"The pleasures of the table are for every man, of every land, and no matter of what place in history or society; they can be a part of all his other pleasures, and they last the longest, to console him when he has outlived the rest." – Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste

Few people I meet understand what the ‘pleasures of the table’ are, and my passion for them. Many think my fastidious concern with food is tantamount to gluttony, hedonism, and decadence. To these charges I will reply that I am not referring to (or obsessed with) the act of eating, which is simply the satisfaction of a carnal urge – no matter how acute the hunger, it is no more palliated by pâté de foie gras than a peanut butter sandwich. But appetite is not so easily mollified. Only through a rare conjunction of propitious circumstances – exquisite food, amenable surroundings, charming and congenial conversation, the thoughtful assembly of guests – is this mundane obligation to feed thus transfigured into an occasion for conviviality, for savoring food unharassed, for the indulgence of the senses. These other elements constitute an indispensable counterpoint, without which even the most meticulously composed meal would fail to satisfy. On the other hand, I recall with fondness occasions where amiable and sympathetic company more than amply compensated for dire food or clamorous surroundings. The pleasures of the table, then, are not strictly confined to the table, although it is usually around this centerpiece of social communion that they are most strikingly manifested. Such pleasures are simply that portion of the refinement and decorum of civilized living which is most closely allied with good food.

More than sybaritism or graciousness, however, an abiding concern with, and interest in, one’s food cultivates a sense of thanksgiving and contentment, and an appreciation for the natural, unadorned raw materials which comprise so much of our diet. There is much to admire in the subtle sorcery responsible for shaping those delicate filigreed desserts you had at that French restaurant last night, but also something far more awesomely organic in the heady bouquet of a fresh peach, or the primal, gratifying goodness of a baked potato.

And far more than any other avocation, the pleasures of the table outlast faddish thrills. There is the gentle tremulousness of eagerly anticipating the roast that will be the cynosure at dinner tonight, the lambent reminiscence of past culinary glories, the tantalizing, evocative prose of M. F. K. Fisher and Elizabeth David, which sustains the mental appetite when the physical one is languishing. When you finally lose the command and acuity of your other senses in the infirmity of senescence, the consolation of tasting – or of recalling having tasted – your cherished foods is often the last to forsake you.