HTM 3532

L1.Appendix.Lit
July 2012
Lecture 1: Introduction
Appendix: Lit
‘Madeleines’
from À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time/Remembrance of Things Past)
Proust, M. (1913 – 27)
Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre
and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, on my
return home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily
take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent for one of
those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been
moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day
with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had
soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my
palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was
happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with
no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its
disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love
has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had
ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-
powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it
infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come?
What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?
I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, then a third, which
gives me rather less than the second. It is time to stop; the potion is losing it magic. It is plain that
the truth I am seeking lies not in the cup but in myself. The drink has called it into being, but does
not know it, and can only repeat indefinitely, with a progressive diminution of strength, the same
message which I cannot interpret, though I hope at least to be able to call it forth again and to find it
there presently, intact and at my disposal, for my final enlightenment. I put down the cup and
examine my own mind. It alone can discover the truth. But how: What an abyss of uncertainty,
whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself; when it, the seeker, is at the same time the dark region
through which it must go seeking and where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than
that: create. It is face to face with something which does not yet exist, to which it alone can give
reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day.
And I begin to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with
it no logical proof, but the indisputable evidence, of its felicity, its reality, and in whose presence
other states of consciousness melted and vanished. I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I
retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I rediscover the same
state, illuminated by no fresh light. I ask my mind to make one further effort, to bring back once
more the fleeting sensation. And so that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every
obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention against the sound from the
next room. And then, feeling that my mind is tiring itself without having any success to report, I
compel it for a change to enjoy the distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to
rest refresh itself before making a final effort. And then for the second time I clear an empty space
in front of it; I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and
I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise,
something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but
I can feel it mounting slowly; I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces
traversed.

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Undoubtedly what is thus palpitating in the depths of my being must be the image, the visual
memory which, being linked to that taste, is trying to follow it into my conscious mind. But its
struggles are too far off, too confused and chaotic; scarcely can I perceive the neutral glow into
which the elusive whirling medley of stirred-up colours is fused, and I cannot distinguish its form,
cannot invite it, as the one possible interpreter, to translate for me the evidence of its
contemporary, its inseparable paramour, the taste, cannot ask it to inform me what special
circumstance is in question, from what period in my past life.
Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead
moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has traveled so far to importune, to disturb,
to raise up out of the very depths of my being? I cannot tell. Now I feel nothing; it has stopped, has
perhaps sunk back into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise again? Ten
times over I must essay the task, must lean down over the abyss. And each time the cowardice that
deters us from every difficult task, every important enterprise, has urged me to leave the thing
alone, to drink my tea and to think merely of the worries of to-day and my hopes for to-morrow,
which can be brooded over painlessly.
And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine
which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass),
when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom , my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it
first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my
mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without
tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from
those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those
memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was
scattered; the shapes of things,

Memoir Excerpt from

Madeleines in Manhattan
Rossant, C. (2007)
On the counter was a mountain of bright yellow butter, just like in France. The butter was sweet
and creamy, so much better than the packaged variety sold in my supermarket. The saleslady would
cut the butter with a wire to exactly the amount I needed. Then we would stop at Gus’ pickle store
on Essex Street and Grand and buy a quart of sour cucumber pickles. They were so crunchy and so
garlicky that I could not resist the temptation and ate most of them on the way home. Nearby was a
store that sold bagels and bialys. Jimmy had introduced me to my first bialy. I loved the hot, fresh,
chewy bread with its chopped onion centre. I would buy dozens and have them for breakfast
slathered with butter.
Then we would walk to Katz’s delicatessen for lunch. The restaurant was like nothing I had ever
experienced. At lunchtime it was packed with people who, I was told, came from over the city to eat
pastrami sandwiches, which I disliked, or steamed corned beef, sausages or brisket, which I loved.
Along the wall was a small army of men craving the meats. I adored the thick, fatty sandwiches of
steamed beef brisket. My favourite moment was standing at the counter, mouth watering, famished,
watching the old man carve the brisket with such dexterity and rapid movements that I was totally
mesmerized. Smiling, he would always offer me a thin slice of hot, fatty brisket for my approval. I
would say ‘Great! Delicious!’ and my sandwich would be so thick and moist that the bread would
invariably fall apart. It was so succulent that I picked up the pieces with my fingers. Full and
satisfied, we would make our way to Bleecker Street.
On Saturdays, Bleecker Street was lined with carts piled high with salads, two or three types of
aubergines, leeks or green peppers. Along the street we stopped at Italian stores offering salamis,
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hams, cheeses, fresh Parmesan and what I liked most – sweet Italian sausages that I would serve the
next day for lunch with sautéed green peppers. There were several bakeries with crisp Italian
baguettes that were not as good as the French bread I was used to, but certainly a great
improvement on the supermarket bread. Back at our apartment, I would cook dinner with the
things I had bought: I would make a potato and leek soup, stuffed chicken with garlic, and steamed
fresh spinach. On weekends I liked to bake those large Idaho potatoes – I was then in love with this
quintessential American way of preparing a potato – but to be different I would often top them with
herb butter or fresh ricotta from Bleecker Street.

