Eat, memory

It's been too long since I've come across something new from James Salter, one of the writers whose elegant language always matters. He's got a new book of short stories coming in April ("Last Night"), but for the moment, Salter's reminiscence about post-World War II eating in Europe: "There were incredible discoveries to be made. In Paris, on the Rue d'Amsterdam, there was Androuet, where everything on the menu was made from, or if necessary with, cheese. There was Les Halles and gratinée, and someplace where the waitresses were dressed as serving wenches and you ate Rabelaisian fare. There was the first steak au poivre and quenelles de broche, and we ate at the Mediterranee on the Place de l'Odéon, unaware of distinguished patrons like Picasso and Jean Cocteau... Let me just say that once you have been exposed to French cooking and French life, and they take, there is a long and happy aftermath. It's like knowing how to carve a turkey or sail a boat: it puts you a notch up."