I was cleaning my desk and came across the printout of the following essay. At first I couldn't find it on my computer, but then I did as a WriteNow document. I was able to get a scrambled version with Word and edited it to its original form. I originally wrote it 2000-08-03 for a Split Rock class at UMD, “Personal Essay Seminar” with Bill Holm.
What is it you remember of “memorable” meals: the food, the place, the guests, or the conversation? I find that I remember the place and where I sat more than anything else. I may remember the guests, especially family members. Sometimes I remember the food. Rarely do I remember the conversation.
I can remember sitting with my wife and children on the terrace of a restaurant on the road between Rome and Naples eating a fish of some sort. I don’t remember the name of the fish, only that it was a small, whole fish that I ate without a bit of squeamishness, an achievement that I felt proud of. But I remember better the terrace above the road and the road above the sea which was about a mile away, each being separated from the other by a bright, green band of trees which we looked down on.
I can remember sitting in another outdoor restaurant near Pompei on the same trip. I remember that we sat in the ell of the building with a trellis overhead. I don’t remember the food but I remember that we drank Lacrima Christi (Tears of Christ), a pleasant white wine.
I can remember eating Wiener Schnitzel, pommes frites, und gemichste salat at a restaurant in Basel, Switzerland. I should remember as I ate there frequently and selected that food most of the time. I was alone and sat at one of many sanded tables. I may have had the table to myself or if the restaurant was crowded I would share it with strangers.
I can remember eating lutefisk for the first and only time in an office building in Sweden. I didn’t like the lutefisk. My Swedish colleagues chose something else from the menu.
If I remember the food, I remember little of its texture and taste. The place is much more memorable. My position at the table, the position of the table in the room, the decor of the room, the neighborhood of the restaurant. Why is this?
Do we remember more by sight than taste because we spend so much time navigating with our eyes? How rare is it that we move toward a smell? We may turn into a restaurant because of the good smells coming from it, but we didn’t criss-cross a neighborhood like a predator sniffing the air for prey. We first went through the neighborhood using our eyes to find our way. I remember loving to walk or drive by a commercial bakery, feasting with my nose on the invigorating smell of fresh-baked bread. But I got to the area using my eyes, not my nose. I wouldn’t be able to smell the bakery three blocks away.
Great chefs and good cooks understand the importance of sight in appreciating food.
Bör dock ögonen ha sin spis och födo till fyllnad.
Yet must the eyes have their nourishment and feed until filled.
A Swedish chef lays out a smörgåsbord as a series of platters and dishes in a pattern suggesting the appropriate order to select groups of dishes. Silver herring, golden cheese, and dark hard bread. Red salmon, green parsley, and yellow lemon. White chicken, brown paté, and red tomatoes. Golden flounder, pink sausage, and green beans. Red berries, yellow melon, and ginger cookies.
The staff of a Japanese ryokan serves dinner and breakfast in a dozen lacquered dishes for each person. Most of the items have bright colors and they lay out the dishes in a specific pattern. A clear soup with red snapper and green onions. A slice of golden rolled omelet with green daikon. Chilled white tofu with black sesame seeds. White and green cabbage with dark shitake mushrooms. They hide the workaday electric rice cooker and airpot of tea on the floor at the end of the table.
A German cook piles a plate from edge to edge with meat, potatoes, and vegetables. The large servings suggest abundance and encourage Guten Appetit!
A French chef places a few ingredients on each plate of a many course dinner. The chef balances the flavors and the appearance. The small servings suggest that the dish is to be savored slowly.
On the negative side, one of our friends turned our stomachs off just with how the food looked on the plate - burnt chicken with mushy canned peas and lumpy potatoes.
We also remember the service we receive.
At a Holiday Inn we ordered lunch at a busy time. We placed our order and soon after a waitress served my wife’s food, our kid’s food, and my bottle of beer. A couple came to a nearby table. They ordered. A waitress served their food. The couple ate, paid, and left. My wife and kids finished their food. For forty-five minutes I tapped my foot and twiddled my thumbs, but nobody brought my sandwich. I said we were leaving. As we stood up, a waitress pushed a cart with sandwich came through the door but I ignored her. I told the hostess that I would pay for my family’s food and my beer but not my sandwich. I felt an immense power when I noticed that her hand shook more than my voice.
At a restaurant outside Rome eight of us had had a reasonably pleasant meal and good conversation. When we were ready to leave we asked the waiter, “Il conto, prego” (the bill, please). He replied, “Subito” (right away). Five minutes later, we asked, “Il conto, prego.” He replied, “Subito.” And again, “Il conto, prego.” “Subito.” And yet again, and again. After about twenty minutes, we all stood up and started to leave. The waiter wrote the bill subito!
At a restaurant near the Houston space center, the service was impeccable. As soon as I finished a course, the waiter would appear, remove the dish, and bring the next course.
This little exercise is bringing back so many memories of memorable meals. I do remember many tastes but almost all of them are associated with place.
I remember eating kielbasa in the train station in Budapest but neither the flavor or the texture. But I can still taste the Polish sausage from the Twin Ports Brewing Co. in Superior, Wisconsin.
I can remember the melted ice cream sandwich that still held its shape but not where I contemplated eating it. I can remember sitting in our dining room savoring every spoonful of Ben & Jerry’s The World’s Best Vanilla Ice Cream, the only ice cream worthy of the name “ice cream”.
I can remember the calamari at a long-gone Thai restaurant on Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis; it was so hot that it made my eyes and nose run. I can remember picking jalapeño peppers from our garden in Plymouth and nibbling them as I took them to the house; “Ooh, that’s hot! Mmm, that’s good! I’ll have another bite.”
This is making me too hungry to continue. My wife just came back from the deli with supper. I’m going to check out what she bought.
Postscript: The deli food was so-so veggie stuff but she also bought a fresh, locally-grown, organic beefsteak tomato, picked fresh raspberries from a co-worker’s yard, and bought Ben & Jerry’s The World’s Best Vanilla Ice Cream!
