Bon Appétit!

 by Sandi Page, Guest Blogger, LLS Student, Volunteer and LLS Jupiter Marketing Committee Member

Epicure, gourmet, gourmand, gastronome, bon vivant, foodie……wherever you place yourself on the culinary appreciation scale, the fact remains that food, and where we partake of it, greatly affects our senses, and can remain in our memory banks, sometimes hidden, for a long time, even a lifetime.

Marcel Proust, in his marvelous Remembrance of Things Past, describes these revived memories so exquisitely when writing about his character once again eating, as he describes it, “short, plump little cakes called ‘petites madeleines,’ which look as though they had been molded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim’s shell.”….”But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.”

As I take a trip down my own culinary memory lane, I stop often to remember all that was attached to a particular incident: my first plane ride as a very young child where I thought that the food tray served at mealtime, with all its compartments and their intriguing contents, so unlike any school lunch tray I had ever encountered, was a magical experience. So, too, was my first trip to a New York City Automat, where tempting individual food dishes beckoned to me from behind their little glass doors and the intoxicating smell of coffee filled the air. Ah, but that innocent me had no inkling of the delights that awaited me in my adult life with my now developed and more sophisticated palate! The first time in France, when a heavily laden and earthy smelling cheese trolley was rolled over to our table for the cheese course, and the waiter, to help me make my choices, patiently and with great pride described in loving detail each cheese’s taste and the region in France of its origin, was an unforgettable moment where I fervently thanked the Universe that I now lived in France. Or that late afternoon on a deserted black sand beach in Santorini, Greece, where an old Greek man, with the wisdom of the ages in his eyes, suddenly appeared out of nowhere with a platter of cold grapes, and taking absolutely no note of our Adam and Eve attire, quietly took our offered drachmas, and just as quickly disappeared. The grapes tasted like ambrosia. Never again have I tasted any so sweet.

But my most memorable meal was the retirement dinner for a dear friend that I had the good fortune of being invited to at Per Se restaurant in New York for their nine-course tasting menu (all courses on-the-spot adapted to my special dietary restrictions). It was a nostalgic and unforgettable evening, for many reasons, and the most perfect meal I have ever had, which is saying something, given the thousands of meals I enjoyed in France, that even with the most humble ingredients, turned into something magnificent in the hands of ordinary cooks or extraordinary chefs.

So, I asked some fellow students, faculty and staff what meal (or food) was memorable to them, the setting and the memories it invoked. Here are their delicious recollections!

Dr. Taylor Hagood (Faculty)

It is difficult for me to pick just one memorable meal out of the many that have been enjoyable, resonant, or somehow significant for me. From a fine schnitzel and cranberry dinner in Berchtesgaden to cow tongue in Lyon to at least the temptation to have catfish goulash in Hungary, I have had the privilege of participating in a variety of culinary experiences, while many times I have had life-changing conversations and enjoyed companionship and conviviality in situations in which I cannot actually recall the fare.

One meal rises above the others for me at the moment. I’m not sure exactly when it was—probably sometime in the late 1980s—but I well remember it was in the southern middle Tennessee hamlet of Minor Hill, where my father’s mother’s family lived. The occasion was the death of one of my great-uncles. It was the custom of that part of my family to gather after the burial for a large meal in the large white house where my great-grandparents had lived. The tables were filled with the dishes I have always loved: such things as cream corn, purple hull peas, sweet potatoes, country ham, and rolls aglow with the warm color of perfect baking. There was also my greatest of all weaknesses, fried chicken.
What was important to me, aside from my loving this food, was my watching my great-uncle, a man named Parmenas Cox. He was a man of great dignity, the chairman of the First National Bank of Pulaski, Tennessee, and an important political figure in the area. Towering over most people, especially his wife, Lounette (who I remember rolling into the old house with children clinging all about her, a kind of Dickensian cornucopia to herself, telling of long past days of drinking from a common dipper and winking at the revelation that when she was young she thought “Republican” was a bad word), Uncle Par went about the austere business of banking in his dark suits during the week and then repaired on the weekends to his farm in the country, where he transformed into an overall-clad member of a community of fields, dogs, and black angus. This breadth of his personality was something I always admired, and during the meal I remember looking across the table and seeing him also eating fried chicken, just as I was. And he didn’t just eat it, he ate it with his fingers. I had been trying my best to use a fork, but here was this man of influence, wealth, and noble mien eating the very same food I loved and in the very same way I, as a kid, ate it, with no sense that he shouldn’t do otherwise.

Such is the meal I think of. On a different day, in a different week, probably another one would seem more important, but this is the one I would tell about today.

Suzanna “Suzie” Wells  (Staff)

Well, my most memorable meal didn’t actually include me eating it! I have been a vegetarian for most of my life and am presently trying to be more vegan, but on a trip to Nairobi several years ago, my husband was eager to try the all-you-can-eat meat menu at the famous Carnivore restaurant. Consisting of meats such as ostrich, zebra, crocodile amongst the normal lamb, chicken and steaks, all brought to the tables on Masai warrior swords, the waiters keep coming until you drop a white flag in the center of the table that signals “no more.”  It was an awful sight to see the gluttony of these tourists, and probably some wealthy locals, eating all they could of these meats, then the next day looking in awe at these animals in the wild! Anyway, I had a baked potato and salad!

