The waitress retreated to the bar, returning a minute later with two tall cans and two small glasses, each containing a hard-boiled egg. She set one of each before Hudson and Ben. Ben picked his egg up and popped it, whole, into his mouth. He squinted his eyes as he chewed, shaking his head when he was through and taking a long swallow of beer.

Hudson eyed his egg warily. He lifted the glass and sniffed. The aroma of vinegar penetrated his nose, and he quickly set the glass down. “I’m not eating that,” he said firmly.

“Come on,” said Ben. “You can do it.”

“It’s disgusting,” Hudson asserted. “You eat it.”

“I had mine,” said Ben. “Now it’s your turn. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

“It’s been overwhelmed by my sense of smell,” Hudson replied.

“Steinbeck loved them,” Ben informed him. “He ate two a day. At least.”

“He did not,” Hudson countered.

“Stella!” Ben shouted. The old waitress turned around. “Bring the picture.”

She nodded and went behind the bar. When she returned she was carrying a frame in her hand. She brought it to the table and set it down.

“See,” Ben said, picking it up. He held it up for Hudson to see. It was a faded black-and-white print. The bar looked much the same as it currently did. A group of men were seated at a table. They were each holding up an egg. In the middle, his big ears and long face unmistakable, was John Steinbeck. Behind him stood a younger version of Stella; her hair was darker but the bored expression was the same. She regarded the men balefully, as if she couldn’t wait for them to leave.

“I told you,” Ben crowed. “Stella’s eggs are part of literary history. Isn’t that right, Stella?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m practically one of the muses.” She took the picture back from Ben and left.

“Now will you eat it?” asked Ben.

“Just because Steinbeck did?” Hudson answered. “No way. If I was interested in Hemingway, would you try to get me to stick a rifle in my mouth?”

Ben shook his head. “All right,” he said. He let out a long sigh. “I guess I’ll just have to eat it myself.” He reached for Hudson’s glass, but Hudson stopped him.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll eat the damn thing.”

Ben, grinning, watched as he picked the egg up from the glass and held it between his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Hudson said, and put the egg in his mouth. He chewed quickly, his eyes shut. The egg was both salty and sour, not altogether unpleasant. When he felt he’d chewed it enough, he swallowed it down. “Happy?” he asked Ben as he gulped his beer to wash away the taste of the egg.