Poach Me Deadly, a noir drama of passion and poultry, was inspired by far too many movies to count, and by Chopper’s delicious Eggs en Plastic recipe, which you’ll find at the end of this tale. Chopper’s recipe was inspired by a passage in Anthony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour, wherein Bourdain describes a chef using truffle oil and plastic wrap to poach an egg. For more hard boiled adventures (and more egg puns than you can shake a whisk at), visit this month’s End of Month Eggs on Toast Extravaganza over at Dispensing Happiness. Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that some of the most egregious jokes in Poach Me Deadly are entirely Chopper’s fault.

Poach Me Deadly

(A tale of passion and poultry)

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but Miss Dominique Araucana, she nailed my ticker without cooking a lick.

Maybe it was that voice, all silky chocolate, or maybe that cherry-lipped pout of hers, sweet as a basket on Easter Sunday. All I knew is one look and I was toast.

Every case these days, it starts with a missing husband or a tawdry affair. Some yokel crying in his chowder over lost love and broken dreams. Like we’re all promised the sunny side of life; a ten course meal at Chez Capon and a pony. Hey, so long as my clients were willing to shell out.

Now Miss Araucana, she shelled out. She walked into my office like a royal flush on rent day with a wad of dough in her patent leather clutch purse and a sob story to make me clear my schedule for a week.

“It’s my ranch,” she said. “Someone’s burnt it to the ground. All my pretty chickens and eggs, fried to a crisp. I need you to find the culprit.”

I gave her the usual spiel, hundred bucks a day plus expenses, and handed her my card. Her hand brushed against mine and that was it. Visions of lovebirds danced in my head and I knew my goose was cooked.

“So, what do I call you?” she asked, “R. or I. or Mr. Red?”

“Just Red.”

She opened her purse and I caught a whiff of something musky, like passion on a midsummer day. I pulled at the inside of my collar. She smiled.

“So, Mr. Red. My case. You gonna crack it?”

“Duck soup, dollface. Duck soup.”

First thing I always did when a case involved a torch job was turn to my old buddy from the arson squad. His name was Al Bumen but everyone called him Whitey. Everyone except me. Somehow, calling a guy Whitey when my name was Red just didn’t fly. I gave him a call on the blower and what did I know, Al was already on the case. Had a suspect too.

“Evidence points to some kid from across the border,” he said. He had a voice like a broken bellows, half air, half squeak. I heard a shuffling of papers before he went on. “Name of Huevos. Gallo Huevos.”

Something about that name didn’t ring true with me, but I let it slide. Al wasn’t the type to send me on a wild goose chase. We went way back to the old neighborhood and those ties ran deep. I started to thank him, but he cut in.

“I hate to be a heel, Red, but I have to go. I’m late for a date at the court house.”

“Sending a few rotten eggs to purgatory?” I asked.

“Something like that, Red. Something like that.”

Al was always my best contact in the department, but he wasn’t my only one. I had an in at the coroner’s office. A little bird by the name of Oeuffie, who just loved me to pieces. I figured if I dropped by with flowers I’d get a few tips.

“Birds of paradise,” she crowed as I handed her the enormous bouquet, paid for by the Araucana case expense account. “You must have one doozy of a favor to ask.”

I told her about the ranch fire.

Oeuffie clucked at me and dug through a few files. “Well, I’ll be deviled if this ain’t hard to beat,” she said. She looked like the goose that laid the golden egg. “Your chickens? All that roasting was post mortem.”

“Butchered, then fried,” I muttered, reading over her shoulder. “What a way to go. Any shells on the scene?”

“Egg or rifle?”

“Either.”

“Nope, not a one.”

My face must have fallen like a bad soufflé. Oeuffie clucked at me again and said “Someone lied to you, Red? That never goes over easy.”

I put on my best game face but with Oeuffie I couldn’t win. She had a wry sense of humor and a knack for egging me on.

“Poor Red,” she said, “you’ll be a shell of your former self if you keep putting all your eggs in the same basket, if you catch my drift. Rule number one. Never fall for a client. It always gets you in hot water.”

She was a smart cookie, but I never listened. I thanked her and turned to go.

“Hey, maybe I should hire you,” she called out as I left the building.

I thought I had all my ducks in a row, but things just weren’t adding up. The way Al called it, this was a simple case of arson, but Oeuffie’s information told me otherwise. What would a firebug want with butchering chickens and lifting eggs?

