I’ve thought more about egg salad than I’d care to admit.
Not because it’s trendy, or because it photographs well. It doesn’t. And not because it’s hard to make. It isn’t. But because when you strip away the garnish, the plating, the branding — egg salad reveals everything about how a kitchen thinks.
It’s humble. It’s honest. You either get it right, or you don’t.
At Zina’s, we’ve tested more versions of egg salad than most people would believe. We’ve tasted variations made with crème fraîche, with tahini, with pickled mustard seed. Some were interesting. A few were genuinely good. But the ones we came back to — the ones we remembered — were the ones that understood texture, seasoning, and restraint.
Egg salad is a trust exercise. The simpler it is, the less you can hide.
The first thing we look at is the egg itself. Boiled too long, and you get a sulfuric ring around a chalky yolk. Too short, and the whites collapse under a fork. Ten minutes at a low simmer, followed by a full ice bath, gets us the texture we want — yolks that are soft and golden, whites that hold shape.
We don’t overmix. Some eggs are mashed; others are chopped. The point is contrast. Egg salad should feel like something made by hand, not extruded through a piping bag. It should sit on the tongue like food, not foam.
As for what binds it — yes, there’s mayo. But not too much. The best egg salads don’t coat your mouth. They glide. A touch of Dijon gives depth. A splash of vinegar lifts the flavor just enough to remind you that eggs are, in fact, alive. Sometimes we add a whisper of minced celery. Not for crunch, but for clarity. Salt and pepper, always. Nothing more.
Egg salad isn’t blank. It’s subtle. That’s not the same thing.
When people ask what the biggest mistake is, I tell them: doing too much. Making it “exciting.” Adding curry powder, truffle oil, raw garlic. It’s not that those things don’t have flavor. It’s that they’re loud in a dish that needs to be quiet.
You don’t “upgrade” egg salad. You listen to it.
And here’s the part most people miss — egg salad is better after it rests. Not for hours, but just long enough to let the parts become whole. Ten, fifteen minutes in the fridge, covered. During that time, it stops being eggs and dressing, and starts being itself.
Good egg salad tastes like someone cared. Great egg salad tastes like no one had to try too hard.
We’ve served our version in test kitchens, in staff meals, on quiet weekday menus. It doesn’t always make it to launch. But when it does, we know it has nothing to prove. It’s one of those things that, when done right, asks for no explanation.
Egg salad is not a statement. It’s a reflection. And if it’s not perfect, we keep working — because a salad this simple deserves nothing less.
