thing, of grasping the leaky wholeness of breakfast in your hands that puts them off, or maybe they just miss the sprig of parsley. It's a mystery.

The fried-egg sandwich is a guy thing. It's a truck stop, male-bonding, coffee-thickening, alpha staple of life, the icing on high cholesterol counts, the kick-start protein fizz you gotta have to face the day. Legend has it that Palamedes, the Greek hero of the Trojan War, invented the practice of eating regular meals, and the writer Joseph Mitchell has it that Joe Gould, creator of the longest work in literary history-nine million words-singlehandedly revived the unified meal, living on "air, self-esteem, cigarette butts, cowboy coffee, fried-egg sandwiches, and ketchup." Dead on. I knew it, the thing is life-generating. Disdained by millions, dissed by cheese in the 70s, assaulted for years by chic-mod mayonnaise and what-all-you-got, even green (green!) ketchup in 2000, the wooly booly plasma of a fried-egg sandwich is eternal.

I swear, someday I will discover the -perfect fried-egg sandwich. Every morning my palate wakes up urging my teeth to lock onto a thick and crispy buttered roll (toasted on the grill, please!), crunch down through the tang of salty bacon, and sink into the rich golden-yellow bellies of a double-yolk egg sandwich. Then squeeze. The eggy nectar bursts, spreads and commingles. The perfect five-star culinary experience. A harmony of ingredients: moist, fused, and balanced. My knees feel weak. I have to find that sandwich.

No less an oracle than the New York Times traced the pilgrim route for lovers of fried clams: Route 133 north of Boston, passing through Essex, Ipswich, and Rowley, Massachusetts. To pay proper homage to a fried clam, it said, people travel the Fried Clam Trail. So, I've been there and done that. Now, back in Rhinebeck, I ask, why not blaze a Fried-Egg Sandwich Trail?

I set out to find a reachable bunch of purveyors. Between Hyde Park and Red Hook, along or near Route 9, I found eight delis, diners, and coffee shops selling a modestly priced fried-egg sandwich. I was morning-hungry at each, and I ordered the exact same way: "A fried-egg sandwich, please, with two eggs, bacon, and ketchup on a toasted roll." Well. The offerings were spotty to say the least. In Hyde Park and Staatsburg, going north on Route 9, the offerings were sincere, but dry and unbalanced. They lacked ambition. In Rhinebeck, with its more high-falutin' menus, the offerings of two places rose in quality and aspiration, and the elements were more generous, but the fusion of them remained dull and noncommittal. In Red Hook, the offerings of two diners and a deli were senior-friendly but uniformly pedantic, on the squat side and carelessly constructed, and, in one case, garnished with a dill pickle and a tiny cup of macaroni salad. Jeez Louise. Back to Rhinebeck.

The last place I tried was The Deli on Market Street. With no hesitation I say "five stars". Unpromising, unassuming, here's the place. At last I get my chubby compound, with the eggs unabused, unbroken, and loose enough to bond the elements without losing their crackly edges. There was nicely moist bacon withplenty of fatty parts alive and well, good oil restraint, and honest presentation on a paper plate. Everything blended, but still held itself apart. Colossally satisfying. Yowzah.

It's all in the breaking of the eggs. Don't break the eggs. If you want epiphany in your fried-egg sandwich, lighten up on the bacon and don't break the eggs. Trust me on this. Next issue: Romancing the Sardine.