The other day someone was bragging that they’d just snared some or was it one truffle and I nodded to indicate he should keep talking (an old psychiatric trick); he stopped, “wait a minute,” he said “you don’t ‘get’ truffles?” I tried to keep from crying, blushing or falling on the ground as I answered, “not at all.”
A few years ago, Colette and I were driving from Venice where I had a meeting to Rome where we were meeting good friends for a few meals and we stopped at a place well-recommended by the Slow Food Guide aka the Osterie & Locande D'Italia guide. The front room maestro said something like “You’ve come to the right place – put yourself in my hands, I’ll take excellent care of you.” And he did, except that the first dish had a strange smoky taste to it. I turned to Colette, “could it be?” He came over, “have you guessed how I made it?” Dumb look, “tell me.” “The secret ingredient is truffles.” He and the rest of the 99% of the planet think truffles are the be all and end all; “just put some in scrambled eggs,” they say. I say “phooey.”
Other foods I don’t get are potatoes, especially when mashed with a ton of Robuchon’s best butter, raw chicken, piballes, polenta and rice pudding. As someone who insists he eats everything and who claims to be able to rate food, it’s embarrassing to have to give a dish to Colette to tell me if it’s any good.
Now I and perhaps you, have foods that carry some weird emotional baggage with them that makes them edible but not sought after. With me, it’s raspberries. Oh I know exactly where I encountered the trauma, on the northern shore of Lake Erie, berry picking with a great aunt at the tender age of 6. I ate more than I picked, I was only 6 after all, and after dinner was violently ill.
A few years ago, Colette and I were driving from Venice where I had a meeting to Rome where we were meeting good friends for a few meals and we stopped at a place well-recommended by the Slow Food Guide aka the Osterie & Locande D'Italia guide. The front room maestro said something like “You’ve come to the right place – put yourself in my hands, I’ll take excellent care of you.” And he did, except that the first dish had a strange smoky taste to it. I turned to Colette, “could it be?” He came over, “have you guessed how I made it?” Dumb look, “tell me.” “The secret ingredient is truffles.” He and the rest of the 99% of the planet think truffles are the be all and end all; “just put some in scrambled eggs,” they say. I say “phooey.”
Other foods I don’t get are potatoes, especially when mashed with a ton of Robuchon’s best butter, raw chicken, piballes, polenta and rice pudding. As someone who insists he eats everything and who claims to be able to rate food, it’s embarrassing to have to give a dish to Colette to tell me if it’s any good.
Now I and perhaps you, have foods that carry some weird emotional baggage with them that makes them edible but not sought after. With me, it’s raspberries. Oh I know exactly where I encountered the trauma, on the northern shore of Lake Erie, berry picking with a great aunt at the tender age of 6. I ate more than I picked, I was only 6 after all, and after dinner was violently ill.
Now even at 6, I knew I had a virus or staph or something, that the raspberries had nothing to do with it – but the imprinting was there like the geese following Konrad Lorenz or whistling to Pavlov’s dog. Raspberries would never be sought after again (and thus I left many in my mixed fruit dessert yesterday at the Cantine de Troquet Dupleix much to the waitperson’s amazement). Raspberries are apparently next to truffles in the pantheon of desirable foods.
Then there are foods I have no craving for outside certain geographical boundaries. Most are Italian which is odd. There’s risotto outside of Modena and tripes outside of Florence. But this holds for black sturgeon caviar away from the Columbia River, schnitzel outside of Austria and French fries outside of one truck in Brussels.
There, I think I’ve disclosed and unburdened myself enough.
These thoughts were conjured up after leaving those raspberries after a fine meal at:
La Cantine de Troquet Dupleix
53, blvd de Grenelle in the 15th (Metro: Dupleix)
T: 01.45.75.98.00 (but no reservations)
Open 7/7
Costing about 30 € a la carte.
Then there are foods I have no craving for outside certain geographical boundaries. Most are Italian which is odd. There’s risotto outside of Modena and tripes outside of Florence. But this holds for black sturgeon caviar away from the Columbia River, schnitzel outside of Austria and French fries outside of one truck in Brussels.
There, I think I’ve disclosed and unburdened myself enough.
These thoughts were conjured up after leaving those raspberries after a fine meal at:
La Cantine de Troquet Dupleix
53, blvd de Grenelle in the 15th (Metro: Dupleix)
T: 01.45.75.98.00 (but no reservations)
Open 7/7
Costing about 30 € a la carte.
Truffle
I never got truffles until the last time I had ravioli aux truffes from Le Barale in Nice. It tastes like sex. It tastes charnel. But most truffles don't have that taste, or any other taste for that matter. Why?
Durian
Not only don't I DO durian, the smell sends me running the other way. No wonder it is banned on Cathay Pacific and Singapore Airline.
Once, in durian season (March), I was about to faint from the suffocating durian smell at the Asian supermarket Paristore while the lone shopper ahead of me in the line and her friend the caissière kept yakkety-yakking. I finally apologized for my rudeness for asking them to hurry up because the durian smell was giving me waves of nausea.
The very nice caissière right away resumed ringing and bagging, saying she understood my problem.
We agreed it was a matter of habit.
I added that food like camembert smelled awful but actually tastes good, and durian must be similar.
Her facial expression acting overtime, the caissière said: "Ah non, le camembert ? Ca c'est dégoûtant."
Don't write things off !
I thought I didn't get eggplant, too oozy oily, all in a one-dimensional texture, until it showed up in a no-choice menu at Spring. Turned out I loved Daniel's 3-way eggplant so much that DH asked if I was going to love eggplant from then on. Cheeky me, I said only if it were chez Spring.
So don't give up on something you think you don't "do". One day it may be proven to you, in the most delightful way, that you DO do.
Posted by: Parigi | February 28, 2012 at 10:45 AM
Is this your tribute to Andy Rooney?
Posted by: o.h.lee | February 28, 2012 at 05:17 PM