Cover image for Title

Love in a Dish and Other Pieces

M. F. K. FISHER

Chosen by Anne Zimmerman

PENGUIN BOOKS

Contents

Sources

Uncle Evans

I was Really Very Hungry

Let the Sky Rain Potatoes

How Not to Cook an Egg

Love was the Pearl

G is for Gluttony

Once a Tramp, Always …

Love in a Dish

Two Kitchens in Provence

Love Letters to an Empty Shell

Wine is Life

PENGUIN BOOKS — GREAT FOOD

Love in a Dish and Other Pieces

MARY FRANCES KENNEDY FISHER (1908–1992) is considered one of the greatest American food writers of the twentieth century. In 1929, the newly married Fisher travelled with her husband to Dijon, in France, where she tasted real French cooking for the first time and learned how to live and eat well and economically. She returned in 1932 to an American appetite weakened by the Great Depression and began to write essays of her own. The author of many books, including the wartime classic How to Cook a Wolf, she aimed always to inspire cooks and combined recipes with reflection, anecdote and passionate storytelling. Considered the ‘poet of the appetites’ by John Updike, and hailed by W. H. Auden as the greatest American prose writer, her culinary essays have become American classics.

Sources

‘Uncle Evans’ from To Begin Again: Stories and Memoirs 1908–1929 (Pantheon, 1992), copyright © 1992 by the M. F. K. Fisher Literary Trust. ‘I was Really Very Hungry’ from As They Were (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1982), copyright © 1982 by M. F. K. Fisher (originally appeared in The Atlantic Monthly). ‘Let the Sky Rain Potatoes’ from Serve it Forth (Harper, 1937), copyright © 1937, 1954, 2004 by M. F. K. Fisher. ‘How Not to Cook an Egg’ from How to Cook a Wolf (Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1942), copyright © 1942, 1954, 2004 by M. F. K. Fisher. ‘Love was the Pearl’ from Consider the Oyster (Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1941), copyright © 1941, 1954, 2004 by M. F. K. Fisher. ‘G is for Gluttony’ from An Alphabet for Gourmets (Viking Press, 1949), copyright © 1949, 1954, 2004 by M. F. K. Fisher (originally appeared in Gourmet). ‘Once a Tramp, Always …’ from With Bold Knife and Fork (Counterpoint, 1968), copyright © 1968, 1969 by M. F. K. Fisher (originally appeared in The New Yorker). ‘Love in a Dish’ from House Beautiful, May 1948. Reprinted with permission. ‘Two Kitchens in Provence’ from As They Were (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1982), copyright © 1982 by M. F. K. Fisher (originally appeared in The New Yorker). ‘Love Letter to an Empty Shell’ originally appeared in Travel and Leisure, copyright © 1972 by M. F. K. Fisher. ‘Wine is Life’, copyright © 1984 by M. F. K. Fisher, from the Preface to The Book of California Wine, ed. Doris Muscatine, Maynard A. Amerine and Bob Thompson (University of California Press/Sotheby Publications, 1984).

Uncle Evans

Uncle Evans was my mother’s favorite brother and perhaps my father’s favorite man friend, and he was my favorite relative because he was worthy of all this family worship. He liked us, too, and spent many of his sabbaticals near us, writing unread law books. When I was eighteen he suggested, to my astonishment, that we travel together from California to Chicago, where he would go on eastward to his university post and I would go south to a small college. I now believe that he did this on purpose, to help me into new worlds.

It was my first train trip of more than three hours. I was dazed at escaping the family nest. My clothes were correctly navy-blue crepe de chine (because of the soot), and I slept in the upper berth because I was younger than my uncle. I spent most of my time on the observation platform or in the ladies’ room washing my hands. We met for lunch and dinner.

Uncle Evans was a seasoned commuter between West and East from the turn of the century until about 1940. He even had special clothes made for those gritty but delicious ‘trips,’ as they were always called: odd-looking three-piece suits made of ‘dirt-proof’ alpaca or something. (Only white shirts, of course, with starched collars: he was a professor.) The trains were good. He knew them. He knew the conductors and porters and dining stewards. He even knew the engineer.

In those days (1927 for my maiden voyage), the trains stopped often, and there were still a few Harvey Houses along the line. (‘The only test of a good breakfast place is its baked apple,’ Uncle Evans said mildly. ‘The Harvey girls never fail me.’) One time Uncle Evans walked me up to the engine at a desolate stop, and we stayed too long and were hauled up bodily into the cab until the next slowdown. It was exciting. And there were still prairie-dog huts along the track and conelike ovens in the westward country, in silent ugly Americanized villages that still dared not tell the Indians what kind of bread to bake.

