What food brings tears to your eyes?

For those who read Greek, here is the article. Courtesy of google, a translation of the very same page.

"What food brings tears to your eyes?" was a question posed to 29 middle and upper middle class, educated Athenians by a Greek magazine. Their answers: spaghetti with minced meat sauce, fried meat balls, fried potatoes, tomato salad, roasted garlic, fish-roe, eggs fried in butter or olive oil, Christmas turkey, Easter mageiritsa soup, morning coffee,

What food brings such an emotional response for you?

Regards,

My mom's beef Stroganoff, saltimbocca alla romana, Aussie meat pie, the Stilton soup at Rules in London, and almost anything I'm eating in a destination I really love but haven't been to in a really long time.

A few years ago, at Steppenwolf, during an interview with Michael Ruhlman, Grant Achatz said that sometimes people will have one of his dishes that’s designed to stimulate food memory, and they’ll just bust out crying at the table. This struck me as remarkable, as the food at Alinea always seemed to me to be highly cerebral and unlikely to trigger such a heartfelt response. Yet, apparently, for some, it does.

In a recent New Yorker article, a chef/restaurateur who’s seeking to revive Turkick food traditions mentions that sometimes someone will taste his food, be overcome with emotion, and start crying in his dining room…then everyone will join in.

Just yesterday on LTH, it was related that a guy who went to Birrieria Zaragoza almost started tearing up just talking about the goat meat he had there.

I’m not a very emotional person, though I do sometimes get a little bleary near the end of Undercover Brother when the eponymous hero explains to White She Devil and others how we have to stay together to bring down The Man, and then O’Jays’ “Love Train” starts coming up…well, I can’t help myself. Never, however, have I felt anything like an intense, weep-worthy moment at the table. I have felt really good at the table, at times perhaps even ecstatic, but never so overcome with emotional intensity that I felt even close to a tear.

I understand that there’s a lot of emotion connected with experiences at the table (memories of dinners past with those who’ve passed, triggers of childhood, tastes that cause reflection on what a long strange trip it’s been, etc.). But crying at the taste of food? It’s beyond me, perhaps unfortunately. I admire those who can feel so deeply, I think.

A friend once described being brought to tears when a Chicken and Black Truffle dish was unveiled at Per Se. Personally, though, I can't remember ever being brought to that point by food. It's certainly an emotionally fertile area for me but when food and I really connect, it's more likely to deliver a smile, a laugh or a fond (tearless) memory.

=R=

I'm trying to think - but, near as I remember, I'm in the same camp as you guys.

That being said, I have never wanted for food my entire life. I would guess that I could be brought to tears by a good food memory if it brought back a moment brought into sharp relief from a long period of severe food-related hardship - I'm really blessed that I have no such period in my memory.

I confess I am often brought to tears when re-creating an old and valued recipe of my grandmother's ... but it's her recipe for fresh horseradish!

Only one food item conjures up such an emotional response from me.

A couple of years ago my dog was very sick, hospitalized with a serious stomach infection, and had not eaten anything in 3 days. After giving enough IV fluids to save his life, the hospital released him letting me know that they were not sure he would get better. They gave me some medicine, advice and well wishes. Another day later he still could not hold down even a little water, and had still not eaten a thing. He had barely enough energy to walk a few feet.

On a mild summer day, I really wanted to get out of the house and take him with me. I carried him downstairs and into the car, and off we drove, ending up at The Grafton in Lincoln Square. I carried him out of the car and let him lie at my feet while I sat at one of The Grafton's outdoor tables and ordered a burger and fries. When the food arrived, with barely an ounce of hope I offered my boy a french fry and - miracle of all miracles - he took it! I offered him another and he took that too! It was still a slow recovery, but that crappy, tasteless french fry set him on the road. I am forever grateful to the Grafton, and I always order the french fries despite the fact that they really don’t taste very good.


The Grafton
4530 N. Lincoln Ave.
773.271.9000

We ate at the Turkish restaurant discussed in the New Yorker article referred to above -- Ciya Sofrasi. It's discussed in this thread http://lthforum.com/bb/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=25808&st=0&sk=t&sd=a&hilit=istanbul&start=30 The New Yorker article is not accessible without a subscription, unfortunately.

We thought the food was stunning, but of course had no childhood memories to associate with it. I can't imagine what someone would feel who had memories of similar meals from childhood, most likely from the countryside, a countryside that if it were in the US would no longer exist in the same way (I am thinking of food on the farm near the small South Dakota town where I had relatives in the 50s and 60s).

FWIW, I thought the New Yorker article did not do justice to how good the food actually tastes at Ciya; I kept thinking, yes this is a lot of fancy words about the chef, but you need to just say, wow, that's good food.

All of that said, I don't think that tears would be my reaction to any food, whatever the taste or circumstances.

Reading Kennyz's story made me cry, does that count?

leek wrote:Reading Kennyz's story made me cry, does that count?

Yeah -- it should count. I didn't weep, but my eyes misted up a bit. Dog stories always get me.

I just finished watching Food, Inc. and teared up at the message at the end. Of course, it also made me NOT want to eat anything I don't grow myself which, considering that edible produce is probably at least 6 weeks away (lettuce/arugula), is pretty depressing in and of itself.

