Today I’m writing a scene that takes place over dinner in a
wealthy family home, set in 1860’s New Orleans. This is the kind of research
that makes me hungry—my favorite kind!
Since the Edwardian and Victorian eras are really my
favorites, I’ve read a lot of books written in the time period. Alas, they tend
to be pretty light in describing their meals. There are, of course, notable
exceptions (such as the “Anne of Green Gables” series and nearly anything
written by Charles Dickens), but often these writers use the food to inject
humor or highlight a character quirk, which means they should not always be
taken as common culinary habit.
A better resource for me has been museums, especially those
in the form of preserved personal residences! Tour guides are a wealth of
information, and they typically love to share details they are unable to
work into their regular spiels. For example, I recently visited Boston, MA and
made a point of touring Gibson House. Our tour guide Jonathan was excellent
about pointing out various details around the family china, the layout of the
butler’s pantry, and the general atmosphere of the dining room—all wonderful
tidbits that help make a scene come alive! But more to our topic, he talked
about how a Victorian-era dinner party would typically include no fewer than
twelve courses and in Boston they invariably included some form of oysters.
This would also have been true of New Orleans. Alas for me,
oysters are probably the one shellfish with which my palate is not on amiable
terms. Scallops? A peerless first course option. Mussels? I’ll take extra bread
for sopping up every drop of whatever cooking broth you use! Clams? I’ll take
‘em anyway you make ‘em! But oysters…well, I haven’t given up, but let’s just
keep it to a wave and a smile for now. I had oysters Rockefeller once that were
pretty good, but mostly I remember tasting parsley and Parmesan. (Which is
probably why I liked it.) I’ve had oyster stew that I couldn’t finish, sautéed
oysters that were so oily I gagged, and the one time I tried raw oysters I
needed two glasses of wine for my mouth to recover (and then, since I’m a
lightweight, the rest of the meal was a rather boozy blur).
It must come down to texture: I don’t do slimy. Which makes
me sad. There are some people who take abject pride in their culinary “aw HELL
no’s”*, but I am not one of them. Generally speaking I love to try new things,
and if given the opportunity will happily prattle on about the more rare and
unusual edibles I have consumed (and oh look! Now I have a blog!). Somewhere in
my life, I learned that food tastes good. It might not taste good to me right
away, but if I can take my time and be discerning, I can usually determine what
stands out about it and find the niche in my own palate to correspond. Which
isn’t to say I like everything—I have a vivid memory of receiving a
complimentary dessert sample from the chef at a high end boutique restaurant in
Portland, OR: curry strawberry gelée. I like curry, and I like strawberries,
but after that little experiment I can promise you that in my kitchen ne’er the
twain shall meet. Yeeeuck. So the fact that I can’t get past my slimy hang-up
grieves me, because it precludes me from enjoying some rather famous flavors.
Also, as in the case of this particular scene I’m writing,
it means I am unable to draw from personal experience when describing the food.
I should vastly prefer to close my eyes and recall the flavor, aroma and mouth
feel of a food myself before having a character take a bite. I know from
personal experience how specific dishes can change the mood of a meal almost
instantly. But here, my two fictional friends will begin a lengthy dinner by
consuming oysters, and they will
enjoy every bite, while I – the poor soul who composes it all – am restricted
to imagination and second hand information to do them justice. Le sigh.
*Oooo, I like this! I think I’m going to reference it again
and again, with the abbreviation CAHN’s: “culinary-aw-HELL-no’s!”