The Secret to Enjoying Caviar: Knowing When to Stop . . .
THERE are those who feel about caviar the way the writer Colette felt about truffles: they'd rather have no caviar at all than have less than too much. Hence the traditional predilection for huge tins of caviar, mounted on a heap of shaved ice, accompanied by chopped egg and minced red onion or by creme fraiche, with mother-of-pearl spoons for shoveling and vodka or Champagne for refreshing. But ghosts of decadent czars, European aristocrats and Diamond Jim Brady haunt such displays. Those who have eaten their fill of caviar know the essential truth of the salted and aged sturgeon egg: no spoonful is ever as superb as the first. In short order, the palate is rendered insensitive to the fragile burst of the egg and, as the salt accumulates in the mouth, numbed to caviar's briny essence.