Kennyz wrote:Only one food item conjures up such an emotional response from me.

A couple of years ago my dog was very sick, hospitalized with a serious stomach infection, and had not eaten anything in 3 days. After giving enough IV fluids to save his life, the hospital released him letting me know that they were not sure he would get better. They gave me some medicine, advice and well wishes. Another day later he still could not hold down even a little water, and had still not eaten a thing. He had barely enough energy to walk a few feet.

On a mild summer day, I really wanted to get out of the house and take him with me. I carried him downstairs and into the car, and off we drove, ending up at The Grafton in Lincoln Square. I carried him out of the car and let him lie at my feet while I sat at one of The Grafton's outdoor tables and ordered a burger and fries. When the food arrived, with barely an ounce of hope I offered my boy a french fry and - miracle of all miracles - he took it! I offered him another and he took that too! It was still a slow recovery, but that crappy, tasteless french fry set him on the road. I am forever grateful to the Grafton, and I always order the french fries despite the fact that they really don’t taste very good.


The Grafton
4530 N. Lincoln Ave.
773.271.9000

Great story, thanks for sharing. The miracle only a tasteless french fry could bring.......

This topic came up in a conversation last night, and I wanted to share...

Unlike others, mine wasn't a dish that evoked a long-ago place or memory, it was one that gave me the sure knowledge that a new and long standing connection had been created.

We'd spent a chilly November day on the Alsatian route du vin, sampling Rieslings and Crémants. Our destination was a place we'd only read about, a remote hotel on a one lane road in the Vosges mountains, between two towns with perhaps one street light to their names. There, Jean-Georges Klein had taken his family's modest mountain restaurant and turned it into a *** Michelin retreat, L'Arnsbourg. It was raining and getting dark as we stalled our little Opel at the front door of Hotel K after a steep, curving ascent. There was a fire crackling within and we were greeted with champagne and three small gold foil wrapped packages, looking for all the world like chocolates. This was the first sign that, here, good things come in threes and looks can be deceiving. They were impeccable squares of emmental, saucisson and head cheese. Thus rewarded for our brave journey (in the words of the maitre'd), we changed and headed back down the hill to dinner.

The dining room would have made Frank Lloyd Wright proud, with warm woods and giant windows, cantilevered out over a rolling mountain meadow with a stream running through. But the view couldn't hold a candle to what would soon be on the plate. It arrived surreptitiously, the third or fourth of what were listed on the menu simply as 'various amuses'. Three silver spoons with exaggerated looped handles were set down atop a rectangular plate in a North-South orientation. At first glance, the presentation likely seemed ostentatious, even trite.

Each spoon held cauliflower puree topped with roe. The nearest was salmon, the middle mackerel and the farthest Ossetra caviar. As a progression, they were a revelation. The caviar bite was the perfect harmony of tastes, and it was wonderfully highlighted by the delicious, but slightly incongruous, bites that preceded it. Had Chef Klein simply served the caviar bite, it would have been undoubtedly great. By serving the bites in progression, it was a masterpiece.

I don't think it was the excellence of the bite that evoked my emotional reaction, though. What really moved me was how connected I felt to the man who composed it. I had been reading about him and his cooking for a long time leading up to the meal, and I worried that it wouldn't be able to live up to my expectations. In this moment, those fears were gone, and a deep understanding of what he was doing out there in the middle of nowhere was ingrained not just in my palate, but in my consciousness.

Other great dishes would follow (unadorned blue lobster beside a puree of a Himalayan berry that made it taste like it had been drenched in butter, 'forgotten vegetables' and foraged mushrooms perfumed by truffle soup hidden beneath their perforated plate), but I won't ever forget the taste or emotion of that cauliflower and caviar. Despite what Hallmark says, memories aren't generally something you can manufacture. In the moment I tasted it, I knew that it had left a mark, and to be in that moment was truly moving.

This has happened to me three times. The first time was upon tasting Krug Champage. The second and third times were with quail egg ravioli at Schwa. (A subsequent encounter with a black walnut was transporting, but no waterworks.) It's interesting that none of these experiences involved nostalgic tastes. Instead, new and undreamed of delights provoked the tears.

I've never had an emotional tearing up that was food related, but some freshly grated horseradish or the occasional chopped onion have done the trick. In both cases it's chemicals, not emotion, that brought on the tears.

A sunday morning breakfast of fish from a can, rye bread, farmer's cheese, and some sliced onion, cucumber, and tomato if available. Something like this:



This was my father's favorite meal and became my favorite meal by the time I was a teenager. My father died young, but not too young that I wasn't old enough to appreciate the things he taught me.

We were never very close in a traditional sense and never really did a lot of "normal" father-son stuff. He worked 6 days a week his entire adult life. He did teach me a good appreciation for food and cooking, especially the Eastern European foods that he grew up with. He ate this sandwich, open faced as seen above, nearly every Sunday morning, his only day off. When I enjoy the same sandwich, at the same time of the week, with the same genuine gusto, with my sons at the table, I get a bit weepy.

Best,
Michael

No restaurant meal has ever brought tears to my eyes, but on occasion the check presented at the end has had that effect on me.