Paul Newton (Student)

When considering what my most memorable meal was, the important parameters for me include: not having to wait in line to enter or to wait to get something you want during the meal, having the right company present in a low-noise, good light, smoke-free physically comfortable environment, wearing comfortable clothes….and lots of good-tasting food. All Thanksgiving dinners with my family at home fit that bill perfectly. Fresh homemade fruit cup for the appetizer, turkey, gravy and cranberry sauce, candied sweet and mashed potatoes, string beans, carrots, hot rolls and then apple and pumpkin pie for dessert. Each year during dessert, we would go around the table and share what we all were thankful for. A long time ago, the gathering was composed of my grandparents, parents and us kids and now it is us non-kids, our children and grandchildren. The tradition still goes on each year and the collection of every Thanksgiving dinner since I can remember is my most precious and memorable meal.

Dr. Benito Rakower (Faculty)

It was summer and I was hitch-hiking across Switzerland. A driver dropped me off on a straight road bordered by mountains on one side. The nearest town was Chur. Tired, thirsty, and hungry, I entered a small cafe with a beaded, curtain doorway and sat down at a small table. The owner came over and said he was no longer serving meals. I pleaded with him for something to eat and drink. Without saying a word, he left and returned momently with a basket of sliced French bread, a wedge of cheese, butter and mustard. He then brought me a large glass of cold beer. I recall it as my most delicious and refreshing meal.

Kimberly Bowman (Staff)

Throughout the greater portion of my childhood, eating was mainly about the tiring task of chewing; a chore to be endured a few times a day. Sure, there were those special little treats like churros off 8th Street with a tall glass of “jugo de caña,” but for the most part, eating was just not any fun. I recall being a bit naughty at the dinner table just for the chance to be excused – off to bed without the rest of my supper. My mother, God love her, eventually realized her little angel was all too delighted to head upstairs, where crayons and coloring books awaited. So, when I was asked to recall a memorable meal, I thought of one special experience. It was the day I really discovered a love for food; the joy of eating. You see, I had enjoyed cooking from a relatively early age. I recall coming home from school in the third grade and tuning in to PBS to watch Julia Child’s cooking show. She was fearless in the kitchen and she exhibited such a joy for cooking – and so did I. But the joy of eating – well, that had just never been there. I now could finally relate to my girlfriends back in high school, who never understood how it was possible for me to go most of the day without having a single bite. “I’m just not hungry,” I would tell them – and I wasn’t. But then, it happened. One day in my early twenties, while hanging out with friends, the appetite was there and luckily for me, it happened at a place in Miami Beach we called Joe’s. Joe’s Stone Crab, to be exact. I had finally discovered the blissfully delicious experience that can come from savoring. A feast for any seafood lover, our table was endlessly presented with succulent Florida stone crab, to be enjoyed with warm, melted butter or mustard for dipping. With bib fastened, I delighted in the messiest of eats, where it was all too appropriate and even encouraged, to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Conch fritters, shrimp cocktail and coconut shrimp were passed around the table and all played nicely with clam chowder and hashed brown potatoes. Of course, we had to complete our feast with the perfect slice of key lime pie, which I’m certain we paired with a cortadito. To this day, I’m not certain how I managed to partake in all that was passed around the table that day. But between all the great food and laughter in the company of good friends, this became an eating adventure this foodie won’t soon forget.

Peter Lippmann (Student)

I like my beef large, well aged and broiled super-rare. There are few restaurants in South Florida that consistently satisfy these primal tastes at less than astronomical cost, so it was with pleasant surprise some years ago that Louise and I encountered a Spanish-themed establishment in Boca Raton that featured on its menu what it characterized as an aged, tender 40-ounce Porterhouse steak at a reasonably moderate price. Forty ounces? That’s two-and-a-half pounds! Even with the bone factored out, that’s a lot of steak.

We were six at the table. Everyone else chose more Spanish-sounding dishes, but I ordered the Porterhouse, cautioning the waiter in no uncertain terms that it must be cooked very, very rare.

It took quite a while for the food to arrive. The steak was last. It sizzled gloriously, deliciously on the plate, but when I took the first cut, it was well done! Louise cautioned, “Try a cut from the center, it has to be rarer than that”. I tried, but it was to no avail. They had converted this beautiful, almost 3-inch thick slab of infinite beauty to an overcooked, dried-out state of blah. Sacrilege! I called the waiter back and – shall we say vigorously – pointed out the problem to him. He visibly blanched, but quickly collected my plate and disappeared with it back into the kitchen.

About ten minutes later, he reappeared; holding a platter supporting what appeared to be a fresh steak, but this time he was accompanied by three compatriots, obviously members of the restaurant staff. He placed the steak before me and this full group then stood immediately to my rear, awaiting the first cut.

The steak showed surface evidence of high-temperature barbecuing, but its interior proved to be cool and raw. It was a raw chunk of beef! These fellows were obviously taking no chances this time. But despite their and my family’s trepidation, it was delicious. Ignoring the spectators, I sliced and gnawed through each and every morsel, eventually leaving behind only a very, very bare T-Bone. Dessert followed for all and, finally, the check.

We rose from our table and headed out. Just before the front door, we encountered a remarkable scene. There was the owner, seated at the bar with just the trace of a tear welling from his eye, cutting away at what he conceded was my rejected well-done steak. “Listen,” he explained, “I can’t afford to take a beating like this. This steak will have to last me for several meals.”

I still bear a slight, but only slight, residual burden of guilt.

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