I set out for a walk to clear the feathers from my head and soon I found myself at the edge of my old stomping ground. I hated this place. Hadn’t been here in years. The streets smelled of onions and kippers and brought back scrambled memories of bad nights and worse mornings.

I should’ve known the first person I’d run into in this neck of the woods would be the cock of the walk beat cop, Officer Leghorn. He was a crusty old codger, the size of a sofa and ornery to boot. I tried walking right past him, but his eye caught mine and the game was up.

“Ah say, Ah say,” he called out.

I turned, slow and innocent. “You talking to me?”

Leghorn mocked a look up and down the street. “No one heah but us chickens,” he said. “You got your license, boy? Can’t have ya out heah grilling folks all shamus-like without your P.I. license.”

I pulled a card out of my wallet and handed it over.

“R.I. Red. So that’s whatcha calling yourself these days. What kind of a name is R.I.?”

“It’s not so much a name as a state of mind,” I said.

Leghorn cleared his throat. I thought he was going to cough up a fist full of gravel. “So, ah say, how about that friend of yours. You seen that Whitey fellah?”

I shrugged. “He’s ’round.”

“The othah night, I heard he was ova at Chez Capon.”

Now what the heck was a cop like Al doing at swanky joint like Chez Capon? It had to be about a lead, which meant, whether I liked it or not, I had to get myself over there too. I tried to think it didn’t matter so much, but every time I closed my eyes I saw her and I knew it mattered more than I could ever admit. Oeuffie was right. I’d gone all soft and yellow in the middle and I needed to snap out of it before this screwy world yanked me out of the frying pan and threw me in the fire.

Chez Capon. I can’t believe I was back at Chez Capon. Deep in the black heart of the old neighborhood. No way was I taking a step inside. Not with my private dick overcoat and my private dick hat and my private dick shoes. I’d be laughed out the door faster than you could say Quiche Lorraine.

I leaned against a clean spot of brick wall in the back alleyway and lit up a cigarette. After a moment, the service entrance opened and a squirrelly looking fellow came out, hauling a bag of trash. I figured he was at the bottom of the pecking order so maybe he wouldn’t mind a few innocent questions. I gave him a quick whistle and he looked up.

“Kid, you got a name?”

“Friends call me Foo Yong,” the kid said, even though he looked about as Chinese as my great uncle Paddy Murphy. “Whaddya want?” He heaved the trash into a bin and paused to catch his breath. He had a mean look, a face of a one-eyed sailor, but he was a bantam weight at best, so I knew I could take him if there was trouble.

“What’s the big events this week?” I asked, nodding at the overflowing bins.

“Some kinda fundraiser,” the kid said. “You need a fist full of lettuce just to get in the door.” He eyed my coat and shoes and shook his head.

“Yeah? Tell me what they’re cooking.”

“Special egg dish. Delivery came Thursday.”

Thursday. The night of the fire. “Got any leftovers?”

The kid laughed. “All I got is this trash, but if you want to dive, dive.”

It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. Plastic wrap and blue egg shells. I’d just cracked the case.

“One more thing,” I said, just before Foo Yong stepped back inside. “You got any co-workers named Gallo Huevos?”

The kid cut loose with a howl and then shook his head. “Mister,” he said, “that’s the dumbest name I ever heard.”

I’d cracked the case. And so like a good P.I. I got on the blower and called my client. I couldn’t shake free of the old neighborhood, so we arranged to meet at a cheap hash house, a place on East Bernaise called the Black Bird. She was there, just as I expected. Corner booth, fall of dark, silken hair over robin’s egg blue chiffon. She raised her eyes to mine like a lost puppy.

“Well, Mr. Red. I hope you have good news. The police have been looking for that Huevos boy, but as you know, they’ve gotten nowhere. I expect a better report from you.”

I slid into the seat across from her and lit up a cigarette. “Yeah, I got news. Don’t know if you could call it better. It’s about your eggs.”

“My– my eggs?” Her voice faltered. “They were destroyed in the fire, along with my chickens.”

“Not so fast, dollface. I found ‘em. Over at Chez Capon of all places. They were dead. Wrapped in plastic. Must have been poached.”

“Someone poached my eggs? But, when? How?” She pulled a dainty handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes like a forger retouching a photograph.

