Storytelling 114: Food

Succulent Scenes

Jun 10, 2024

“I suppose the one book that very much influenced Harry Potter was Little White Horse by Elizabeth Goudge… I liked all the food descriptions and I try to put lots of descriptions about meals into all the Harry books.”

—J. K. Rowling

1999: Accio Quote!, the largest archive of J.K. Rowling interviews on the web (accio-quote.org)

George R. R. Martin, On Fantasy:

“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real… for a moment at least… that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.”

—George R. R. Martin, On Fantasy

Ian Fleming, How to Write a Thriller:

“What are the ingredients of a thriller?
Briefly, the ingredients are anything that will thrill any of the human senses —absolutely anything.
In this department, my contribution to the art of thriller-writing has been to attempt the total stimulation of the reader all the way through, even to his taste buds. For instance, I have never understood why people in books have to eat such sketchy and indifferent meals. English heroes seem to live on cups of tea and glasses of beer, and when they do get a square meal we never hear what it consists of. Personally, I am not a gourmet and I abhor food-and-winemanship. My favorite food is scrambled eggs. In the original typescript of Live and Let Die, James Bond consumed scrambled eggs so often that a perceptive proof-reader suggested that this rigid pattern of life must be becoming a security risk for Bond. If he was being followed, his tail would only have to go into restaurants and say “Was there a man here eating scrambled eggs?” to know whether he was on the right track or not. So I had to go through the book changing the menus.
It must surely be more stimulating to the reader’s senses if, instead of writing “He made a hurried meal off the Plat du Jour — excellent cottage pie and vegetables, followed by home-made trifle” (I think this is a fair English menu without burlesque) you write “Being instinctively mistrustful of all Plats du Jour, he ordered four fried eggs cooked on both sides, hot buttered toast and a large cup of black coffee.” No difference in price here, but the following points should be noted: firstly, we all prefer breakfast foods to the sort of food one usually gets at luncheon and dinner; secondly, this is an independent character who knows what he wants and gets it; thirdly, four fried eggs has the sound of a real man’s meal and, in our imagination, a large cup of black coffee sits well on our taste buds after the rich, buttery sound of the fried eggs and the hot buttered toast.
What I aim at is a certain disciplined exoticism. I have not re-read any of my books to see if this stands up to close examination, but I think you will find that the sun is always shining in my books — a state of affairs which minutely lifts the spirit of the English reader — that most of the settings of my books are in themselves interesting and pleasurable, taking the reader to exciting places around the world, and that, in general, a strong hedonistic streak is always there to offset the grimmer side of Bond’s adventures. This, so to speak, “pleasures” the reader.”

—Ian Fleming, How to Write a Thriller

Ian Fleming Explains How to Write a Thriller ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)

I: Delicious Descriptions

No detail is too small, and the mission protocol… is to search once and for all, from New York to Senegal, in pursuit of dreams or passions, which can dance and build and sprawl.

Art demands obsession.

A certain deranged intensity.

Beauty is elusive, and she hides in the most subtle locations, waiting to be discovered and seduced — but only by keen, perceptive minds.

Food is one of the smallest, and most insignificant components of enticing cinema, or captivating literature. After all, who cares about nonexistent meals which are being digested by nonexistent characters?

The answer is that a meticulous, focused artist should care. Even such petty, trivial details represent valuable opportunities to express emotion, and provide a narrative affordance.

Feasts, banquets, buffets, business lunches, and various other food descriptions add a sweet (or sour) texture to stories.

The big lesson here is not about prose style, worldbuilding with an ambient sense of realism, or even the food itself.

It’s about fun.

The missing ingredient in many narratives is a sense of delight… the pure innocence of childhood, a magical feeling of all-consuming optimism and joy, which evokes wonder and awe. Fictional characters who enjoy exploring, learning, discovering treasures, upgrading tools, and adventuring serve as surrogates for the audience, who enjoy vicariously experiencing these same pleasures; curiosities; escapades; romances; conquests.

Books are imaginative playgrounds.

Fiction provides escapism. Audiences seek to escape from reality. Ideally, stories should teach encouraging, inspiring messages which clarify life’s mysteries, and reawaken the audience’s inner fire — their desire to persevere, live as meaningful life, contribute to their community, grow as self-actualized individuals, and build some kind of purpose amid the world’s chaos and complexity.

Literature’s readers, and cinema’s viewers, search for stories which speak to them on a personal level; stories which seem to be written for them individually; dramatized adventures which make sense of their cluttered, demoralized lives and provide a hopeful alternative to their current disillusioned, apathetic status quo.

Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and J. K. Rowling became billionaires because their stories shared this childlike innocence, a sense of wonder and awe, a belief that life could strive towards a beautiful, magical adventure. Somehow these visionaries were able to encapsulate the experience of a gorgeous, marvelous childhood, then sell it back to a global audience of kids and adults as a reminder of the world’s best aspects. That message is primal and subconscious. It’s emotional rather than intellectual. And it translates to every language, every culture, every race, every age.

Money is a poor measure of art.

Beauty is effervescent and intangible. Sales, popularity, and critical acclaim are only crude proxies for the true goal of gorgeous, aspirational storytelling.

But the success of E. T., Star Wars, and Harry Potter were built upon this same emotional foundation: Childhood’s exploration, innocence, fun, and wonder.

Good luck finding another Harry Potter. It doesn’t exist.

Why not?

Artists tend to develop along the same lines.

As kids, we begin by imitating winners we admire, and by mimicking beautiful stories, novels, and films. Children love with utter sincerity. There’s no sense of irony. Or restraint. No self-awareness. Amateur storytellers start out by trying to create the same things they love. Fantasy writers attempt to recreate the history, scale, and beauty of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. Then ambition fails. Projects are aborted, abandoned, forgotten. Early missions sputter and die. Even the rare handful of finished stories tend to disappoint their creators. And young artists realize — wow, that’s harder than it looks.

Time marches on.

Practice, practice, practice.

Skills accumulate. Years of study, contemplation, collaboration, experimentation, and iteration bring results. With the passage of time, and countless repetitions, artists tend to develop considerable elegance, the ability to juggle interrelated components, creating narratives which emotionally connect with strangers. It’s a small miracle. These stories express truths that are so powerful, even from a distance, even from a stranger, that audiences cry actual tears; change careers; reconsider their own lives.

This process, this individual transformation of a young artist from starry-eyed dreamer to filthy pro, requires years or decades of commitment, frustration, rejection, and loneliness.

Bitterness sets in.

Blinding rage.

Violent mood swings.

A sense of ennui, and detached cynicism.

Art is personal, rejection hurts, isolation is lonely, patience kills enthusiasm — all of this is true. An indisputable series of facts.

Scars accumulate.

Something is lost along the way.

Transforming into a productive adult is in many respects antithetical to childhood. Men who remain immature, who fail to assume adult responsibilities, are referred to with the phrase ‘Peter Pan Syndrome’. Their reluctance to adopt conventional social obligations has been medicalized, stigmatized, psychoanalyzed. But for good reason.

We can’t remain kids forever.

And yet, part of creating beautiful art is about shifting perspective; dreaming and daydreaming; drifting off into fantasies and delusions. Part of art is about seeing the adult world through the eyes of a child.

Still learning. Still growing. Still observing. Still playing.

Still having fun.

Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis.

Describing food in a novel seems small, it seems insignificant — and yes, it is. But this illustrates a bigger point. The real triumph of popular art is to rediscover childhood, blending together the professional finesse of an adult with the passionate frenzy of a child.

Everyone ages.

But it’s a choice to forget what it’s like to be young.

Examples:

1.)

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets:

“The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the room. Harry, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off his bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but he drank half of it in one gulp. Then he crossed the room to Hedwig’s cage and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food tray. She ruffled her feathers and gave him a look of deep disgust.
“It’s no good turning your beak up at it — that’s all we’ve got,” said Harry grimly.
He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than he had been before the soup.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

2.)

“It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew how much being made a teacher would mean to him. Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime he had not committed. It had been Harry, Ron, and Hermione who had cleared Hagrid’s name last year.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they got their chance.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

3.)

George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings:

“She slapped him.
His cheeks were red and burning, yet he smiled. “If you keep doing that, I may get angry.”
That stayed her hand. “Why should I care if you do?”
“I have some new friends,” Tyrion confessed. “You won’t like them at all. How did you kill Robert?”
“He did that himself. All we did was help. When Lancel saw that Robert was going after boar, he gave him strongwine. His favorite sour red, but fortified, three times as potent as he was used to. The great stinking fool loved it. He could have stopped swilling it down any time he cared to, but no, he drained one skin and told Lancel to fetch another. The boar did the rest. You should have been at the feast, Tyrion. There has never been a boar so delicious. They cooked it with mushrooms and apples, and it tasted like triumph.”

—George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings

4.)

“Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention.

“There are house-elves here?” she said, staring, horror-struck, at Nearly Headless Nick. “Here at Hogwarts?”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

5.)

“‘Ser Maynard has a bag of apples,’ said Kyle the Cat. “And I have pickled eggs and onions. Why, together we have the makings of a feast! Be seated, ser. We have a fine choice of stumps for your comfort. We will be here until midmorning, unless I miss my guess. There is only the one ferry, and it is not big enough to take us all. The lords and their tails must cross first.”

—George R. R. Martin, The Mystery Knight

6.)

George R. R. Martin, The Mystery Knight:

“For his own part, Dunk was just glad to be out of the hot sun, with a wine cup before him and a chance to fill his belly. Even a hedge knight grows weary of chewing every bite of food for half an hour. Down here below the salt, the fare would be more plain than fancy, but there would be no lack of it. Below the salt was good enough for Dunk.
…
When a serving man placed a loaf of black bread on the cloth in front of each of them, Dunk was grateful for the distraction. He sawed the loaf open lengthwise, hollowed out the bottom half for a trencher, and ate the top. It was stale, but compared to his salt beef it was custard. At least it did not have to be soaked in ale or milk or water to make it soft enough to chew.
…
Suckling pig was served at the high table; a peacock roasted in its plumage; a great pike crusted with crushed almonds. Not a bite of that made it down below the salt. Instead of suckling pig they got salt pork, soaked in almond milk and peppered pleasantly. In place of peacock they had capons, crisped up nice and brown and stuffed with onions, herbs, mushrooms, and roasted chestnuts. In place of pike they ate chunks of flaky white cod in a pastry coffyn, with some sort of tasty brown sauce that Dunk could not quite place. There was pease porridge besides; buttered turnips; carrots drizzled with honey; and a ripe white cheese that smelled as strong as Bennis of the Brown Shield. Dunk ate well, but all the while wondered what Egg was getting in the yard. Just in case, he slipped half a capon into the pocket of his cloak, with some hunks of bread and a little of the smelly cheese.”

—George R. R. Martin, The Mystery Knight

7.)

“As he knelt to skin the rabbit, Sam pulled off his boots. “I think there’s moss growing between my toes,” he declared mournfully, wriggling the toes in question, “The rabbit will taste good. I don’t even mind about the blood and all.” He looked away. “Well, only a little.”

Jon spitted the carcass, banked the fire with a pair of rocks, and balanced their meal atop them. The rabbit had been a scrawny thing, but as it cooked it smelled like a king’s feast. Other rangers gave them envious looks. Even Ghost looked up hungrily, flames shining in his red eyes as he sniffed. “You had yours before,” Jon reminded him.”

—George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings

8.)

George R. R. Martin, A Night at the Tarn House:

“The landlord made his appearance, bowing and scraping as was appropriate for one of his station. “How may I serve you?”
“I will try a dish of your famous hissing eels.”
The innkeep gave an apologetic cough. “Alas, the eels are . . . ah . . . off the bill of fare.”
“What? How so? Your sign suggests that hissing eels are the specialty of the house.”
“And so they were, in other days. Delicious creatures, but mischievous. One ate a wizard’s concubine, and the wizard was so wroth he set the tarn to boiling and extinguished all the rest.”
“Perhaps you should change the sign.”
“Every day I think the same when I awaken. But then I think, the world may end today, should I spend my final hours perched upon a ladder with a paintbrush in my hand? I pour myself some wine and sit down to cogitate upon the matter, and by evening I find the urge has passed.”
“Your urges do not concern me,” said Chimwazle. “Since you have no eels, I must settle for a roast fowl, well crisped.”
The innkeep looked lachrymose. “Alas, this clime is not salubrious for chicken.”
“Fish?”
“From the tarn?” The man shuddered. “I would advise against it. Most unwholesome, those waters.”
Chimwazle was growing vexed. His companion leaned across the table and said, “On no account should you attempt a bowl of scrumby. The gristle pies are also to be avoided.”
“Begging your pardon,” said the landlord, “but meat pies is all we have just now.”
“What sort of meat is in these pies?” asked Chimwazle.
“Brown,” said the landlord. “And chunks of gray”
“A meat pie, then.” There seemed to be no help for it.
The pie was large, admittedly; that was the best that could be said for it. What meat Chimwazle found was chiefly gristle, here and there a chunk of yellow fat, and once something that crunched suspiciously when he bit into it. There was more gray meat than brown, and once a chunk that glistened green. He found a carrot too, or perhaps it was a finger. In either case, it had been overcooked. Of the crust, the less said, the better.
Finally Chimwazle pushed the pie away from him. No more than a quarter had been consumed. “A wiser man might have heeded my warning,” said Rocallo.
“A wiser man with a fuller belly, perhaps.” That was problem with Twk-men; no matter how many you ate, an hour later you were hungry again.

