Is that what we think it is? Um, yes.Photograph by Patrick McMullan
It was just sitting there alone, abandoned, bizarrely out of place on a black drinks table in the middle of the club Eugene at the Marc Jacobs after-party. Kim Gordon, Michelle Rodriguez, hunky Dan Colen, and the designer himself, wan, shorn, and almost unrecognizable, twirled around it, obliviously. It was an egg. We touched it. Yes, definitely an egg.
We picked it up and shook it, and thought we detected a sloshing sound. Was it raw? We tried another test, one we remembered from reading Encyclopedia Brown mysteries in our youth (yes, we’re that kind of dork), and gave it a spin. A hard-boiled egg will turn freely on its axis while a raw egg will wobble and stop. It wobbled. A worried security guard rushed over, gently cradled the egg, and repositioned it exactly as we had found it. We turned around and another security guard, bigger, meaner-looking, and wearing sunglasses at night, no less, was standing there, arms crossed. We giggled nervously, then asked what a raw egg was doing at a fashion party. Guard No. 1 feigned ignorance. “I don’t know, but there are ten of them in this room. The owner wanted them out, but people keep taking them.” Guard No. 2 disappeared and reemerged with another egg, which he handed to us. Really? For us? He crossed his arms again and resumed his watch.
We wandered onto the dance floor and fielded theories on how it was that there were eggs at the party. The most viable one: It had to do with some sort of PETA protest over all the fur in the room (333 fur hats and jackets is a trend), but we saw no evidence of broken eggs anywhere. When we finally circled back to the original spot where we saw the egg, both guards were gone, as was the egg. A minute later, Guard No. 1 came out and told us that he had been charged to watch the egg all night, but it had been stolen in our absence: “I’m not very good at my job.” We gave him our condolences and took our egg home. It was raw. We ate it for breakfast. — Jada Yuan
