The Connoiseur

The lemon exercise

Describe how the lemon before you looks, smells, tastes, without actually mentioning that it's a lemon.

A yellow eyeball lies on my palm, the iris blending into the background, only a suggestion of a pupil, a deadened stare. Pink scars mar the waxy surface, ridding with craters the size of pink pricks.

Yet it smells of her after a shower.

Riven into four, one wedge’s scent is that of a mojito done wrong, summer without the mint, rum or sugar, but relaxing nevertheless.

Plopped in my mouth and biting into the rind, a gush of sourness lit my mouth, lingering along the back of the upper palate. A few chews later, what remained were pits that traveled freely and a grip of rubber that collapsed under further pressure, releasing a a very different sensation of clean floors that trickled deep into throat.

I failed to explode with zest. Instead, my tongue smarted from five lashes.

(Words other students used: bitter, sour, scorn, puckers, stinging, startles, asmine, astringent, bites back.)

Favourite line from the food writing class

“I’m a Cordon Bleu-trained chef, and my husband wants Kraft Mac and Cheese.”

First post! A trial review

(Tasted on September 16, 2007, at 12.30p)

With vodka-swilling Russians pouring out of the doors, and an excellent wine selection*, this unnamed Russian deli reeks of authenticity**.

Actually, no.

When I and the steady stream of customers entered this placei, I did not realize I’d entered the belly of a beast. Look at the ceiling for the solid spine and ribs radiating from it, before the glare of the lighting causes you to look away. Suddenly, the deep red walls take on a more fleshy meaning.

As I struggled to remember any connections between Jonah and this shop, I approached the glass cases where a variety of piroshkies and baked desserts were neatly ensconced. The piroshkies, both vegetarian and meat, are available in a series of plausible combinations of cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, onions, cheese, beef, ham, turkey and salmon – pick two o three. The menu also sport typical breakfast fare and salads, along with pirogues, pelmenis, and desserts.

I opted for the potato, cheese and broccoli – “I’ll get it fresh from the oven,” said the clerk – and reluctantly watching a diet informercial on the tiny television mounted in a ceiling corner, I bit into the doughy crust.

A mild sweetness greeted the tongue, followed by… nothing. It was completely unremarkable in every way. For simple convenience food on the walk, it was, perhaps, a viable means of sating one’s hunger. While my companions remarked that they found their piroshkies salty, I found mine to be unevenly so.

*Unless you know much about wine, it’s a bad idea to comment on the selection.

**This is a play on the idea that because an ethnic restaurant is popular among its people, that it is necessarily authentic or good. As my teacher said, “Denny’s is filled with white people. What does that tell you about Denny’s?”