Short Essay
Confessions of a Chicken Man
Doug Mack knows exactly what you think of him when he orders the blandest thing on a foreign
menu. And he's okay with that.
Source: http://www.worldhum.com/features/travel-stories/confessions_of_a_chicken_man/02.03.05 | 7:01 PM ET

When I order a meal in a foreign land, I instinctively brace for the inevitable groans from everyone
else within earshot.
“I’ll have the chicken,” I say.
And then, always, the server nods, smirks, suppresses a roll of the eyes, and writes something on
the pad of paper. “Gringo Special” or “Typical Yank Meal #3,” I’d guess. My traveling companions,
also following the unwritten script, snicker and, after the server has left, make snide remarks.
When the food arrives, the others in my group will find themselves facing brimming towers of
mystery meat and overcooked vegetables native to the region—these are the tourist restaurant
versions of ostensibly authentic local cuisine. One or two people in the group, generally young men
intent on proving their masculinity, may have ordered something truly exotic—puffin with
gooseberries or tongue on toast. In front of me lies a chicken breast, grilled, fried or roasted,
sprinkled with a benign assortment of spices.
I know what it will taste like. I know it will be bland. I know everyone at the table will continue to
ridicule me throughout the meal, some out loud, some silently. I know, too, that I am missing out on
an important part of the travel experience by ordering that most generic of meals.
But I feel no need to prove myself by eating whole the still-beating heart of a just-killed cobra, as
author and chef Anthony Bourdain recounts doing in his book “A Cook’s Tour.” I have no interest in
sampling raw oysters, garlic-drenched slugs, fried potato bugs, or, goodness, a cute, roasted guinea
pig. I don’t care how you pickle it, fry it, sauce it or disguise it in patty form, I do not want to eat
puffin, or iguana, or bull’s testicles, no matter how tasty they may be.
To be sure, I do get a certain thrill from reading such accounts, from hearing friends who served in
the Peace Corps rave about their favorite snack food, termites, or even from witnessing my
traveling companions eat assorted animals, from the small and cute to the large and disgusting. But
these are foods I will only ingest vicariously; when it comes time to order, it’s always the same: “I’ll
have the chicken.”
It’s not so much that I’m the stereotypical ugly American unwilling to try new things. If I find myself
in a village, eating a meal with a local family, I will, out of courtesy, eat nearly anything placed

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before me. As a tourist, though, I’ll savor the local culture through music, art, conversation and
other aspects of the cross-cultural experience that won’t give me nausea or nightmares.
My culinary anxiety comes not from the unfamiliarity of strange foods but from their potential for
causing me immense discomfort. I have a major aversion, and one that I think is highly logical, to
getting sick. My stomach is not an iron one; indeed, it is more likely formed of parchment paper,
given its general fragility. Even a few oddly prepared vegetables can, and have, set it rumbling and
churning for days. In a restaurant in Scotland’s Orkney Islands, I once ordered a seemingly
wholesome and safe dish labeled “Carrot Loaf,” a congealed mass of grated carrots, crushed nuts
and other ingredients that I believe were salvaged from the kitchen’s garbage. I spent the next day
in agony, doing laps, in a high-speed shuffle, from toilet to bed and back again. If a few carrots and
nuts can cause that much misery, I don’t intend to explore the gastroenterological consequences of
ingesting the more spicy, exotic and pungent items that my companions consume with glee.
And so I stick with the chicken. This decision, I would like to point out, is not a complete cop-out;
there are far worse culinary transgressions. I will never go to McDonald’s in Moscow, T.G.I. Friday’s
in Managua or, God forbid, Pizza Hut in Nice.
But I will, in that local restaurant in the middle of unfamiliar terrain, seek out that ordinary, gringo
food, the chicken. And it will usually have some sort of twist, not major, but at least perceptible: an
accompanying salsa of rainforest fruits and vegetables in Costa Rica, or, in Scotland, chicken in
curries and sandwiches, on beds of locally harvested greens and covered in assorted sauces. Chefs
understand that with chicken, you can always add a few things without freaking anyone out; it is an
inherently mundane, soothing food, and a few spices or a simple sauce will not make it menacingly
exotic; it will still appeal to unadventurous non-gourmands such as myself. And so each dish is
slightly different, and each chicken meal offers an opportunity to assess the chef’s effort to enliven
the blank canvas of poultry.
Now I know how chefs across the world prepare chicken. And how servers scoff in several
languages. It’s the silver lining of my gastronomic paranoia, the self-imposed affliction that I am
what I eat: chicken.