Once I felt welcomed into the world of the narrator, Marcel-which didn’t take long-I did not want to leave it. But I quickly realized I’d been hoodwinked by the legend and literary theory this is not an impenetrable book at all. I vaguely suspected that I (having read neither Deleuze nor Barthes) would not actually understand it. It was more of a personal challenge, a desire to know what all the fuss was about. When I’d picked up the first volume of In Search of Lost Time, I was not particularly expecting to enjoy it. Maybe I’d been hoping for a Proustian moment, even knowing full well that these things are famously involuntary. After a few more tastes, suddenly, the memory returned: the taste was that of the trout which on Sunday mornings at Combray. When I took my first bite, a shudder ran through my whole body. I’d been hoping for a Proustian moment, even knowing full well that these things are famously involuntary. I’d griddled up a croque-monsieur for breakfast (no crusts in the Belle Époque!) followed by a lunch of unctuous leek-and-potato soup, and was excited for my triumphal truite farcie aux espinards, which seemed to me an Escoffier special, as Continental as could possibly be. I’d spent my past few meals eating through recipes from Dining With Marcel Proust: A Practical Guide to French Cuisine of the Belle Époque, a cookbook and quasi-encyclopedia by English chef and writer Shirley King.
I lifted away the skin of the poached fish and layered my greens into its belly I boiled down the cider, ambrosial with the addition of a leafy sprig of tarragon, and whisked in heavy cream, all of it commingling into a silky almond-colored sauce, which I poured into a deep dish and, afterward, laid my trout to rest in the center until it was time for dinner. Once the onion had browned, I folded in a pound of chopped fresh spinach. I diced an onion, having torn off the papery outer layers having peeled back the thin, translucent membrane still clinging to the pearlescent surface of the bulb, and browned it in a foaming bath of salted butter. One recent evening, I brought to a simmer a pint of dry, hazy cider, then draped into the pan a whole glistening trout. Sign up for our newsletter to get submission announcements and stay on top of our best work.
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