There was a period in 2020 when my entire week revolved around going to buy Cacklebean eggs at my friend Kiara’s cafe in Haggerston, the sadly departed HARA. HARA was everything I’ve ever wanted out of a restaurant, and I had many happy meals there. Kiara did her best to keep her business afloat and turned the space into a grocer, something many people in the hospitality industry did during those initial months of lockdown.
She stocked my favourite eggs of all time. The mighty Cacklebean. It’s tough to fathom how we filled all that empty space in the early days of the pandemic, but I would fill my week the way one filled weeks in those days. On a Friday or a Monday, or who the fuck knows what day because all the days blurred together, I’d plan the ten-minute journey to HARA. That it was thrilling is an understatement because the rest of my week was filled with eating, exercising, working and ‘socialising’ on Zoom in my bedroom and sending 7-10 minute voicenotes to at least 5 different people per day. My flatmate and I designated our living room the ‘Social Zone’, where we would meet to watch The Last Dance together, squabbling over what time we were meant to meet. We’d maturely screenshot our texts to each other and circle previously agreed-upon times with the drawing tool in Whatsapp — as if we weren’t mere steps away from each other 24/7. I’d make endless cups of tea, he’d make elaborate meals, relentlessly make fun of me, I would howl with laughter, and then we’d go back to our rooms. Rinse and repeat. I don’t need to remind you; you were there, too, doing your own version of this.
On the days I’d finally run out of my (ample) egg supply, I’d gear up for Downham Road. I’d prepare to make my big outing, putting on jeans instead of leggings — remembering what it felt like to put on shoes. I'd make a big song and dance of it, announcing to my flatmate what ‘the plan’ was, who would usually take the piss out of me for obsessing over posh eggs. Then I’d walk or cycle up the Kingsland Road, excited to see a friendly face, have a chat and stock up on eggs, ginger, lemons, sometimes bread. I’d somehow manage to kill an hour if I walked slowly and took the long route home, alternately feeling like I was getting some proper exercise if I cycled.
But man, these eggs. They really kept me afloat during a bleak time. I never knew that an egg could provide me with sorely needed serotonin. I also never knew I was so basic that an egg could provide me with so much joy. They’ve got the most golden yolk an egg could have, and they’re superior to any egg I’ve ever had. The scrambled eggs they produce are magnificent in texture and flavour. Have you ever spent time on an egg’s website? Have you ever visited the site multiple times just to understand how they managed to make eggs that good? I have, and that’s what a global pandemic will do to a person. Apparently, the golden yolk means nothing — you just need to feed the chickens orange and yellow foods to get that colour. I don’t care. It made me happy.
They’ve since started selling their eggs at Gail’s, Selfridges and other mainstream venues. They now use vaguely ridiculous packaging—shunning the trad-egg box for a hard-to-get-into-cardboard box with elaborate branding. This makes me feel decidedly less cool than I did when I was buying my Cacklebeans from Kiara, picking them one by one into an unmarked box — as if they were black market cigars. Though I doubt that buying a specific type of egg previously only used by high-end restaurants and it being the highlight of my week for a good 6-9 months could ever be described by anyone as ‘cool’, I do like to think of myself as ahead of my time on most things, so at least it’s in keeping with my lore. It was my little secret, though I’d tell anyone who would listen about the good ol’ Cacks. Despite all the fanfare surrounding Cacklebeans (which includes a Vanity Fair article), I’m still required by law to buy them if I see them in a shop, even though I’m now a guest when I’m in London. Luckily, my hosts are always gracious and understand my deep and enduring love for a golden yolk.
No egg will ever compare to a Cacklebean, sadly, and I’ll just have to make do with spending $48.99 for a dozen eggs in NYC, which is the current going rate for eggs with translucent piss-yellow yolks. Pales in comparison to the £3 I’d pay for my cacks. Sometimes you just have to take a trip down memory lane about your love of eggs, and this has nothing at all to do with Easter being on Sunday.
With love,
Nora x
The Cackster!