The Man Who Ate Everything - Jeffrey Steingarten [6]
STEP FIVE, final exam and graduation ceremony.
In just six months, I succeeded in purging myself of nearly all repulsions and preferences, in becoming a more perfect omnivore. This became apparent one day in Paris, France—a city to which my arduous professional duties frequently take me. I was trying a nice new restaurant, and when the waiter brought the menu, I found myself in a state unlike any I had ever attained—call it Zenlike if you wish. Everything on the menu, every appetizer, hot and cold, every salad, every fish and bird and piece of meat, was terrifically alluring, but none more than the others. I had absolutely no way of choosing. Though blissful at the prospect of eating, I was unable to order dinner. I was reminded of the medieval church parable of the ass equidistant between two bales of hay, who, because animals lack free will, starves to death. A man, supposedly, would not.
The Catholic Church was dead wrong. I would have starved—if my companion had not saved the day by ordering for both of us. I believe I ate a composed salad with slivers of foie gras, a perfect sole meunière, and sweetbreads. Everything was delicious.
STEP SIX, relearning humility. Just because you have become a perfect omnivore does not mean that you must flaunt it. Intoxicated with my own accomplishment, I began to misbehave, especially at dinner parties. When seated next to an especially finicky eater, I would often amuse myself by going straight for the jugular. Sometimes I began slyly by staring slightly too long at the food remaining on her plate and then inquiring whether she would like to borrow my fork. Sometimes I launched a direct assault by asking how long she had had her terror of bread. Sometimes I tricked her by striking up an abstract conversation about allergies. And then I would sit back and complacently listen to her neurotic jumble of excuses and explanations: advice from a personal trainer, intolerance to wheat gluten, a pathetic faith in Dean Ornish, the exquisite—even painful—sensitivity of her taste buds, hints of childhood abuse. And then I would tell her the truth.
I believe that it is the height of compassion and generosity to practice this brand of tough love on dinner-party neighbors who are less omnivorous than oneself. But the perfect omnivore must always keep in mind that, for one to remain omnivorous, it is an absolute necessity to get invited back.
May 1989,
August 1996
*For the details, be sure to read the chapters “Salt,” “Pain Without Gain,” and “Murder, My Sweet,” in Part Three.
PART ONE
Nothing but the Truth
Primal Bread
Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? …
Eat that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in fatness.
—ISAIAH 55:2
The world is divided into two camps: those who can live happily on bread alone and those who also need vegetables, meat, and dairy products. Isaiah and I fall into the first category. Bread is the only food I know that satisfies completely, all by itself. It comforts the body, charms the senses, gratifies the soul, and excites the mind. A little butter also helps.
Isaiah was a first-class prophet but untrained as a dietitian. A good loaf of bread will not delight your soul in fatness. It contains almost no fats or sugars and lots of protein and complex carbohydrates because it is made from three elemental ingredients: flour, water, and salt. If you wonder why I left out the yeast, you have discovered the point of my story.
Every year I have had an intense bout of baking, but these episodes now seem just a prelude, a beating around the bush, a period of training and practice for this year’s assault on the summit: le pain au levain naturel, naturally leavened bread. I have slipped into a foreign language here because this is a bread most commonly associated with the Paris baker Lionel Poilâne and his ancient wood-fired oven at 8, rue du Cherche-Midi, the most famous bakery in the world. When the baking is going well, Poilâne’s bread