'There must, for me at least, be a faint nebular madness, dignified no matter how deliberate, to a dinner that is exquisite.'
Reading M.F.K. Fisher's books is like taking a plunge into some non-existent nostalgia, memories I've never had. Perhaps better referred to as daydreams: friends sat around tables heaped with exquisite food, good wine that's matched perfectly, perhaps on a French hillside (or Swiss, like Fisher's), overlooking a French (or Swiss) sunset, orange rays painting the vines, seemingly endless across the green hills, ripe grapes sagging. Rituals: a drink before dinner, perhaps a dry Martini or a 'rye', Scotch and soda for the men; starters, soups, salads (never after main), dessert, coffee – not too strong so as not to lift the post-dinner reverie.
Or perhaps feasting on a tray of oysters in Manhattan (or are we crossing over to Consider the Oyster?), at some swanky restaurant with velvet booths and dimmed lighting, where the maitre d' comes to say hello, tops up our Champagne (which has been carefully chosen, the perfect age and would never overpower the food).
Or even enjoying a 'rained-on burger', as Fisher puts it, but still with a cinematic quality somehow – perhaps we've had a horrendous day, and just on the verge of desperation, a burger truck shimmers in the half-darkness, the pouring rain. Salvation by a sloppy patty.
Oh, I love spending time with M.F.K. Fisher – from the first pages she is unashamedly her; an almost forceful grab of my hand, and we're off. By the time we reach 'C' for Caution in this alphabet, we're exploring Calf's Head à la Tortue, which is by and by the most complicated and terrifying dish I've ever heard of. There are oysters, of course, 'en caisses', though neither her nor me know what that means. Oysters, nevertheless, and buttered paper in pots to keep the steam in, and 'whole peas fragrant as flowers'. And sauces! So many sauces in one dinner, and wines paired with each dish. That, as I say, before we've even passed 'C'.
And oh, to have a meal in such style, pre-ordered, as it is, by this gourmet of gourmets, whom people are too afraid to entertain in their own home, lest their simple tastes offend her (though it breaks one's heart to read how much, in fact, Fisher pined for such invitations. Although whether she would actually enjoy the meal, or just the romanticism of it, remains unanswered): 'smoked salmon, a small rack of lamb, potatoes Anna, Belgian endive salad, and a tray of Langlois Blue, Rouge et Noir Camembert, Wisconsin Swiss, and Teleme Jack cheese; Scotch or sherry first, and then Louis Martini's Gamay Rosé.'
I relish and revel in the atmospheres she evokes, though I've never experienced them myself – therein lies the power of her writing. Of an egg sandwich, prepared by neighbour Aunt Gwen (not an aunt at all), the recipe makes one drool; but she also lists physical and spiritual ingredients ('equal parts of hunger and happiness'), and under Prescription, she directs the egg sandwich 'to be eaten on top of a hill at sunset', and 'preferably before adolescence and its priggish queasiness set in'.
In this abcedaria, she touches on all the crucial aspects of life, from wooing someone with food (and whether that's even possible), to being hosted by good-willed but incompetent cooks, to Xanthippean gastronomy (i.e. food served at home with an unhealthy dose of complaining, whining or accusing by a sour wife). There is also the question of squabs (young pigeons), how food can taste better on an Atlantic cruise, how to best cook trout, and a long treatise on the value of salt. Just to name a few.
So now, reader, hand me a sizzling casserole so that I may toss hot buttered spaghetti in it, topped with humble parmesan and generous gratings of black pepper! A bottle of Zizerser, to be opened at altitude, otherwise the pink champagne will not froth! Or even just bread and 'sweet' butter (as she always calls it – doesn't it sound much better than just 'butter'?), a simple omelette cooked with care for half an hour, or anything cooked in consommé and fat, 'for hungering people who have had no fat at all for too long a time become moody, shiver easily, and grow sick.'
God forbid!
