Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink - Softcover

 
9780812976410: Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink
Softcover
ISBN 10: 081297641X ISBN 13: 9780812976410
Verlag: Random House Publishing Group, 2009

Inhaltsangabe

The New Yorker dishes up a feast of delicious writing–food and drink memoirs, short stories, tell-alls, and poems, seasoned with a generous dash of cartoons.

“To read this sparely elegant, moving portrait is to remember that writing well about food is really no different from writing well about life.”—Saveur (Ten Best Books of the Year)
 
Since its earliest days, The New Yorker has been a tastemaker—literally. In this indispensable collection, M.F.K. Fisher pays homage to “cookery witches,” those mysterious cooks who possess “an uncanny power over food,” and Adam Gopnik asks if French cuisine is done for. There is Roald Dahl’s famous story “Taste,” in which a wine snob’s palate comes in for some unwelcome scrutiny, and Julian Barnes’s ingenious tale of a lifelong gourmand who goes on a very peculiar diet.
 
Selected from the magazine’s plentiful larder, Secret Ingredients celebrates all forms of gustatory delight. A sample of the menu:
 
Roger Angell on the art of the martini • Don DeLillo on Jell-O • Malcolm Gladwell on building a better ketchup • Jane Kramer on the writer’s kitchen • Chang-rae Lee on eating sea urchin • Steve Martin on menu mores • Alice McDermott on sex and ice cream • Dorothy Parker on dinner conversation • S. J. Perelman on a hollandaise assassin • Calvin Trillin on New York’s best bagel
 
Whether you’re in the mood for snacking on humor pieces and cartoons or for savoring classic profiles of great chefs and great eaters, these offerings from The New Yorker’s fabled history are sure to satisfy every taste.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Remnick has been the editor of The New Yorker since 1998. A staff writer for the magazine from 1992 to 1998, he was previously The Washington Post's correspondent in the Soviet Union. The author of several books, he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize and the George Polk Award for his 1994 book Lenin's Tomb. He lives in New York with his wife and children.

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INTRODUCTION
 
DAVID REMNICK
 
To his colleagues, Harold Ross, the founding editor of The New Yorker, was a tireless editorial engine fueled by a steady diet of high anxiety and unfiltered cigarettes. But while the magazine over the years employed its share of gourmands (Alexander Woollcott, A. J. Liebling), Ross himself was of circumscribed appetite. For the fun of it, he had a $3,500 stake in the famous Los Angeles hangout run by his friend Dave Chasen—he provided suggestions on everything from proofreading the menu to the optimal way to brine a turkey—and yet his own diet was abstemious. It wasn’t his fault. Ross suffered from debilitating ulcers. Stress, particularly the stress of inventing The New Yorker, keeping it afloat during the Depression, and then elaborating its original principles into a literary and commercial success, was his perpetual state, warm milk and hot broth his diet. On this meager nourishment, he kept himself going. He was shambling, stooped, and in no way an athlete, yet he was strong enough for the job. As E. B. White once said, Ross was “an Atlas who lacked muscle tone.”
 
Some limited salvation came to Ross’s innards when he befriended Sara Murray Jordan, a renowned gastroenterologist at the Lahey Clinic in Boston. Thanks to Dr. Jordan, Ross’s ulcer pain eased somewhat and he even began to eat his share of solid foods. Ross’s gut, an unerring, if pained, precinct, now provided him with yet another editorial idea: Dr. Jordan was not only a superb physician but a competent cook, and so Ross put her together with his culinary expert at the magazine, Sheila Hibben, and bid them to collaborate on a recipe compendium for the gastrointestinally challenged, to be called “Good Food for Bad Stomachs.” In his first bylined piece since his days as a newspaperman during the First World War, Ross contributed an introduction that began, “I write as a duodenum-scarred veteran of many years of guerrilla service in the Hydrochloric War.” Ross also paid tribute to Dr. Jordan, who at dinner one night urged him to pass on his usual fruit compote and to try the digestively more daring meringue glacée.
 
“Now meringue glacée has a French name, which is bad, and it is an ornamental concoction, which is bad,” Ross wrote. “Although I regard it as essentially a sissy proposition and nothing for a full-grown man to lose his head over, I have it now and then when I’m in the ulcer victim’s nearest approach to a devil-may-care mood.”
 
