The first time I saw balut was on American television. The losing chefs in a cooking competition were left to eat balut and clean the kitchen while the winning chefs went home to celebrate their victory with champagne toasts and hot tub debauchery. The losing chefs stood around the bowl of balut. Some refused to eat. Others gagged. A few stood clueless, having never seen hard boiled fertilized duck eggs before. 

***

“How many can you eat?” Marcie laughed as she inspected the balut in the refrigerated aisle of Seafood City. The younger eggs were displayed individually in open egg crates. The gray speckled shells looked almost no different from the white or brown chicken eggs I purchase from my local grocery store on the mainland. The more mature eggs were separated into groups of four, ready for quick selection in clear plastic containers held closed by a rubber band. “I hope you’re hungry.” Marcie  smiled and quickly but gently placed a dozen of the fertilized duck eggs in the red plastic basket hanging in the crook of her arm. As she glided toward the register she said plainly over her shoulder, “They go well with beer.”

***

Harold taught me how to eat balut.

Step One. Crack the Shell. “Start at this end,” Harold held up the balut egg and tapped the wider rounded end with his finger. I watched as he used his fork to break the shell.

Step Two. Pinch the Membrane. “Underneath there is a membrane. Pinch it off but don’t spill the soup.” 

Step Three. Drink the Soup. The liquid inside the egg is called the soup. “Sprinkle some salt first,” Marcie suggested. I added a pinch of salt to the soup pooling at the top of my egg. I watched the salt crystals dissolve into the warm liquid and put the shell to my lips.

Step Four. Eat the Meat. “This is the best part.” Harold continued to peel his shell from around the brown feathered duck embryo. He used his fingers to dig the meat from the shell. “You can use your fork sis,” Harold smiled and chewed and drank some beer. Inside my shell I could see the tiny lines of feathers forming. I saw an eye. The bill. “Will it be crunchy?” I asked Harold. “No. Ah--sometimes. No. These are soft.” I wedged the tines of my fork through the opening of the shell and pulled out a small piece of tender brown meat.

Step Five. Eat the Yolk. “You can eat this too.” Harold pulled the yellow yolk from the cavity of the shell. I peeled my shell to look like his and used my fingers to remove the soft custard sack from the egg. I popped the yolk in my mouth.

I finished my first balut as Harold was drinking the soup from his second. I reached into the bowl and grabbed another. We ate balut and drank beer. We talked story and laughed. Marcie collected our bowls of broken shells while we rubbed our satisfied stomachs. She smiled as she reached over the table to take my bowl, “This is what we do in the Philippines.”