As an old hand, Uncle Evans knew where to ask the dining-car steward to put on things like live trout, venison, fresh corn, melons. They were served to him at our twinkling, snowy little table in the restaurant car, at noon and at night, and I paddled along happily in the small sensual spree my uncle always made of his routine travelings. I probably heard and felt and tasted more than either of us could be aware of.

One time when he looked at me over his menu and asked me whether I would like something like a fresh mushroom omelet or one with wild asparagus, and I mumbled in my shy ignorance that I really did not care, he put down the big information sheet and for one of the few times in my life with him, he spoke a little sharply. He said, ‘You should never say that again, dear girl. It is stupid, which you are not. It implies that the attentions of your host are basically wasted on you. So make up your mind, before you open your mouth. Let him believe, even if it is a lie, that you would infinitely prefer the exotic wild asparagus to the banal mushrooms, or vice versa. Let him feel that it matters to you … and even that he does!

‘All this,’ my uncle added gently, ‘may someday teach you about the art of seduction, as well as the more important art of knowing yourself.’ Then he turned to the waiter and ordered two wild asparagus omelets. I wanted for a minute, I still remember, to leave the dining car and weep a little in the sooty ladies’ room, but instead I stayed there and suddenly felt more secure and much wiser – always a heady experience but especially so at nineteen. And I don’t believe that since then I have ever said, ‘I don’t care,’ when I am offered a choice of any kind of food and drink. As Uncle Evans pointed out to me, I either care or I’m a dolt, and dolts should not consort with caring people.

I was Really Very Hungry

I

Once I met a young servant in northern Burgundy who was almost frighteningly fanatical about food, like a medieval woman possessed by a devil. Her obsession engulfed even my appreciation of the dishes she served, until I grew uncomfortable.

It was the off season at the old mill which a Parisian chef had bought and turned into one of France’s most famous restaurants, and my mad waitress was the only servant. In spite of that she was neatly uniformed, and showed no surprise at my unannounced arrival and my hot dusty walking clothes.

She smiled discreetly at me, said, ‘Oh, but certainly!’ when I asked if I could lunch there, and led me without more words to a dark bedroom bulging with First Empire furniture, and a new white bathroom.

When I went into the dining room it was empty of humans – a cheerful ugly room still showing traces of the petit bourgeois parlor it had been. There were aspidistras on the mantel; several small white tables were laid with those imitation ‘peasant-ware’ plates that one sees in Paris china stores, and very good crystal glasses; a cat folded under some ferns by the window ledge hardly looked at me; and the air was softly hurried with the sound of high waters from the stream outside.

I waited for the maid to come back. I knew I should eat well and slowly, and suddenly the idea of dry sherry, unknown in all the village bistros of the last few days, stung my throat smoothly. I tried not to think of it; it would be impossible to realize. Dubonnet would do. But not as well. I longed for sherry.

The little maid came into the silent room. I looked at her stocky young body, and her butter-colored hair, and noticed her odd pale voluptuous mouth before I said, ‘Mademoiselle, I shall drink an apéritif. Have you by any chance –’

‘Let me suggest,’ she interrupted firmly, ‘our special dry sherry. It is chosen in Spain for Monsieur Paul.’

And before I could agree she was gone, discreet and smooth.

She’s a funny one, I thought, and waited in a pleasant warm tiredness for the wine.

It was good. I smiled approval at her, and she lowered her eyes, and then looked searchingly at me again. I realized suddenly that in this land of trained nonchalant waiters I was to be served by a small waitress who took her duties seriously. I felt much amused, and matched her solemn searching gaze.

‘Today, Madame, you may eat shoulder of lamb in the English style, with baked potatoes, green beans, and a sweet.’

My heart sank. I felt dismal, and hot and weary, and still grateful for the sherry.

But she was almost grinning at me, her lips curved triumphantly, and her eyes less palely blue.

‘Oh, in that case,’ she remarked as if I had spoken, ‘in that case a trout, of course – a truite au bleu as only Monsieur Paul can prepare it!’

She glanced hurriedly at my face, and hastened on. ‘With the trout, one or two young potatoes – oh, very delicately boiled,’ she added before I could protest, ‘very light.’

I felt better. I agreed. ‘Perhaps a leaf or two of salad after the fish,’ I suggested. She almost snapped at me. ‘Of course, of course! And naturally our hors d’oeuvres to commence.’ She started away.

‘No!’ I called, feeling that I must assert myself now or be forever lost. ‘No!’

