My friend B brought me a home-cooked Bengali meal one day as a surprise. She is a prolific cook and I have long admired pictures of her dishes she shares with me. So that day, I got to taste it for real. Her cooking reminded me of a grand-aunt who passed away several years ago. The same attention to detail, the perfect balance of sweet, salt, spice and heat. This is not a meal cooked in a hurry and certainly not a meal cooked without love.
Just like that one rainy evening in a hotel room, far away from home I was transported to the last time I had a meal in my grand-aunt's home. I remember the polished wood of her small dining table and the spread of dishes I loved. It was as if she knew this would be the last time and she wanted it to be memorable. I did not recognize the momentousness of that meal but in years since, that has been the benchmark of the perfect Bengali meal. I compare my own efforts to it and it inspires me to improve every time so I get closer to my ideal. B was much closer to that perfection than I have ever been and for that I felt so grateful.
Reading this sad but beautiful essay about life without food made me think of the meal that B made for me
I am astonished, now, at how many of my first memories of places are related to food: goose in Hong Kong, lardo in Florence, cherrystones in Boston, pizza in New York. And milestones, too: my fortieth at ABC Seafood, my son’s graduation at Lupa, my mother-in-law’s seventieth at Providence, my daughter’s haircut party at Hop Li. I fondly remember the ham-and-Swiss sandwich at Bay Cities, the crispy-skin cubes of pork belly at Empress Pavilion, the roast-duck noodles at Big Wing Wong, the grilled prime rib at Campanile, those perfect bites of charred, almond-and-olive-wood smoky, tapenade-smeared meat dabbed in flageolet beans and braised bitter greens.
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