in memory of my favorite discontinued and faraway menu items

always on my mind and in my (hungry) heart

while i know that there are likely very few life experiences totally unique to me (as much as i’d like to believe i’m a very special snowflake), i’d bet a good amount of money that nobody on planet earth misses the cheeseburger pizza from joe’s american bar and grill as much as i do (save, perhaps, for the redditor above). nor the cajun chicken sandwich from chili’s, nor the margherita pizza from commune kitchen. there’s an entire section of my brain that’s essentially the ben & jerry’s “flavor graveyard,” except instead of bovinity divinity or vermonty python, it’s the everything-spiced tuna and citrus salad from flour bakery or the chocolate cherry cold brew from dunkin’ donuts.

i check up on particularly memorable dishes as they pop into my brain as if they’re ex-boyfriends or long-lost classmates, unearthing often confounding discoveries (the chili’s cajun chicken sandwich is apparently still available in…qatar? i’d love to see the market research that went into this decision).

to me, food is a primary vehicle for memory-making — much like music. i experience a good portion of my life through my taste buds, and mourn meals of menus, trips, and times past as if they’re dearly-departed family members. even if the dish is still on the menu of a far-flung restaurant, i feel a distinct sense of sadness that i can’t enjoy it whenever i want, because even the best copycat recipe just doesn’t hit quite the same.

for example, the first thing that comes to mind when i remember a family vacation to virginia beach at age 20 is eating some phenomenal shrimp scampi in a cozy, dimly-lit restaurant called tautog’s. a trip to quebec city at 28 was characterized by a meal of braised bison cheek in red currant vinegar with celery root puree, carrots, and potatoes at chez boulay.

or, on a two-week eurotrip more than a decade ago, what i remember most of florence was not the duomo or the canals, but the ravioli boscaiola — a dish I’ve never had anything quite like — not once, but twice at a bistro called la grotta di leo. the sauce had the acidity and tang of marinara, but combined with the creaminess of alfredo, with mushrooms and olives. i can still taste it when i close my eyes.

in portugal, i spent my favorite two hours of the vacation eating cheese, bread, and sardines in oil and sipping white port at a cafe on the douro river with a member of my tour group whom i’d become fast friends with after we were seatmates on our flight.

i still daydream about the chicken parm at bellabrava in st. petersburg, florida, the spicy pork sandwich at boda’s kitchen in hood river, oregon, and the mussels escabeche at mabel’s gone fishing in san diego.

and even the most mundane of moments — like watching the oscars via glitchy youtube TV live stream in the lofted bed of my tiny house in charleston, south carolina while eating sugary, buttery pecan pralines or housing bread pudding while wearing a fuzzy bathrobe in my san francisco hotel room— are forever engraved in my brain.

to that point, my most treasured food-related travel experiences rarely involve a super high-end or gourmet meal. some do, for sure. but in paris last year, the michelin-starred lunch i had was certainly delicious, with really no faults to be found. however, it was dinner that night — at a quirky, hole-in-the-wall known for serving wine in baby bottles and fondue in a cramped, loud, space — that really made an impression on me. no, the food wasn’t the best. no, the wine was not top-shelf. yes, i had to hold the server’s hand to climb over a picnic table in order to sit down. and yet, it was one of my fondest memories of that vacation.

i suppose that my feelings of longing and sentimentality are often as much about the time and place as they are about the food itself, too; and also as much about the person that i remember being at the exact moment i enjoyed them. in a way, it’s like a veritable stomach scrapbook, and it’s one of my favorite ways to reminisce.

but i swear to god, if barcelona wine bar ever takes the chicken pimientos off the menu, i’m raisin’ hell.