—George R. R. Martin, A Night at the Tarn House

A Night at the Tarn House by George R.R. Martin : Clarkesworld Magazine – Science Fiction & Fantasy

9.)

“Sure enough, when they entered the Gryffindor common room it exploded with cheers and yells again. There were mountains of cakes and flagons of pumpkin juice and butterbeer on every surface; Lee Jordan had let off some Filibuster’s Fireworks, so that the air was thick with stars and sparks; and Dean Thomas, who was very good at drawing, had put up some impressive new banners, most of which depicted Harry zooming around the Horntail’s head on his Firebolt, though a couple showed Cedric with his head on fire.

Harry helped himself to food; he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel properly hungry, and sat down with Ron and Hermione. He couldn’t believe how happy he felt; he had Ron back on his side, he’d gotten through the first task, and he wouldn’t have to face the second one for three months.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

10.)

“Dany had never felt so alone as she did seated in the midst of that vast horde. Her brother had told her to smile, and so she smiled until her face ached and the tears came unbidden to her eyes. She did her best to hide them, knowing how angry Viserys would be if he saw her crying, terrified of how Khal Drogo might react. Food was brought to her, steaming joints of meat and thick black sausages and Dothraki blood pies, and later fruits and sweetgrass stews and delicate pastries from the kitchens of Pentos, but she waved it all away. Her stomach was a roil, and she knew she could keep none of it down.
…
So she sat in her wedding silks, nursing a cup of honeyed wine, afraid to eat, talking silently to herself. I am blood of the dragon, she told herself. I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone, of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror.
The sun was only a quarter of the way up the sky when she saw her first man die.”

—George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

11.)

“Initiation day plunges the Dauntless compound into insanity and chaos. There are people everywhere, and most of them are inebriated by noon. I fight my way through them to get a plate of food at lunch and carry it back to the dormitory with me. On the way I see someone fall off the path on the Pit wall and, judging by his screams and the way he grabs at his leg, he broke something. The dormitory, at least, is quiet. I stare at my plate of food. I just grabbed what looked good to me at the time, and now that I take a closer look, I realize that I chose a plain chicken breast, a scoop of peas, and a piece of brown bread. Abnegation food. I sigh. Abnegation is what I am. It is what I am when I’m not thinking about what I’m doing. It is what I am when I am put to the test. It is what I am even when I appear to be brave. Am I in the wrong faction?”

—Veronica Roth, Divergent

12.)

“They pulled the morels from the ground, small alien-looking things that he piled in the hood of the boy's parka. They hiked back out to the road and down to where they'd left the cart and they made camp by the river pool at the falls and washed the earth and ash from the morels and put them to soak in a pan of water. By the time he had the fire going it was dark and he sliced a handful of the mushrooms on a log for their dinner and scooped them into the frying pan along with the fat pork from a can of beans and set them in the coals to simmer. The boy watched him. This is a good place Papa, he said.

They ate the little mushrooms together with the beans and drank tea and had tinned pears for their desert. He banked the fire against the seam of rock where he'd built it and he strung the tarp behind them to reflect the heat and they sat warm in their refuge while he told the boy stories. Old stories of courage and justice as he remembered them until the boy was asleep in his blankets and then he stoked the fire and lay down warm and full and listened to the low thunder of the falls beyond them in that dark and threadbare wood.”

—Cormac McCarthy, The Road

13.)

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone:

““Mad?” said Percy airily. “He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?” Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs. The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.”
…
“When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding… As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

14.)

““Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.”

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper.”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

15.)

“Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

16.)

“The feast proved to be everything her father promised.

Sixty-four dishes were served, in honor of the sixty-four competitors who had come so far to contest for silver wings before their lord. From the rivers and the lakes came pike and trout and salmon, from the seas crabs and cod and herring. Ducks there were, and capons, peacocks in their plumage and swans in almond milk. Suckling pigs were served up crackling with apples in their mouths, and three huge aurochs were roasted whole above firepits in the castle yard, since they were too big to get through the kitchen doors. Loaves of hot bread filled the trestle tables in Lord Nestor’s hall, and massive wheels of cheese were brought up from the vaults. The butter was fresh-churned, and there were leeks and carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips, parsnips. And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar.”

