The Devil’s Eggs
How a Chef Served Satan Without Getting Burned
A Recipe for Danger
In a bustling market square of a medieval city, with spice in the air and gossip tangled in every clothesline, a wandering chef browsed the stalls. His apron was stained with adventure, his boots caked with flour and foreign soil. He’d cooked for pirates, princes, and paupers. Now, for a season, he’d rented a humble tavern near the river and intended to enchant the townsfolk with the best meals they'd ever tasted.
He filled his basket with fine flour, fragrant herbs, plump sausages, river trout, and late-summer vegetables. But when he asked a weathered vendor for something rare—something that would dazzle on opening night—the old man grew quiet.
“I do have something,” he whispered, crouching behind the stall. “But it’s not... safe.”
He emerged with a small wooden chest and opened it slowly.
Inside, nestled in velvet, were seven eggs. Their shells shimmered like black marble, but felt leathery to the touch—warm, unnaturally so.
“What lays eggs like these?” the chef asked, intrigued.
“No bird. No snake either,” the vendor said. “My grandmother called them the Devil’s Eggs. Buried deep underground. Said he leaves them behind... once a century. Tales say they make any meal irresistible. One bite, and your dish will bring joy, wealth, and power. But every chef who used them? Dead within weeks. Gruesome deaths.”
“Why?”
“No one knows. She only gave one warning: never bury them again or his presence multiplies.”
The chef paused, eyes alight.
“Cooking is risk. Cooking is life. If I feared every old wives’ tale, I’d still be boiling turnips in a stable yard. I’ll take them.”
The vendor hesitated, then pushed the chest into his arms. “I’ll not charge you. But you carry the weight of what comes.”
The Buried Egg
Back at his tavern, the chef crafted a dazzling menu—every dish designed to charm and astonish. But seven eggs? Not nearly enough for a full night’s feast.
That night, curiosity gnawed at him like a rat behind the pantry door.
What if one of the eggs could hatch? Like a hen’s egg—what if it birthed a creature that could lay more?
He remembered the warning. But warnings, in his experience, made the best stories later.
So he dug a hole beneath a great oak outside the city and gently buried a single egg.
The Devil Arrives
By morning, the oak tree was scorched and fallen. The ground had erupted into a blackened crater.
Then came the screams.
The village was on fire. Something winged and monstrous crashed through the streets. At the center of the chaos, on the ruined marketplace square, stood a horned creature with flaming eyes and a voice like gravel soaked in blood.
“Where are my siblings?” it hissed. “I smell them.”
The chef stepped forward, trembling but unflinching. “You seek the eggs.”
The devil turned. “You. You buried the one that summoned me.”
“I did.”
“And the rest?”
“I’ll strike you a bargain.”
The devil grinned. He adored bargains.
The Deal
The chef wiped his hands on his apron.
"Three nights. Three meals. You must take one bite of each. But if you finish the entire plate, I win that round."
"And if I don’t?"
"Then I lose. You get me—and the eggs."
"Tempting. And if I clean every plate?"
"You vanish. Forever. No tricks. No return."
The devil grinned. "Agreed."
This chef had bitten off more than he could chew.
First Course: Pizza Diavola
That evening, the devil sat alone at a candlelit table in the middle of the square. The villagers watched from shuttered windows, while the chef’s two silent assistants stood in the doorway—flour-dusted and strange, their knives gleaming though no light touched them.
“This is a Pizza Diavola,” said the chef, sliding the pie onto the table. “A Roman dish that is devilishly tasty. You won’t be able to resist.”
The devil scoffed, bit in—and froze.
He saw visions of land, cities bending to his will. Every bite granted him dominion over another tenth of the country. He devoured the entire pizza, drunk on power.
“You’ll never outcook that,” he said, licking embers from his fangs.
Second Course: Servant’s Pie
The next night, the chef presented a steaming pie.
“Servant’s Pie. Said to bend any will.”
The devil chuckled, took a bite—and the town emerged from hiding. One by one, people bowed, sang, praised. Priests and nuns processed with incense and hymns, lauding his greatness.
With each bite, the devil felt worship growing. This was better than domination. This was adoration.
He cleaned the plate.
Dessert: The Final Temptation
On the third night, the devil arrived with smug delight.
“Whatever you serve, I won’t eat more than a bite.”
“Of course,” said the chef, unveiling a lavish dessert: mousse, tarts, cakes, and custards.
“What is it called?” asked the devil.
“The Final Temptation.”
The devil raised an eyebrow. “And what does it do?”
“Bestows dominion over the future itself.”
Tempted, the devil tasted the mousse. His eyes widened. It was divine.
He tried a meringue. Exquisite.
Then the profiteroles. The custards. The pastries. Power filled his bones, twisted time in his vision. He saw futures bend to his will. He kept eating.
When at last he scraped the plate clean, he leaned back and burped.
The chef smiled. “You finished each dish. I win.”
“You forgot that I now hold the fate of the future,” the devil grinned triumphantly. “I hereby rewrite the rules of this contract.”
The chef swallowed.
“Now,” he said. “Tell me where my siblings are. Their first taste of power will be your flesh.”
The chef raised an eyebrow.
“That might be difficult.”
The devil’s grin faltered.
“The mousse? Egg yolk. The meringues? Beaten whites. The profiteroles? Folded in the rest of the eggs. Gently, every one of them. You devoured your own future.”
The devil howled. Smoke poured from his nostrils.
“You tricked me—”
“Not tricked,” said the chef. “You got served.”
Two figures stepped from the kitchen—his quiet assistants these past days.
They now stood radiant, swords of fire drawn.
Angels.
“In the name of the contract,” they declared, “we banish you.”
A beam of light struck the square. The devil shrieked, shrank, and vanished into smoke.
Aftertaste
The next morning, the tavern overflowed.
Laughter, wine, and stories filled the air.
Three items on the menu had been scratched out in thick red ink:
Pizza Diavola
Servant’s Pie
Final Temptation
The chef winked at a curious guest.
“Those recipes? One-time specials. I wouldn’t serve them again even if hell froze over.”
I gasped at the end. I was wondering what was going to happen through the entire thing!