“I think you know.”

She looked up at me, her long lashes fluttering like a moth near flame. “Beg pardon?” she said. Her hand reached into her purse. I knew it wasn’t for a second hankie to match the first. I had my heater on her in an instant.

“You had the eggs trucked out of the ranch before the fire so you could fetch a pretty penny for ‘em on the black market. Sold ‘em, free range, didn’t you? To the highest bidder. Then you decided to flame broil your hens for the insurance money. Which brings us to the burning question, Miss Araucana.”

“What’s– what’s that,” she stuttered.

“Which was it? Which of these cockamamie schemes did you start with, huh? Which came first? The chickens or the eggs? I want the truth.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a cheap whimper.

I inched my gun closer to her face.

She let out a little gasp and whispered “the chickens.” I moved my gun closer.

“The eggs.”

And closer still.

“The chickens. The eggs.”

I’d had it with her exasperating indecisiveness so I hauled off and slapped her. She quailed.

“The chickens and the eggs.”

Of course. Both at the same time. I was one dumb bunny to think she could have done this all on her own.

“You had an accomplice,” I said.

“B-I-N-G-O, Red.” I felt the cold steel of a gun at the back of my neck and Al Bumen stepped out of the shadows.

It was only then that I noticed the shiny new rock on the former Miss Araucana’s hand. They’d both played me for a fool. “Well, well, well,” I said. “Birds of a feather.”

“Put your gun on the table, Red,” Al said. “I don’t want another peep out of ya.”

Just ducky. I should have seen this coming. I set my gun down, but that wasn’t going to stop me from talking.

“She must have buttered you up good, Al,” I said. “Here I thought you were loafing around on the job, chasing made-up leads. Gallo Huevos? Right. And I’ve got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn.”

I kept my eyes on Dominique, sick at what she’d done to him. “He was a good man,” I said.

“And a lousy cop.” She smiled as she pulled my gun toward her with a gloved hand. “Not very bright, but I like that in a man.”

Al shifted his weight from one leg to the other and it was then I realized what my role was in this mess. I faced Al. “She doesn’t love you, you know,” I said. “You should of crabbed that when she hatched this plan.”

Al smirked. “You’re just jealous because you laid an egg.”

“I bet you think you’ve got it all, Al,” I said, trying to get a rise out of him. “The sunny side of life. Chez Capon. Hell, maybe even a pony.”

Al smiled. “You know what they say. The early bird gets the worm.”

Click. My gun was no longer on the table. Miss Araucana held it and she’d just cocked the hammer.

“You know what else they say,” she purred. “Never count your chickens before they hatch.”

She fired. Al spun in place and collapsed into the booth behind me. His gun skittered across the floor and came to rest by the kitchen door.

For a brief moment I thought all was right with the world and I’d stroll off into the sunset, dame at my side. Then instinct from the old neighborhood kicked in and I dove for cover.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but really it’s through his back. I went down with the crack of gunfire and a blinding flash of pain. I fought through the red haze and drifted in and out, and when I could focus at all, I only saw Al, slumped in the booth, pale as a meringue against the dark, sticky mess on the cushions behind him. My gun now lay next to me and Al’s next to him. The bird had flown the coop and I was left with, well, something on my face, but Al had it worse. She’d tricked him all the way to the altar.

“Red. Red, I’m…” Al’s voice trailed off in wheeze.

I coughed. “What is it, Al. You want a benediction?”

“Bad egg, Red,” Al said. “Bad egg.”

All our history together and this sorry mess was our swan song. It wasn’t Al, it was this place and this dame. Al had reached for the brass ring and came up with a big fat goose egg. I stretched a hand out to salute an old friend, but he was already gone. Murder most foul, all over a paltry bunch of poultry.

“Ah forget it,” I said to the dead air. “Forget it, Al. It’s Chickentown.”

I, um, really apologize for that. It came to me in the shower, and
I. Just. Couldn’t. Stop.

(For more eggy hits from the 70s, check in with Dispensing Happiness for September’s EoMEoTE round up!)

It is a little known fact, not written in the annals of magic, that Sybil Trelawney, professor of divination, has made not two but three accurate prophecies during her sixteen years at Hogwarts. As the third prophecy was about the ingredients of Hagrid’s breakfast one Sunday morning in late September and not about He Who Must Not Be Named, most dismiss it as mere coincidence and continue to suggest that Professor Trelawney, great-great granddaughter of the illustrious Cassandra Trelawney, is a fraud.

