Fancy egg. Glory egg.
On the road to Mezel Bouzelfa (where oranges hang plump and heavy from the trees. Also where I mis-stomped on a mandarin cutting and abruptly ended its life.):
We stopped in Grombalia at a nondescript roadside place for lunch. Oh, that egg. It arrived halfway through our meal, after so much bread and salade tunisienne. The table was crowded with white beans and tomato, chickpea stew with spinach and rendered liya, a plate of mosli (halfway between braised lamb and lamb confit) apiece. The eggs were set down, one for each of us, on saucers.
"No, I couldn't." I thought. Then, "maybe just one bite." And after that bite the rest of the meal ceased to be for me.
Your yolk, creamy and golden. Your white firm, but soft.
Listen folks, on top of this egg a perfect tomato sauce glistened!
Olive oil separated ever so slightly from a deeply red tomato puree (harissa, coriander, garlic, velvet). The mosli was polite, but so small in the face of that egg.