On Radishes and Other Culinary Memories

I have had the good fortune to open the door of my home, after returning from a competitive soccer match, to be engulfed by an enticing aroma coming from the oven. The baker had been at work. It all compensated for my losing the game. On other occasions, I have been served a mixture of reine claude plums and apricots and heard the fruit whispering, “Someone cares about you.”

Food has a place among tales of people, places, and health. Memories of cuisine reassure me about the rhythms of mundane life. They tell me that things are all right, in good order. Friends have similar reactions about music or art in their lives. So, I have become bolder in the recounting of cuisine stories linked to sights and smells and events. Food marks lived experiences of kindness, joy, and companionship and, from time to time, also of disappointment and irritability.

There is a favorite fish restaurant where I go to celebrate special events. Its introductory offering (the amuse-bouche) is frequently a plate of pink radishes for the table, accompanied by salt, butter, and a basket of bread. Every time I attend a meal in that restaurant, I go through the same ritual: I ask someone nearby why people like to eat radishes. The answer includes mention of the vegetable’s spicy, crunchy taste, which is enhanced by butter and salt. There is, too, its contributions to good health: anti-cancer effects, addition of vitamin C to the diet, minimal calorie load, and fiber and roughage to the digestive system. The explanation evaporates quickly. Then I settle in to revisit the memory that always leaves me thankful.

I have no recollection, as a young Barbadian, of ever eating a radish. It is about 50 years since I first encountered that pink root vegetable on a visit to a French family. The parents of a medical student friend had invited me to spend the weekend at their home. The mother was very solicitous, clearly wishing me to be comfortable and relaxed. She tried hard to make sure her kitchen served hospitality and kindness. The pink radishes were a surprise. I did not even know how to proceed, and I had to watch everyone at the table to see what they would do. The mother noticed my disarray. I knew I was not smiling. As the first radish entered my mouth, I felt the tingling and slightly bitter taste spread through my mouth and the involuntary grimace take over my face. It would have been perceived even by a blind person. There was no point trying to utter something about liking it. My hostess did not miss a beat. She reassured me that she had planned for such a contretemps. Something else was available. She was an endearing mother who recognized that I was far from home and missing family and friends. She invited me at other occasions, always making sure I learned something new about French culture while she engaged patiently and with elegance her curiosity about Barbados. She passed on years ago, but her physician son is still a good friend. We have talked often about cultural differences and adaptation.

Another story, this time about Black Forest cake, is worth the telling. I was offered a slice as dessert while visiting a small village in the Lorraine region of France. I was among friends sometime in the 1970s, enjoying the camaraderie. Someone explained that this gateau was a specialty of a nearby patisserie (now closed, I have learned). On first view, the red cherries, placed on cream with chocolate shavings, made an enticing tableau. Closer examination revealed the layers of chocolate cake sandwiched between more cream and cherries. I gradually discovered the kirsch that slightly dented the sweetness of the fruit. I have tasted many different versions of Black Forest cake since then, but all have fallen short of that first contact with perfection. A few days ago, I tried a piece from a cake in which the chef had replaced the chocolate cake with chocolate mousse. Well done, I agreed, but not reaching the original yet. In any event, there was no accompanying laughter, banter, or youthful gaiety in the air. The original tasting cemented the feeling of friendship, support, and mutual respect.

The final story is about oxtails, a special Barbados dish that I recall now because one of its expert creators recently lost his wife. She was a close relative. She set the rules and standards of how to eat oxtails, which is with the pads of your fingers. The thumb is placed on one edge of vertebra bone and the forefinger on the other edge. The cylinder of meat and bone is then delicately brought to the mouth. It is a societal transgression to eat oxtails with cutlery. Perfection of the grasp is essential, as it is a firm hold that facilitates sucking of the bone. Food enthusiasts will try to compare this sacred act to eating roasted bone marrow. That is a wasteful effort, as roasted bone marrow does not offer the pleasure of oxtail meat and culinary spices that include some type of pepper sauce. Similarly, serving oxtail meat off the bone is pointless creativity, as there is no bone to enjoy. Still, the practice may be found among the uninitiated in the art of oxtail adoration. Barbadian sucking of oxtail bones with meat and condiments memorializes the joy of communal eating. It reinforces a sense of belonging to a group and defines family. Appreciating this underscores the final prohibition: the one against eating oxtails in solitude. If there is no other option, well, fine. On the other hand, any psychiatrist who understands food will ask why one would want to eat oxtails by oneself. Think about it. Alone? By the way, you must have napkins available. ■

Ezra E. H. Griffith, M.D., is professor emeritus of psychiatry and African American Studies at Yale University.