—George R. R. Martin, The Winds of Winter

17.)

“They breakfasted at last in another of the dark cellars of Aslan's How. It was not such a breakfast as they would have chosen, for Caspian and Cornelius were thinking of venison pasties, and Peter and Edmund of buttered eggs and hot coffee, but what everyone got was a little bit of cold bear-meat (out of the boys' pockets), a lump of hard cheese, an onion, and a mug of water. But, from the way they fell to, anyone would have supposed it was delicious.”

—C. S. Lewis, Prince Caspian

18.)

George R. R. Martin, A Storm of Swords:

““Never believe anything you hear in a song, my lady.” Tyrion summoned a serving man to refill their wine cups.
Soon it was full night outside the tall windows, and still Galyeon sang on. His song had seventy-seven verses, though it seemed more like a thousand. One for every guest in the hall. Tyrion drank his way through the last twenty or so, to help resist the urge to stuff mushrooms in his ears. By the time the singer had taken his bows, some of the guests were drunk enough to begin providing unintentional entertainments of their own. Grand Maester Pycelle fell asleep while dancers from the Summer Isles swirled and spun in robes made of bright feathers and smoky silk. Roundels of elk stuffed with ripe blue cheese were being brought out when one of Lord Rowan’s knights stabbed a Dornishman. The gold cloaks dragged them both away, one to a cell to rot and the other to get sewn up by Maester Ballabar.
Tyrion was toying with a leche of brawn, spiced with cinnamon, cloves, sugar, and almond milk, when King Joffrey lurched suddenly to his feet. “Bring on my royal jousters!” he shouted in a voice thick with wine, clapping his hands together.”

—George R. R. Martin, A Storm of Swords

19.)

“She had watched them. Vesemir had been tense and troubled; Geralt uneasy, Lambert and Eskel falsely merry and talkative, Coën so natural as to be unnatural. The only one who had been sincere and open was Ciri, rosy-cheeked from the cold, dishevelled, happy and devilishly voracious. They had eaten beer potage, thick with croutons and cheese, and Ciri had been surprised they had not served mushrooms as well. They had drunk cider, but the girl had been given water and was clearly both astonished and revolted by it. “Where’s the salad?” she had yelled, and Lambert had rebuked her sharply and ordered her to take her elbows off the table. Mushrooms and salad. In December? Of course, thought Triss. They’re feeding her those legendary cave saprophytes – a mountain plant unknown to science – giving her the famous infusions of their mysterious herbs to drink. The girl is developing quickly, is acquiring a witcher’s infernal fitness. Naturally, without the mutation, without the risk, without the hormonal upheaval. But the magician must not know this. It is to be kept a secret from the magician. They aren’t going to tell me anything; they aren’t going to show me anything.”

—Andrzej Sapkowski, Blood of Elves

20.)

Veronica Roth, Divergent:

“We look for empty seats. Christina and I discover a mostly empty table at the side of the room, and I find myself sitting between her and Four. In the center of the table is a platter of food I don’t recognize: circular pieces of meat wedged between round bread slices. I pinch one between my fingers, unsure what to make of it.
Four nudges me with his elbow.
“It’s beef,” he says. “Put this on it.” He passes me a small bowl full of red sauce. “You’ve never had a hamburger before?” asks Christina, her eyes wide.
“No,” I say. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Stiffs eat plain food,” Four says, nodding at Christina.
“Why?” she asks.
I shrug. “Extravagance is considered self-indulgent and unnecessary.”
She smirks. “No wonder you left.”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It was just because of the food.”
The corner of Four’s mouth twitches.
The doors to the cafeteria open, and a hush falls over the room. I look over my shoulder. A young man walks in, and it is quiet enough that I can hear his footsteps. His face is pierced in so many places I lose count, and his hair is long, dark, and greasy. But that isn’t what makes him look menacing. It is the coldness of his eyes as they sweep across the room.”

—Veronica Roth, Divergent

21.)

“If you ever eat a meal with George R. R. Martin, have what he’s having. Martin’s fantasy novels, the source material for HBO’s new Game of Thrones (see a scene from the pilot above), are known for moral ambiguity, complexity and cruelly brilliant plot twists. But they also have fantastic descriptions of food—all that honeyed fowl, lemon cakes and roast aurochs — and when we sat down to breakfast at Tecolote Cafe near his home in Santa Fe, he ordered what looked like the best thing on the menu: a breakfast burrito, Christmas-style (red and green sauce).”