Ross’s longtime deputy and eventual successor, William Shawn, neither smoked nor drank and enjoyed relatively good health to the end of a long life, yet he, too, is recalled by his colleagues not only for his editorial intelligence and preternatural generosity but also for his curious modesty at table. At his regular lunches with writers at the Algonquin Hotel, Shawn would usually order nothing more than a slice of toasted pound cake (and barely touch it) or a bowl of cornflakes in milk (and leave the flakes floating). His interest was solely with the writer across the table.
 
While Ross and Shawn did not distinguish themselves as fressers, they did build a magazine that welcomed some of the greatest eaters and also some of the greatest writers about eating who have ever picked up pen or fork. This anthology comprises those men and women of appetite and their successors, writers who have taken an interest in food and drink as a source of pleasure, sustenance, metaphor, portraiture, adventure, comedy, and fiction.
 
A. J. Liebling, who came to the magazine in 1935 from the New York World-Telegram, was surely the first among equals in the field. Liebling’s food writing was as much about memory as it was about food, and his last book, Between Meals, which appeared serially in the magazine, was a memoir about the Paris of his youth. Paris, for him, was the capital of pleasure. “There would come a time,” he wrote, “when if I had compared my life to a cake, the sojourns in Paris would have presented the chocolate filling. The intervening layers were plain sponge.”
 
Like so many of his models, Rabelais included, Liebling was a prodigious writer—life being short, he valued speed and volume; he used to say that he could write better than anyone who wrote faster and faster than anyone who wrote better—but his indulgences away from the desk exacted a price. He died at the age of fifty-nine. His Times obituary remarked, “Mr. Liebling bore the marks of the gourmet: an extended waistline and rosy cheeks. ‘I used to be shy about ordering a steak after I had eaten a steak sandwich,’ he once said, ‘but I got used to it.’”
 
Liebling habitually apprenticed himself to a cast of elders: in boxing to the trainer Whitey Bimstein, in writing to Camus and Pierce Egan, and, in the restaurants of Paris, to a playwright and heroic eater of his acquaintance, Yves Mirande, who often presided at a favorite restaurant on the Rue Saint-Augustin. In “A Good Appetite,” one of the many full plates served up here, Liebling recalls Mirande’s admirable capacities and, in doing so, provides a catalogue of particulars no less vivid than Homer’s ships and a seminar on the virtues (however fleeting) of abandon. Mirande, Liebling wrote, would “dazzle” his fellow diners “by dispatching a lunch of raw Bayonne ham and fresh figs, a hot sausage in crust, spindles of filleted pike in a rich rose sauce Nantua, a leg of lamb larded with anchovies, artichokes on a pedestal of foie gras, and four or five kinds of cheese, with a good bottle of Bordeaux and one of champagne, after which he would call for the Armagnac and remind Madame to have ready for dinner the larks and ortolans she had promised him, with a few langoustes and a turbot—and, of course, a fine civet made from the marcassin, or young wild boar, that the lover of the leading lady in his current production had sent up from his estate in the Sologne. ‘And while I think of it,’ I once heard him say, ‘we haven’t had any woodcock for days, or truffles baked in the ashes, and the cellar is becoming a disgrace—no more ’34s and hardly any ’37s. Last week, I had to offer my publisher a bottle that was far too good for him, simply because there was nothing between the insulting and the superlative.’
 
It is unclear whether Liebling could write faster than Proust, and certainly he could not write better, but he did dare a gibe at the master by mock-wondering if perhaps In Search of Lost Time would have been improved had its author fed on a heartier stimulus than the bland madeleine. “On a dozen Gardiners Island oysters, a bowl of clam chowder, a peck of steamers, some bay scallops, three sautéed soft-shelled crabs, a few ears of fresh-picked corn, a thin swordfish steak of generous area, a pair of lobsters, and a Long Island duck, he might have written a masterpiece.” It was in the same spirit of gastronomic challenge that one of Liebling’s heroes, Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, addressed Adam and Eve: “First parents of the human race…you lost all for an apple, what would you not have done for a truffled turkey?”
 
Adam Gopnik, one of our chief epicures, once wrote that food writing can usually be broken down into the “mock epic” and the “mystical microcosm.” If Liebling was the master of the mock epic, his inheritors surely include Calvin Trillin, who goes out in search of the “magic” bagel, the perfect barbecued mutton, dim sum good enough to impress Mao Zedong. And just as Liebling insisted...

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Verlag
Random House Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2009
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
081297641X
ISBN 13 
9780812976410
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
608
Herausgeber
Remnick David
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Purmerul LTD
https://strengholt.nl/en/

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