Everyone marvels at the Soufflated Egg when it first appears looking like a sculpture with its precise graphic form.

I, on the other hand, prefer it in a demolished state. The fluffy cloud of whipped albumen - broken, the thick golden sunshine of yolk pouring forth to swirl sensuously in the creamy green of the seven-herb sauce and glistening black of the oscietra caviar. This is the kind of beauty - an imperfect perfection I have always been drawn to.

Taste-wise, it’s perfect. No two sides to that.