—James Poniewozik

George R. R. Martin Interview, Part 1: Game of Thrones, from Book to TV | TIME.com

22.)

J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone:

“Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron’s ears went pink again and he muttered that he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor.
He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many Mars Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have Mars Bars. What she did have were Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.
Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped it onto an empty seat.
“Hungry, are you?”
“Starving,” said Harry, taking a large bite out of a pumpkin pasty. Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, “She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.”
“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a pasty. “Go on—”
“You don’t want this, its all dry,” said Ron. “She hasn’t got much time,” he added quickly, “you know, with five of us.”
“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had anything to share before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling, sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties, cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).
“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs. “They’re not really frogs, are they?” He was starting to feel that nothing would surprise him.
“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.”
“What?”
“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs have cards inside them, you know, to collect — famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”
Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a man’s face. He wore half-moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.
“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry.
“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said Ron. “Can I have a frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks—”

—J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

23.)

Andrzej Sapkowski, The Bounds of Reason:

“The innkeeper wiped the rough table top with a cloth, bowed and smiled. Two of his front teeth were missing.
‘Right, then…’ Three Jackdaws looked up for a while at the blackened ceiling and the spiders dancing about beneath it.
‘First… First, beer. To save your legs, an entire keg. And to go with the beer… What do you propose with the beer, comrade?’
‘Cheese?’ risked the innkeeper.
‘No,’ Borch grimaced. ‘We’ll have cheese for dessert. We want something sour and spicy with the beer.’
‘At your service,’ the innkeeper smiled even more broadly. His two front teeth were not the only ones he lacked. ‘Elvers with garlic in olive oil and green pepper pods in vinegar or marinated…’ ‘
Very well. We’ll take both. And then that soup I once ate here, with diverse molluscs, little fish and other tasty morsels floating in it.’
‘Log drivers’ soup?’ ‘
The very same. And then roast lamb with onions. And then three-score crayfish. Throw as much dill into the pot as you can. After that, sheep’s cheese and lettuce. And then we’ll see.’
‘At your service. Is that for everyone? I mean, four times?’
The taller Zerrikanian shook her head, patting herself knowingly on her waist, which was now hugged by a tight, linen blouse.
‘I forgot.’ Three Jackdaws winked at Geralt. ‘The girls are watching their figures. Lamb just for the two of us, innkeeper. Serve the beer right now, with those elvers. No, wait a while, so they don’t go cold. We didn’t come here to stuff ourselves, but simply to spend some time in conversation.’
‘Very good.’ The innkeeper bowed once more.
‘Prudence is a matter of import in your profession. Give me your hand, comrade.’
Gold coins jingled. The innkeeper opened his gap-toothed mouth to the limit.
‘That is not an advance,’ Three Jackdaws announced, ‘it is a bonus. And now hurry off to the kitchen, good fellow.’”

—Andrzej Sapkowski, The Bounds of Reason

24.)

Shoggoth's Old Peculiar, by Neil Gaiman:

“The Saloon Bar was almost empty. It smelled like last week's spilled beer and the day-before-yesterday's cigarette smoke. Behind the bar was a plump woman with bottle-blonde hair. Sitting in one corner were a couple of gentlemen wearing long grey raincoats and scarves. They were playing dominoes and sipping dark brown foam-topped beerish drinks from dimpled glass tankards.
Ben walked over to the bar. "Do you sell food here?"
The barmaid scratched the side of her nose for a moment, then admitted, grudgingly, that she could probably do him a ploughman's.
Ben had no idea what this meant and found himself, for the hundredth time, wishing that A Walking Tour of the British Coastline had an American-English phrase book in the back. "Is that food?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Okay. I'll have one of those."
"And to drink?"
"Coke, please."
"We haven't got any Coke."
"Pepsi, then."
"No Pepsi."
"Well, what do you have? Sprite? 7UP? Gatorade?"
She looked blanker than previously. Then she said, "I think there's a bottle or two of cherryade in the back."
"That'll be fine."
"It'll be five pounds and twenty pence, and I'll bring you over your ploughman's when it's ready."
Ben decided as he sat at a small and slightly sticky wooden table, drinking something fizzy that both looked and tasted a bright chemical red, that a ploughman's was probably a steak of some kind. He reached this conclusion, coloured, he knew, by wishful thinking, from imagining rustic, possibly even bucolic, ploughmen leading their plump oxen through fresh-ploughed fields at sunset and because he could, by then, with equanimity and only a little help from others, have eaten an entire ox.
"Here you go. Ploughman's," said the barmaid, putting a plate down in front of him.
That a ploughman's turned out to be a rectangular slab of sharp-tasting cheese, a lettuce leaf, an undersized tomato with a thumb-print in it, a mound of something wet and brown that tasted like sour jam, and a small, hard, stale roll, came as a sad disappointment to Ben, who had already decided that the British treated food as some kind of punishment. He chewed the cheese and the lettuce leaf, and cursed every ploughman in England for choosing to dine upon such swill.
The gentlemen in grey raincoats, who had been sitting in the corner, finished their game of dominoes, picked up their drinks, and came and sat beside Ben. "What you drinking?" one of them asked, curiously.
"It's called cherryade," he told them. "It tastes like something from a chemical factory."
"Interesting you should say that," said the shorter of the two. "Interesting you should say that. Because I had a friend worked in a chemical factory and he never drank cherryade." He paused dramatically and then took a sip of his brown drink. Ben waited for him to go on, but that appeared to be that; the conversation had stopped.
In an effort to appear polite, Ben asked, in his turn, "So, what are you guys drinking?"
The taller of the two strangers, who had been looking lugubrious, brightened up. "Why, that's exceedingly kind of you. Pint of Shoggoth's Old Peculiar for me, please."
"And for me, too," said his friend. "I could murder a Shoggoth's. 'Ere, I bet that would make a good advertising slogan. 'I could murder a Shoggoth's.' I should write to them and suggest it. I bet they'd be very glad of me suggestin' it."
Ben went over to the barmaid, planning to ask her for two pints of Shoggoth's Old Peculiar and a glass of water for himself, only to find she had already poured three pints of the dark beer. Well, he thought, might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and he was certain it couldn't be worse than the cherryade. He took a sip. The beer had the kind of flavour which, he suspected, advertisers would describe as full-bodied, although if pressed they would have to admit that the body in question had been that of a goat.
He paid the barmaid and manoeuvered his way back to his new friends.”

—Neil Gaiman, Shoggoth's Old Peculiar

Shoggoth's Old Peculiar (doesstuff.com)

25.)

“The next morning🌅, Shenwu 神巫 meets Branch🪃 in the mess hall for breakfast🌅🍚. There is a line and a service counter, and the cooks👨‍🍳🙍🏻‍♂️ are serving hot🌶-and-dry🏜 noodles🔥🍜. All the food🍽🎁 is real; no one eats🍽😋 insect loaf🐛🦟🍞 or uses Neuralink🧠🔗 to simulate👾🎭➡️ foods🍽🎁 from⬅️ social networks⚡️🕸, and this strikes Branch🪃 as romantic💘🔁, or parochial, maybe, because↘️ although the noodles🍜 are chewy🦷⬇️🔁 and coated🧥➡️ in spicy🌶🔁 textured oil🛢, with the sharpness🔪⬇️ of preserved mustard greens 🥬and the piquancy of scallion and coriander🌱, he would not choose them for himself. In the mornings🌅, he’s used to flipping🔃🔁 through Matters of Taste👅💡, his favorite degustation🐛🦋👅 app📱💾, simulating👾🎭🔁 five impossible🙅‍♂️⬆️ plates🍛 before↙️ breakfast🌅🍚–a bite of salmon tartare🍣 in crepes🥞 with miso bonito🐟 sauce, hickory-smoked octopus🔥💨🐙 in tandoori masala marinade, bamboo-steamed arctic char🎍💨🐠 in a mango hollandaise🥭🥚, and for dessert🍦🧁, poached pear🍐 with yuzu🍋 caramel🍬🔥 and spiced🌶➡️ oat cake🧁 (although of course it’s all “secretly🤫🔁” high fiber⏫🥦 cricket loaf🦗🍞)–and all of this makes sitting🪑🔁 through a whole bowl of noodles🍜 feel monotonous1️⃣.”

—ZeroHPLovecraft, Don’t Make Me Think

Don't Make Me Think - Zero HP Lovecraft (substack.com)

26.)

“Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food’s wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight’s supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o’clock waiting for the names to be called out.”

—Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

27.)

