Le Panier

I ate a ginger scone this morning. It was delicious. The first bite was a revelation of ground sugar, flour, maybe oats -- not too fine and not too coarse. I couldn't taste the butter or cream in and of itself: I merely perceived it as the element that held everything together and then allowed it to crumble all over again. At one point I had a full chunk of crystallized ginger that literally filled my mouth from one end to the other with its hot gingery-ness. How does one describe it with the limited terms I have? It's bitter and sweet. And hot. But it's also soft and, once crystallized, its threads are barely perceptible.

I don't often think about very particular experiences of eating before I lost olfaction. But I'm thinking of them now -- specific instances or certain foods I ate again and again. A pickled lemon tagine served over cous-cous that David made. I must have smelled it in advance from the kitchen, eager to eat, and then devoured it from our shallow striped bowls. Was I aware of the texture then? I can think of it now: the slices of lemons, peel and all, softened in the stew; shreds of chicken (which I no longer want to eat); the juicy broth consuming everything in the bowl.

Mornay croissants at Le Panier, the bakery where I worked during high school and college: oh my god. A long (unshaped) croissant filled with a thick cheesy béchamel sauce with ground pepper to season it and grated gruyere on top. The croissants were fullest in the middle, so you would start at one end and barely get a hint, and then two or three bites in, the sauce would overtake the croissant in weight and shape. We kept the sauce in white plastic tubs in the walk-in refrigerator. The bakers filled already baked croissants with it and then baked them again lightly. At some point one of the workers (Karin?) pioneered spooning Mornay sauce onto one of our dense fresh breads and then baking it in one of our small ovens. I remember eating those open-faced sandwiches on break, which felt furtive and privileged at once. Senior staff only. But I devoured those croissants, allowing myself to consume and be consumed by heavy cheesy peppery cream. I was aware of the texture, certainly, as everyone is -- more or less -- when eating. But really I was eating for the taste.

I never imagined I would lose my sense of smell. I could imagine going blind, losing limbs, suffering terrible burns, dying. But nothing so banal as not-smelling. For years since the surgery, it seems, I didn't eat with the same voracity -- or vivacity. I ate -- A LOT -- but not with the unbridled gusto with which I consumed croissants at Le Panier. Would I want to eat that way again? Yes. But I'm not convinced that back then I would have noticed the grains of sugar in my morning ginger scone, senseless and mindful all at once.