Six-Minute Egg

Six minutes and ten seconds, from fridge-cold, into water already at a rolling boil, then straight into ice. Not six. Not six and a half. The ten seconds is the difference between a yolk that runs off the spoon and a yolk that holds its shape until you break it.

The marinade is one part shoyu, one part mirin burnt off, two parts water and a ladle of whatever tare was made that week, so the eggs drift slightly in flavour across a month. Thirty-six hours is the number — at twenty-four the centre is still bland, at forty-eight the white has gone rubbery and faintly brown all the way through.

We peel them under running water, and we lose about one in fifteen to a torn white. Those get eaten by whoever is on the pass.