Cobb's Bill-Of-Fare

Irvin S. Cobb's collection of essays is a mouthwatering protest against culinary pretension, written with the kind of wit that made him one of America's highest-paid journalists of his era. The book opens with a man walking into a bustling restaurant, starving for the simple, honest foods of his youth, turkey with cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, the kind of meal that doesn't need a French name to be magnificent. What follows is a series of affectionate, sharp-eyed meditations on American life: the search for real comfort food in a world gone gussied up, the peculiar dignity of a well-made sandwich, the tragedy of vegetables ruined by overcooking. Cobb's humor lands because it's grounded in genuine feeling, he's not cynical, he's just fed up with fanciness getting in the way of flavor. These essays endure because the tension he skewers hasn't gone away; we still crave authenticity at the table, still groan at menus that describe a radish as 'a study in crimson terroir.' For anyone who's ever sighed at a plate of overcomplicated food and longed for something plain and perfect.