 |
| Photo by Christaan Felber |
Last year, in a memorable piece titled "Sacred Carnality" (newyorker.com, October 11, 2015), Mary Karr praised what she called “carnal writing.” “Every memoir should brim over with the physical experiences that once streamed in—the smell of garlicky gumbo, your hand in an animal’s fur, the ocean’s phosphor lighting up bodies underwater all acid green,” she said. I agree. The New Yorker’s “Tables For Two” is a tremendous source of carnal writing. A prime example is Becky Cooper’s ravishing Bar Omar review in this week’s issue. Of Bar Omar’s tagine, she writes,
But the tagine (lamb, chicken, or kefta) is the showstopper.
Portioned for two, it arrives in a tall clay vessel, clutched between napkins.
The waiter pauses for dramatic effect before rolling off the lid, letting steam
billow out. If you ordered the lamb, swollen prunes, fat apricots, and
egg-shaped potatoes hug two giant shanks sunk in a still-bubbling broth; the
prunes collapse into a sweet, jammy mess the second they’re touched. Shovel
some of the fruit over meat pulled clean from the bone, add slivered almonds
for crunch, and it’s a perfect bite.
Mmm, so good! And Cooper’s description of desert is even
better:
Ending your meal with dessert is a must, and the crème
brûlée is irreproachably classic. Shatter the shell of blistered sugar into
pieces that look like stained glass and try not to smile.
Who is The New Yorker’s
leading carnal writer? I vote for Becky Cooper.
.webp)
.jpeg)
.jpg.webp)
.png)
.jpg)
No comments:
Post a Comment