Life and Memory Through Food

I hesitated to review Life, On The Line as there's so much that's already been said, and I didn't want to repeat what many already know. Grant Achatz has had a meteoric rise to the top of the culinary cream, and Alinea is one of the best restaurants in the world. The story of how passionately and single-mindedly Achatz pursued this goal, combined with the innumerable details of creating a dining experience (Alinea is not merely a "restaurant" in the traditional sense) provided by business partner Nick Kokonas, is fascinating.

And yet, it's been sous-vided, plated, garnished and served before. Certainly it's an inspiring story of dogged dedication and, though reading Achatz's account of cancer treatment is harrowing, it felt like something was missing. The story didn't leap off the page and make a new statement. In fact, it reminded me of a Behind The Music special from MTV: small town boy works hard, achieves success, struggles with throat cancer, and survives to cook again.

Regardless, one bite caught both my attention and imagination, and gave me a glimpse into the mind of a culinary master. Discussing the creation of a new menu item for the opening of Alinea that incorporated flavors of the sea, Achatz perfected each step of the dish, and then followed a leap of the imagination:

"...it occured to me that we should include the scent of spring flowers to enhance the dish and reference to spring. Quickly I settled on hyacinth as the flower that was needed. I had no idea why...I poured hot water over the flowers -- instant spring in the middle of winter." 

Co-workers didn't understand the significance of the smell of hyacinth's to Achatz, and he writes, 

“...as soon as I smelled the sweetness of the shellfish along with the musk and sweetness of the flowers I was transported back to my childhood. Until that moment I had no idea why I wanted to pair this fish with flowers. But once it was all together, I remembered a day when I was twelve years old, fishing for walleye with my dad in the late spring. We would tuck in along the shore and eat lunch among the wildflowers. Fish and flowers made sense to me not for any culinary reason, but for a sentimental one. Scent is powerfully tied to memory." (p. 233)

The role that memory played in the creation of the dish led me to reminisce about a book I'd read before starting the blog that focused on the power of memory and food. "How" we remember is a fascinating subject, and via extensive self-analysis, I've learned where I store things, what I hide, and what I display to the world. "Remembrance of Repasts: Anthropology of Food and Memory" by David E. Sutton caused me to contemplate how food can serve as a jumping off point to reveal long-hidden memories. Why, for example,  can an Alzheimer patient remember words to a poem or song, or a meal from long ago, and yet not remember where they live?

I'd never really thought about memory in terms of food until I read Sutton's book. The academic study documents how food plays a role in the construction of memory, and focuses on the Greek Island of Kalymnos where islanders remember meals from long ago. Exploring holidays, rituals, recipes, and more, the small book thoroughly examines the intersection of food and memory.

While reading, I tasted by memory meals from my past, recalled how I was taught to cook, and considered why I choose the foods I do. Likewise, as a genealogist, I'm equally fascinated with the past and memory – what kind of food did my ancestors eat? Why do thoughts of my grandma Wallace's chocolate fudge send shivers of excitement through my taste buds and tummy? When I fix a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, why does it remind me of mornings at Aunt Marg's house? Peanut butter on warm toast does the same thing.

Yes, I still want to eat at Alinea. But I also want to revel in the memory of dinner with family sitting around the table handmade by a great-grandfather, and celebrate summer with a festival of corn, zucchini, and tomatoes. These edible touchstones reflect our history in ways that we are only beginning to understand. By tapping into the memory of scent, Achatz has also opened the ever-flowing sap of the memory of experience.