Iceberg to Arugula

I love to write about food, hence the blog. I also love reading the words of truly talented food writers. “Truly talented” in my opinion means going beyond recipes: I crave the works of writers who make me see, smell, feel and taste the food just with their words. This is the type of writer I aspire to be. 

Truly good food writing celebrates food not only as art, but as something that is worthy of eating mindfully (that is, paying attention to each bite with deep enjoyment). Generally this level of food writing focuses on higher quality foods. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not referring to only foofy foods like Foie Gras and Caviar. I’m also referring to foods that are thoughtfully prepared or harvested- the lustily perfumed peach left on the tree until perfectly ripe, a buttery roasted chicken or even a moist, tender herbaceous meatloaf.

Think about it, it’s much more likely that such talented prose would be applied to a thoughtfully prepared dish than to a Big Mac. Not to pick on the Big Mac or McDonald’s for that matter, but fast food is so ubiquitous in our culture that to write an essay extolling whatever virtues the “two all beef patties” might have would frankly be sort of comical. It could be done…. but why?  Do you typically eat a fast food burger slowly and thoughtfully dissecting the flavor and texture of each bite? Or do you cram it down your gullet as fast as you can because that’s what you eat everyday and (OMG) you only have a 30 minute lunch break?

Some of my favorite food writers include Madhur Jaffrey and Ruth Reichl (who can make me drool over sea urchin even though this is something I’d never normally consider eating.)  

Over at Dianne Jacob’s Blog “Will Write For Food”, she offered a 150-word food writing challenge to her readers entitled How Sensuous Can You Be? 

Here’s my entry:

Horizontal shards of heat rose from the road as the brutal sun mercilessly bleached everything the color of sand. Parched and exhausted, I slipped inside the cool thick stucco walls seduced by the perfume of warmed olive oil and herbs.

A young waiter appeared as I strained to adjust to the dim interior. He offered cool wine and dark sultry comeliness. The wine, lusty and sanguineous swirled seductively in my glass yielding tendrils of deep black cherry, caressing my nose. Raising the glass, I allowed the liquid to languidly bathe my tongue.

Unable to understand the language of the menu, I merely pointed. Soon, plump, chewy twists of pasta arrived at my table bathed in a pool of steaming brodo. The pasta resisted slightly at first, but then yielded its soft, buttery cargo and there it was… the very definition of al dente!

Pasta, for me, was never the same.

This entry recounts an experience I had in Italy a few years ago at a little hole in the wall family restaurant just outside the walls of the Vatican. The tortellini dish was very humble, but triggered a deeply visceral wow moment for me. The food we eat permeates our bodies and ultimately is assimilated to become part of us. Frankly, other than sex, I cannot think of anything more deeply intimate. Great food writing honors that.

How sensual can you be? If you love good food writing, give Dianne’s contest a try. Deadline is Jan 16th.