A constant theme through restaurant critic Ruth Reichl’s memoirs Comfort Me With Apples is of food and cooking being therapeutic: it helps her go through difficult times, both professional and personal. Chocolate cake for when she can't figure whether to stay with the husband she is still so deeply attached to, or move in with her lover. Crab cakes for when she can't decide if she should take up a new job or not. Mushroom soup to help her and her mother get over the death of Reichl’s father.
Set in the late 1970s (beginning in 1978) and extending over part of the following decade, Comfort Me With Apples forms Reichl’s memories of those years. The reviews, the interesting restaurants she not only ate at but in some cases got to help set up. The chefs, the experimentation, the excitement about new techniques, new ingredients, ‘new’ cuisines.
For me, the food aspect of this book was what made me give it the two stars. Had it not been for the food, I'd have left it at one star. Because when I'm reading a book by a food critic, by someone for whom food is such an important part of life—I want to read about food. I am not even slightly interested in whom she slept with, why she and her husband—whom she was so very devoted to, she can't stop dwelling on it—cheated on each other repeatedly, or how sex with Michael felt. Puh-leez. Sadly, these very intimate reminiscences of Reichl’s are what form the bulk of the book; the food interrupts these only now and then, and then only briefly, before Reichl plunges into more personal stuff all over again.
On the plus side, there are interesting little glimpses into the food scene in the 70s and 80s, and how very different it is from today (a food critic who has no idea what balsamic vinegar is? Or Szechuan peppercorns? Unimaginable today). Similarly, a lot of the food Reichl describes—and the recipes—are often markedly different from modern cooking: there’s very little of the contrasting textures and flavours, the freshness provided by salads and vegetables and herbs that we expect in Western food today. Instead, there's an emphasis on creamy, buttery, cheesy stuff that I personally didn't find especially appealing (there's a recipe for a Swiss pumpkin, invented by Reichl herself, which really put me off).
The next time I want to read a book by an American food writer, I shall probably turn to Michael Pollan or Jeffrey Steingarten: I prefer their idea of what a good food book needs in addition to the food per se. The history of food, the politics of food, the sociology, as Reichl mentions at one point in her book. Not the intimate details of the writer’s love life.