Our Manifesto
Ruined idealists though we are, we keep tucked in our hearts, always close to hand, memories of the cooking that gave us our first taste of love.
When bewildered, we reach for these unutterably sacred dishes like a pair of old shoes. It is a most intimate privilege, then, to be taken into one’s gastronomical inner sanctum.
Shared earnestly, food is an insight into someone else’s soul, into their dreams. We soon learn the difference between those who come with a rose and good intentions, or only with the rose.
As our horizons broaden, so do our palates, and the sanctuary of our grandmothers’ kitchens gives way to harsh landscapes and depthless oceans: marrow gouged from bones; urchins snatched from their beds. Coarse, fiery new prizes.
We fall in love again among the heathens, many times—that’s natural. But we do so with the food of integrity, because that’s what we were taught. Tastes we have yet to acquire are only strangers we’ve yet to befriend.
The great meals of our lives tend to blindside us. Revelation is half-chance, a celestial whim, though surely it has much to do with memory. We take a bite—soul-struck, we close our eyes . . . both our past and our future seem up for grabs. Life, again, after so much dross, feels like a story.
Some say poetry is the shortest distance between two humans. We cynical bastards disagree. Our Supper Club is open.
The great meals of our lives tend to blindside us. Revelation is half-chance, a celestial whim, though surely it has much to do with memory. We take a bite—soul-struck, we close our eyes . . . both our past and our future seem up for grabs. Life, again, after so much dross, feels like a story.
Some say poetry is the shortest distance between two humans. We cynical bastards disagree. Our Supper Club is open.
