26th
My Madeleine(s)
I know it’s somewhat banal and cliche, but I was thinking yesterday about how, as much as anything else, food is what reminds me of home. I swung by Portillo’s the other day for a Chicago hot dog in classic fashion: at the last minute, cutting from the left lane of Route 59 over to the far right and, in the process, cutting off at least one car. (This of course caused me to text Matt B. and Greg, who both said they died laughing, thinking of the times this summer when, hungry and driving to a Cubs game, I’d see Portillo’s and nearly cause a ten-car pileup trying to get to it.) It was delicious, of course, but what really got me was the way it lingered. Driving in my car with a little……I don’t know, full-flavored spicy feel?……just made me think, “Yeah, I’m in Chicago now.” And that was nice.
Of course, it’s not just Chicago-style hot dogs. I drunkenly got it in my head two nights ago that I had to go to Big Apple Bagels. I went there early the next afternoon and sat at the counter looking out the front window, reading a book, munching on my Northern Omelette. This one wasn’t quite the same, though: they were out of egg bagels, so I had to eat it on a plain one, and the cheese wasn’t quite melted. But I didn’t care: it was close enough, and it certainly brought back memories of all those times I’d eat ‘em while working at the Cleaners. So yes: even a sub-par sandwich made at a place with “Big Apple” in its name reminds me of Chicago(land).
So here’s the question: is there something unique about food’s abilitiy to summon memories? I’m not sure. But this is the first time that I’ve really made the connection between “food” in general and home, so, hey, I guess I’m with you for now, Marcel.
