I’ve had this conversation many times. It goes something like this:

“It’s a piece of bread with a hole cut in it. You put it in the pan and then crack the egg into the hole—”

“Oh, you mean birds in a nest?”

Almost every time I have it, I find out a new name for this dish. To date I have heard it called egg in the hole, eggs in a basket, birds in a nest, joeys, bullseyes, popeye eggs, hole in one, knothole egg, and eggs in jail. Some people call it toad in the hole, which is also the name of an English dish involving sausage baked in Yorkshire pudding batter. How this confusion came about I don’t know.

Those are just the names I’ve come upon in my own personal experience. A Google search also turns up names like one-eyed jack, one-eyed monster, moon egg, gashouse egg, paddy egg, castle’d egg, egg on a raft, man on a raft, egg in the middle, egg in a frame, picture frame egg, bird’s nest, egg in a blanket, egg in a hat, breakfast bread, one-eyed Egyptians, ace in the hole, frog in the pond, scout eggs, egg in a window, and—my personal favorite—gibbly’s willies. Who is gibbly? What are his willies? The answer that springs to mind is probably much less savory than you want in a breakfast dish, but if your appetite isn’t ruined by the thought of what gibbly’s willies might be, try them for yourself.

Gibbly’s Willies

2 pieces bread
2 eggs
butter
salt and pepper

1. Cut a hole in the middle of each slice of bread. Use a cookie cutter, the mouth of a glass, or just wing it. Butter the bread on both sides.

2. Place the bread slices in a cast-iron skillet on medium heat and cook until the bottom side is lightly browned.

3. Flip the bread and crack an egg into each hole. Cook for a few minutes until the yolk is how you like it, then carefully flip each slice and cook for a few more seconds. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve quick.

It was freezing. In classic Norcal fashion, we showed up in sunshine and spent the first hour keeping an anxious eye on the fog bank looming on the horizon. Take a sip of wine, nibble on halibut ceviche, glance to the west, shiver, sip, repeat.

The farm tour diverted our attention. Who can worry about fog when a rancher is saving a newborn piglet from being crushed by its mother? Any dinner that starts out with potential piglet infanticide is worth enduring some fog and wind.

It didn’t get really cold until we sat down to eat. If you go to one of these dinners, don’t linger too long taking pictures at the pig barn. By the time we made it to the table, there were only two seats left at the far end. A party of seven celebrating a birthday, however, insisted on sitting together, and the staff put up another table for them.

I witnessed some discreet eye-rolling and muttering by the staff about demands and entitlement. On one hand, when you ask for another table to be set up just for your party, you should ask nicely. On the other hand, people who pay $200 apiece to eat outside at a pig ranch tend to be an entitled, demanding bunch. Who are these people? Hedge fund managers, young men trying to rustle up investors for solar power, and their wives and girlfriends. Demands for extra attention and exceptions are just another day at the office for people working at such an event.

The sun went down and the wind picked up. You might think that for $200, there would be heat lamps. What are you, an over-entitled hedge fund manager? Instead the staff handed out blankets. We wrapped ourselves in musty quilts, Disney princess blankets, and teddy bear prints and ate like kings (or hedge fund managers). Warm rabbit salad with asparagus, peanuts, and lime; pork-quinoa stew with fava beans; grilled lamb shoulder with chard and turnips; and a rhubarb crostata for dessert.

At one point the wind blew so hard that it knocked a wine glass over, spilling Dutton-Goldfield pinot noir all over the people sitting opposite me. We suffered for our luxury.

This, I thought, is exactly what a refugee camp for hedge fund managers would look like.