Disgraced Propagandist, There's Gonna be a War in Montana:

“More interesting to me were the parts of Montana I saw by accident. A new coldness grips the relationship between visitors and locals. I first noticed it at the ranch. Six years ago the kitchen helpers were a happy mix. The chef was known for his thoughtful local cuisine, elk with au jus, beef burgers from ranch cattle, loaded baked potatoes, hearty mac and cheese. The servers wore big smiles. The progressive boomers attending the reunion were comfortable with this type of staff, the same hodgepodge they interacted with at home. Much backslapping occurred.
This time, the help had clearly experienced a vibe shift. They were all white, and distant. The food was awful — boiled carrots and reheated pork steaks, the result of some Aramark-type lowest-bidder supply chain. The new staff had been mostly hired on Coolworks, a website for low paid service jobs on ranches, resorts, and other “great places.” They came from the surrounding towns, forgotten about, left behind, bright red Trump country. Young women with sloped posture and heavy eyeshadow, barely 18. Their clothes don’t fit, they looked impoverished, hungry, skittering. The young chef who had once proudly presented his take on local food was gone. The guests no longer chatted with servants. There was separation and silence.
Then my wife tested positive for COVID so we fled to Bozeman.”

—Disgraced Propagandist, There's Gonna be a War in Montana

The Carousel

There's Gonna be a War in Montana

DISCLAIMER: This article in no way seeks to promote, initiate, or glorify violence in Montana. It’s merely a depiction of symbols and propaganda that suggest that such a conflict could occur. In popular culture, protagonists and antagonists battle eternally for Montana’s precious land. Country folk fi…

3 years ago · 281 likes · 372 comments · Isaac Simpson

28.)

“The food had been good, and homey. Gnocchi Verdi followed by chicken marinated in oil and lemon juice. Although of late his appetite had not been good, Creasy was very fond of Italian food and knew a lot about it. He recognized the Florentine style of cooking and had asked Maria if she was from Tuscany."

—A. J. Quinnell, Man on Fire

29.)

“Maria had phoned for a reservation, and she had obviously been a good waitress and popular, because the owner gave them personal attention and a good table. He told Creasy that Maria was being modest in telling him that she had been a mere waitress. She had helped in the kitchen as well, and was a fine cook. The Ballettos often ate there and that was how they came to hire her. He joked with Creasy that, after Maria's cooking, the meal would be an anticlimax.

It wasn't. First they had a light pasta — penne alia carrettiera, followed by lamb braised with wine, peas and rosemary. They were a relaxed trio. It was Creasy's first night out since starting the job, and Felicia's obvious enjoyment was infectious.”

—A. J. Quinnell, Man on Fire

30.)

ZeroHPLovecraft, Don’t Make Me Think

—ZeroHPLovecraft, Don’t Make Me Think

Don't Make Me Think - Zero HP Lovecraft (substack.com)

31.)

Dan Abnett, Eisenhorn: Malleus:

“The sea terrace was probably the main reason I had leased the Ocean House in the first place. It was a long, ceramite-vaulted hall with one entire wall made of armoured glass looking into the ocean. The industrialisation of Thracian Primaris had killed off a great part of the world's sea-life, but at these depths, hardy survivors such as luminous deep anglers and schools of incandescent jellies could still be glimpsed in the emerald nocturnal glow.
The candlelit room was washed by a rippling green half-light.
Jarat's servitors had set the long table for nine and those nine were already taking their seats and chatting over preprandial drinks as I arrived. Like most of them, I had dressed informally, putting on a simple black suit. The kitchen provided steamed fubi dumplings and grilled ketelfish, followed by seared haunches of rare, gamey orkunu, and then pear and berry tarts with a cinnamon jus. A sturdy Gudranite claret and sweet dessert wine from the vineyards of Messina complemented the food perfectly.
I had forgotten the excellent qualities of the house Jarat ran for me, so far away from the hardship of missions in the field.”

—Dan Abnett, Eisenhorn: Malleus

32.)

Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games:

“The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there’s more to come.
But I’m stuffing myself because I’ve never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.
“At least, you two have decent manners,” says Effie as we’re finishing the main course. “The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion.”
The pair last year were two kids from the Seam who’d never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. And when they did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on their minds. Peeta’s a baker’s son. My mother taught Prim and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife. But I hate Effie Trinket’s comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers. Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth. This makes her purse her lips tightly together.
Now that the meal’s over, I’m fighting to keep the food down. I can see Peeta’s looking a little green, too. Neither of our stomachs is used to such rich fare. But if I can hold down Greasy Sae’s concoction of mice meat, pig entrails, and tree bark — a winter specialty — I’m determined to hang on to this.”

—Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

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