As I read Gastronomical Me this weekend, with its visions of France and ocean-faring life and the grossly indulgent world of true gourmets, I felt oddly deprived, like so much of my life has been wasted eating the simple, coarse fare I had always favored and loved.
Where I'm from, there are no restaurants where one can sit and daintily sup on foie gras and escargot while draining, with unabashed ease, glass after glass of fine, aged wine imported from some fragrant vale in Burgundy or Tuscany, and even if there were, I doubt I would have either the resources or palate to frequent such an establishment. No, I may be many things... but a food snob I am not!
Rich, brown sauces, oysters so fresh "the flanges retract at your breath" and ripe, old cheeses--these things have no place in my culinary memory. My fondest memories of food are often of the simplest sort, cheaply bought and devoured without perfumed airs or persnickety waiters. The restaurants I love are not elegant or quaint in any sense. Oftentimes they are mass-market, chain-restaurant affairs that serve unremarkable foods whose ingredients could be found at any local supermarket in America's suburban wasteland. This is not to say that I don't love good food. I eat ravenously, passionately, with uncouth bouts of laughter and vulgar, sloppy noises. I eat food for the tastes I love and the company I keep: the nutty spice of Pud Thai from the stir fry joint near my school, the guilty joy of McDonalds fries shared at 2:00 AM amongst close friends, the disconcerting delight of fried oreos at the state fair.
Food is about sharing stories and companionable silences. It should not be pretentious. There's no delicacy about the digestive process in my mind. It may be a painstakingly prepared, fabulously seasoned filet mignon or a Burger King whopper and regardless of price or relative enjoyment it all ends up as acidic chime gushing through ones intestinal canals. Of course there are times when a classy dinner is nice. I can remember fondly 12 course meals I've had in Chinese cities with college friends of my parents where the waiters dressed smartly in snappy black vests and the silverware gleamed impressively against the immaculate white tablecloth. Yet what I remember of these meals has nothing to do with the expensiveness of my surroundings or the precious quality of the foods I ate. Instead my mind is caught up int he gaiety of the moment, of my mom's thinly lined face flushed with happiness, the rustling coos of her friends, the way my tongue was always wagging, never silent, Chinese and English flowing as one from the aperture of my lips. I remember Hot Pots we dined at in Chengdu with just as much clarity: how the air smelled of cigarette smoke and herbal tea, how my grandfather had sniffed dismissively as he counted out change to pay for my meal, refusing the money my mother had given me with express orders that I use it. I remember the fiery cauldron before us, the red swirling oils at its heart, the pale, shivering worms and scallops and bok choy we slid into the bubbling pot--how I left with my stomach contentedly full and a flaming numbness blossoming in my mouth.
When I think of all the meals I've had, alone and with company, in 18 years of life the thoughts and tastes all seem to blur together. There's a continuity to it all. Breakfast, lunch, dinner--the procession of these daily benchmarks helps mark the passage of my life. Tastes blaze heady and unforgettable on my memory, and I struggle to describe it in words, my love of food, the sweetness I feel when I think of the Panera Bread near my house where Lauren and I met every Wednesday for slightly singed bagels and warm coffee. I think of all these ordinary moments, these perfectly normal meals I've had, the random snacks I unerringly will buy when I walk into a gas station or the velvety smooth chocolates my mom will randomly buy on a whim from the school-boy vendors with their glossy corporate catalogs and winning smiles.
And never really do I feel the need to question the unhealthy, oily goop I will at times shovel into my mouth. I have no patience for delicacies and ornate foods. I have no knowledge of culinary mystique or favorable wines, and frankly, I don't particularly feel the worse for it.
Food is food.
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