We here at Grumblebein’s Society for the Restoration of Magical Standing believe that this is poppycock. Sybil Trelawney’s predictive powers are quite strong, and this fact is no better demonstrated than by the brief breakfast anecdote that follows.

Trelawney, as we all know, is quite an admirer of tea. Not only do the leaves serve her divination needs, but she drinks it daily by the gallon. On the particular September morning in question, however, calamity struck: she ran clean out. So, being a woman of sound mind and infinite resource, she bundled herself in scarves and sashes (it was quite breezy that day), and trundled down to Hagrid’s hut to seek out a fresh supply.

Hagrid, it turned out, hadn’t a speck of tea about him. He was, in fact, making Turkish coffee and toasting slices of bread. He invited Trelawney to join him, and so she did, nearly knocking over a jar of paprika as she took her place at the table, unaware that this acceptance would lead to yet another Great Moment in Divination.

Now, it is a little known fact (though perhaps slightly more known than Sybil Trelawney’s Third Prophecy) that the grounds of a thick cup of Turkish coffee are unsurpassed as tools of divination. And so, it came as no shock to the expert clairvoyant, when, upon setting down her empty cup next to an earthenware pot of yogurt and a basket of eggs, she had a most singular vision.

The coffee grounds, it seemed, had formed themselves into a crystal clear picture of the future, thus prompting Sybil Trelawney to proclaim:

“When the clock chimes thrice three and sleep is vanquished, four nestlings unhatched shall join with four slices of bread unburnt and two cups yogurt unspoilt, and the eating of dishes from far off lands shall be attended by the consumption of auspicious red powders and curious culinary herbs in small amounts and all will rejoice in its grand flavor. Be warned!”

Hagrid, oblivious to the significance of Trelawney’s pronouncement simply said, “Well of course I’ve got four eggs and four pieces of toast and yogurt and paprika. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are dropping by for a fine Turkish breakfast of Cilbir!”

It is regrettable that Hagrid was unable to recognize Trelawney’s Third Prophecy for what it was, for then we at Grumblebein’s Society for the Restoration of Magical Standing would have his account for the archives as well as hers, and the archives (as well as Trelawney’s reputation) would be richer for it.
One curious footnote: When Sybil Trelawney related this anecdote to us for our records she added a phrase we have yet to decipher. We include it here in the hope that some other scholar of magic might recognize its import. In fact, it may be that this Third Prophecy has much more about it than a simple prediction of breakfast. It may be that this Third Prophecy tells of the ultimate demise of the Dark Lord himself.

The phrase, which Trelawney uttered in a deep and portentous voice, was thus:

“Be warned, I say unto you. For when the days near thirty-one, it’s all to do with EoMEoTE!“

–Herophile Trelawney, Chief Council for Culinary Conduits of Clairvoyance, Grumblebein’s Society for the Restoration of Magical Standing

Cilbir — a delightful Turkish dish of poached eggs, garlic yogurt sauce and paprika butter. Serve with bread or toast.

Turkish coffee optional.

The Limerick Edition

First, the limerick:

For this, our new culin’ry quest,
We’ve cooked up some eggs, as you’ve guessed.
We took bread for this vittle,
And carved out the middle
And behold, we’ve got Eggs in a Nest!

Next, a bit of bonus free-form poetry, ala Geisel, with a brief nod to our favorite food nerd:

Eggs in a Nest, Eggs on a Hat, Toad in a Hole, (what’s up with that?)
Eyehole Sandwiches, Hole in One, Eggs in a Basket are second to none!
Secret Eggs, Egyptian Eggs, everyone begs for Gashouse Eggs!
Add tomatoes, red and gory, you’ve got Eggs in Purgatory!
The only constant is the bread, with a hole in the middle for the eggs to bed,
So carve your bread and add your treats,
Eggs in toast are sure good eats!

Next, a recipe:

Bonus artsy photo of Chopper Dave at work:

And last, and most likely least, a bonus culinary “Nantucket” limerick which has nothing at all to do with eggs:

A hungry young monk from Nantucket
Was strolling the beach with his bucket.
When far from his cloister,
He cried, “Look! An Oyster!
If I had a knife I could shuck it!”