She turned back, and spoke to me very gently. ‘But Madame has never tasted our hors d’oeuvres. I am sure that Madame will be pleased. They are our specialty, made by Monsieur Paul himself. I am sure,’ and she looked reproachfully at me, her mouth tender and sad, ‘I am sure that Madame would be very much pleased.’

I smiled weakly at her, and she left. A little cloud of hurt gentleness seemed to hang in the air where she had last stood.

I comforted myself with the sherry, feeling increasing irritation with my own feeble self. Hell! I loathed hors d’oeuvres! I conjured disgusting visions of square glass plates of oily fish, of soggy vegetables glued together with cheap mayonnaise, of rank radishes and tasteless butter. No, Monsieur Paul or not, sad young pale-faced waitress or not, I hated hors d’oeuvres.

I glanced victoriously across the room at the cat, whose eyes seemed closed.

II

Several minutes passed. I was really very hungry.

The door banged open, and my girl came in again, less discreet this time. She hurried toward me.

‘Madame, the wine! Before Monsieur Paul can go on –’ Her eyes watched my face, which I perversely kept rather glum.

‘I think,’ I said ponderously, daring her to interrupt me, ‘I think that today, since I am in Burgundy and about to eat a trout,’ and here I hoped she noticed that I did not mention hors d’oeuvres, ‘I think I shall drink a bottle of Chablis 1929.’

For a second her whole face blazed with joy, and then subsided into a trained mask. I knew that I had chosen well, had somehow satisfied her in a secret and incomprehensible way. She nodded politely and scuttled off, only for another second glancing impatiently at me as I called after her, ‘Well cooled, please, but not iced.’

I’m a fool, I thought, to order a whole bottle. I’m a fool, here all alone and with more miles to walk before I reach Avallon and my fresh clothes and a bed. Then I smiled at myself and leaned back in my solid wide-seated chair, looking obliquely at the prints of Gibson girls, English tavern scenes, and hideous countrysides that hung on the papered walls. The room was warm; I could hear my companion cat purring under the ferns.

The girl rushed in, with flat baking dishes piled up her arms like the plates of a Japanese juggler. She slid them off neatly in two rows onto the table, where they lay steaming up at me, darkly and infinitely appetizing.

‘Mon Dieu! All for me?’ I peered at her. She nodded, her discretion quite gone now and a look of ecstatic worry on her pale face and eyes and lips.

There were at least eight dishes. I felt almost embarrassed, and sat for a minute looking weakly at the fork and spoon in my hand.

‘Perhaps Madame would care to start with the pickled herring? It is not like any other. Monsieur Paul prepares it himself, in his own vinegar and wines. It is very good.’

I dug out two or three brown filets from the dish, and tasted. They were truly unlike any others, truly the best I had ever eaten, mild, pungent, meaty as fresh nuts.

I realized the maid had stopped breathing, and looked up at her. She was watching me, or rather a gastronomic X ray of the herring inside me, with a hypnotized glaze in her eyes.

‘Madame is pleased?’ she whispered softly.

I said I was. She sighed, and pushed a sizzling plate of broiled endive toward me, and disappeared.

I had put a few dull green lentils on my plate, lentils scattered with minced fresh herbs and probably marinated in tarragon vinegar and walnut oil, when she came into the dining room again with the bottle of Chablis in a wine basket.

‘Madame should be eating the little baked onions while they are hot,’ she remarked over her shoulder as she held the bottle in a napkin and uncorked it. I obeyed meekly, and while I watched her I ate several more than I had meant to. They were delicious, simmered first in strong meat broth, I think, and then drained and broiled with olive oil and new-ground pepper.

I was fascinated by her method of uncorking a vintage wine. Instead of the Burgundian procedure of infinite and often exaggerated precautions against touching or tipping or jarring the bottle, she handled it quite nonchalantly, and seemed to be careful only to keep her hands from the cool bottle itself, holding it sometimes by the basket and sometimes in a napkin. The cork was very tight, and I thought for a minute that she would break it. So did she: her face grew tight, and did not loosen until she had slowly worked out the cork and wiped the lip. Then she poured an inch of wine in a glass, turned her back to me like a priest taking Communion, and drank it down. Finally some was poured for me, and she stood with the bottle in her hand and her full lips drooping until I nodded a satisfied yes. Then she pushed another of the plates toward me, and almost rushed from the room.

I ate slowly, knowing that I should not be as hungry as I ought to be for the trout, but knowing too that I had never tasted such delicate savory morsels. Some were hot, some cold. The wine was light and cool. The room, warm and agreeably empty under the rushing sound of the stream, became smaller as I grew used to it.