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In my own defense, I have to say that when the phrase “Wouldn’t a pickleback be perfect right now?” was uttered last Friday night, I answered quite firmly “No, that definitely seems like a very bad idea.” But when said shots of Jameson and backs of juice from artisanal Brooklyn-made spicy pickles were set in front of us, well, my certainty certainly slipped a bit. Several times. Which made for a fairly stellar night, but not exactly the greatest of Saturday mornings.
the picklebacks in question
Just about all I was able for that morning — okay, afternoon — was lifting my head a few useless inches from the pillow and catching up on episodes of Ripper Street on BBC America on demand, where I was able to watch Inspector Edmund Reid mix up his own milky hangover cure of magnesium, rum, sugar syrup and, oh yes, a dash of cocaine. Ah, the 1800s.
There once was a time I truly believed that hangovers were a myth. Or simply a failure of will. My days and weeks were threaded with ribbons of booze of various sorts. I worked in bars. I wrote about beer, wine and spirits. In my off time, I drank patiently poured pints of Guinness until dawn at my beloved local with my bartender boy buddies, with nary an aftereffect. And then I turned 30. The mornings after were a little bit slower than they had been, but still, nothing I couldn’t power through. And then I turned 35 and finally figured out what the big deal was. My days and weeks are stilled filled with those pouring ribbons, both professionally and personally, but the quantities have been adjusted to limit the damage. Most of the time.
Did you know that the term hangover was originally a 19th-century expression that described unfinished business—something left over from a meeting—or “survival.” The meaning of hangover as “morning after-effect of drinking too much” first surfaced in 1904. I know this because fairly reliably, twice a year — New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day — some clever editor will assign me a story on hangover cures and preventions. The answer to both? Drink less. Scientifically there is no way to stop an excess amount of booze from making you feel less than fresh the next day. But anecdotally we all have our own soothers and cures. Mine? Sugar, caffeine, starch and fat, preferably pork-based. If you have ever been surprised to come into my office and see a non diet soda and a breakfast sandwich that starts with “Mc” on the desk, that is what was happening my friend. But for the days that I am smart enough to overindulge on nights when I can be in my own kitchen the next morning, hangover eggs is my preferred cure.
I recently realized that this dish is a combo of my two favorite childhood sickbed meals — runny soft-boiled eggs in a bowl on top of shredded buttered toast and pastina cooked in chicken broth, then served in a puddle of cooking liquid, served with a pat of butter and a scattering of grated Parmesan cheese on top.
After I’ve had enough coffee and sparkling water to make both standing and cooking possible I take one can of chicken broth and bring to a boil before adding half a package of angel hair pasta. For me angel hair is key here since it cooks so quickly. 3 minutes versus 7-8 minutes can be crazy important in times like this. In those three minutes, I fry an egg, making sure that the yolks stays super runny. When the pasta is done, I do not drain it. Just scoop a serving out into a deep bowl, making sure to get plenty of broth. A pat of butter, and a scattering of grated Parmesan cheese and fresh ground pepper go on top, before it all gets topped with the egg. When the yolk breaks and mixes with the butter and broth, it creates a creamy, unctuous, soothing sauce. And there is enough left in the pot to share with a similarly stricken companion, or to go back for round two after a nap.
