Everyone has one—that food, the taste, smell, and texture of which, by the power of some poorly understood mechanisms of the brain, draw us back to finite moment in the past. This sensory memory has the power to bring back memories not only of the sights and sounds, but also the emotions of that moment or time. The power of food’s commemorative function, from listening to class discussion, has touched all of us. We all have a “Madeleine de Proust,” sometimes sought out purposefully for reasons of comfort, security, and nostalgia; sometimes stumbled upon accidently as Proust discovered his. The accidental stumbling can have less positive effects, as McKinley explained the emotions of defeat and sadness she felt upon consuming a snack she had eaten once after losing a chess tournament.
But what happens when this food or foods cannot be found? What if that connection to your past disappears?
In C. Nadia Seremetakis’ The Breast of Aphrodite, she longs for a peach, the peach of her childhood, “…well rounded and smooth like a small clay vase, fitting perfectly into your palm. Its interior was firm yet moist, offering a soft resistance to the teeth. A bit sweet and a bit sour, it exuded a distinct fragrance;” a love poem to this peach, “the breast of Aphrodite, if I ever heard one. Unfortunately, upon returning to her native Greece, the peach of her childhood has vanished, replaced in the market stalls with a more durable, less sweet, less perfect varieties. Despite a long search galvanizing friends and family it seems that this peach has disappeared, fallen victim to what Seremetakis believes are the pressures of the EEC market rationalities of uniformity. Now that peach, which was “both eaten and remembered” by Seremetakis, can only be recreated in memory and language for the next generation.
Perhaps the reason we have built such a cult of consumerism is the fact that mass-produced items tend to have more consistency over time than your average peach (dependent as it is on the whims of the grower, the weather, and even the pollinators). If you have a longing nostalgia for Twinkies, it is likely that the Twinkie you pick up at the grocery store will taste pretty similar to the one your enjoyed 20 years ago--same crinkly plastic wrapper, spongy exterior, and sickly sweet cream (sic) filling. This is also probably the reason that there was such a huge public outcry when Coca-Cola introduced "New Coke" in 1985, in an infamous corporate blunder that cost them dearly until they switched back to “Coca-Cola original”.
Perhaps it is not the consistency of the taste at all, but a host of other factors. A concern with these “disappeared” foods is the reality of their existence—perhaps they never existed, or perhaps the essence of their taste was so deeply intertwined with other factors that their existence is impossible to recreate. Even if you are not the only one who remembers it, if you cannot find the food (or you do find the food, and it doesn’t taste the same), one must ask oneself whether that food ever really existed, or if it is just the power of “the Good Ol’ Days” and nostalgia playing a trick with your head. Seremetakis explains that people often extended the tastelessness of the new peaches to all food, remarking “Nothing tastes as good as the past.” But can this actually be true? Surely something must taste as good as in the past, or I would be seriously concerned for future generations. Part of the problem, I believe, lies in the necessity to construct the scene in which you first tasted the food. This may be as complex as the sights and smells of the location, the company you shared, or the innocence and wonder of youth—things that may be impossible to recreate.
However, since traveling backwards in time is not possible, and traveling to a different place is not always feasible, one must make do with what one has at hand. For me, there is a sweet nostalgia embedded in the ritual of dropping and ice cube into clear pastis, watching the slow tendrils of opacity extend, then pouring in a stream of water and watching the whole glass go cloudy. If I close my eyes when I take the first sip, the bitter anise flavor tickling my tongue, I can almost feel, beaming down on me, the quality of afternoon sunlight that only exists on my patio in France. It is a pleasure enjoyed somewhat less at such a distance, but a pleasure nonetheless.
Ingredients Necessary for Your First Glass of Pastis
Two DRY clear glasses, filled 1/3 full with of Pastis (of a variety of your choosing)
Two clear glasses, filled with ice cubes
One small pitcher of water
One small plate of olives
A sunny patio
A good friend, preferably one who is a good conversationalist
Directions: Mix the pastis with the ice, the ice with the pastis, (or not), the water with either (or not). You will develop your own ritual. Sit back, enjoy the olives, enjoy the company, enjoy the pastis, and don't think about the fact that you may never be able to recreate the scene of your first taste of pastis ever again...you will always enjoy trying to.
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