The Taste of Memory

I realize that associating taste with memory might seem odd. But the truth is, the longer I live, the more complex the interactions between my five senses and the other parts of my brain appear to be. And I’m not alone, as many others also have interesting neurological connections between their sensory experiences. The term synesthesia, for example, is considered a real condition in which there is a transference between the senses. A person who listens to music sees colors. Another might taste words. Sometimes a number may always be perceived as a specific color. The examples of synesthesia are endless and are one of life’s fascinating mysteries.

But I digress. I can explain how I arrived at this particular experience of tasting my memories, which was an unexpected bonus when dining at my favorite local restaurant.

A couple of weeks ago, the above notice appeared in both my local newspaper and on my social media. Although I fully understand the impermanence of businesses, after seeing so many disappear during my lifetime, I found this one to be truly upsetting. I really have no idea how many times I’ve dined at this place throughout the years. The restaurant was family-operated. The patriarch, Ray, Sr., was a prominent landowner in town, whose Italian grandparents inspired him to begin his first food venture, a small tavern in this university community. That ultimately became a highly successful restaurant, known for its thin crust pizza and delicious Italian beef sandwiches. One of his sons managed that business. Unfortunately that son had serious personal issues which ultimately led to the closure of the tavern-style restaurant after a long successful run. The other, more high-end restaurant was run by his other son, a chef who trained at a school in Italy, and who often came out of his kitchen to chat with his customers about what they thought of his menu offerings. That is the one that will be closing soon.

For over three decades, I was the chief assessment official for commercial property in my city, determining the value upon which the often unpopular property tax was based. This role laid the foundation for a somewhat adversarial relationship between me and Ray, the restaurant founder, a dynamic, blunt man who complained a lot about his property taxes. But while we haggled and disagreed, we also developed a pleasant personal relationship, during which he told me lots of family stories, including the one about his grandmother teaching him how to make the pizza dough which was still used in the pies at both his local restaurants.

Starting in the late ‘70’s, my husband Michael and I became patrons of both restaurants. The tavern-like one was more affordable for us, which we often frequented on Friday nights, splitting salads and a pizza after work. By the time we were into the ‘80’s, we were customers at the more expensive one for special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries. In the ‘90’s, we’d had our kids. During those years, Michael was a city alderman with a public presence in our community. When we were our and about in the community, including when dining at restaurants, he was frequently recognized and engaged in conversations about issues before the city council. That’s how we initially met Ray, Jr. Ray’s wife Ginger was the genius pastry chef who created that fabulous lemon tart I loved so dearly.

Later on, our youngest child played baseball on a team with Ray Jr.’s kid, eventually strengthening our connection with is family. In addition to eating at their restaurant, Ray and Ginger provided the food for the end-of-the-year parties for the team. What a great bonus for everyone involved with that group.

Over time, whenever there was a family gathering with relatives visiting from afar, our one fancy night out together was at Ray’s restaurant. But more often, I’d have lunch there with my office mates. After my dad died in 1989, my mom, sister and I celebrated birthdays there. When my daughter began practicing law, lucky enough to be in her hometown, she often joined us for these lunches. One time, the four of us were sharing a birthday meal, when to my dismay, I discovered that the lemon tarts weren’t available that day. When Ginger found out I was in the restaurant and disappointed, she went into the kitchen, whipped up four tarts and presented them to me in a take-home box. That was one of the most thoughtful favors I was ever lucky enough to receive.

Time seems to fly away. The kids were suddenly adults, off doing their own lives. My daughter married and had first one kid and then another. My son completed a PhD and post-docs which took him abroad for long periods of time. My mother died in 2015. Michael began a five year tangle with a lethal cancer in 2012. On May 1st that year, we had what we thought was our last anniversary dinner at Ray’s. A somber affair at that time, we went on to get several more of those anniversary dinners before he died in May, 2017. Ginger, the pastry wizard, died the following February. That was the end of the lemon tarts.

Then in the fall of 2021, while we all navigated the pandemic, my son brought home the lovely woman he’d met while working abroad. About seven months later, they were married in our parlor, my daughter their officiant, with family, a few friends and many Zoom attendees, given the health constraints of those times. Afterward the ceremony, we took our group to a private room at Ray’s for another special time in the long line of celebratory family dinners at our favorite restaurant.

In recent years, I’ve still frequented Ray’s, mostly for dinner with my daughter and/or sister, and an occasional one with Joanne. These evenings usually occur before a concert or other event at our local arts facility which is located only a block away.

While there I often engage in conversation with the wait staff in this intimate setting. During the past few months, I found out that one waiter, Jim, is also the current pastry chef. Employed in the kitchen for almost thirty years, he’s done almost everything from food prep to serving. But he spoke fondly about working with Ginger who taught him everything about desserts. These talks naturally elicited my stories about the lemon tarts. About two months ago, Jim told me that if I gave him two days’ notice, he’d whip one up for me. I thought that was such a kind offer which I tucked into the back of my mind. A good thing to know for the future. But when I read the announcement about the upcoming closing, I thought, “time to make some farewell reservations, and maybe, just maybe, make that lemon tart request.

When I walked into the restaurant in the early evening of November 15th, my eyes immediately sought the wall-mounted chalkboard where the evening’s specials were always posted. There below the salads and entrees were the words “lemon tart.” I can’t describe how I felt in that moment. A few brief encounters with Jim were enough to motivate him to pull out Ginger’s wonderful recipe, just for me. So, so special. When the host seated me, I told him who I was; he was actually the person who’d taken my request over the phone. My sister arrived and we ordered our dinner, splitting two of our favorite dishes, one of which was a special that night, the traditional Italian beef, and the other, the famous thin crust pizza. I also had the salad-to-die-for, the arugula and goat cheese, which my daughter says she hopes to snag the recipe for, when we go back for our final dinner. But the lemon tart…

Meanwhile, it seemed as if every person seated near us that evening was either a friend or acquaintance. I told all of them the lemon tart story and encouraged everyone to order one. When dessert time came, Jim emerged from the kitchen and came to our table. He told me he was nervous because he hadn’t made the tart in such a long time, and that he felt Ginger looking over his shoulder all through the preparation that afternoon. And he promised, that if it wasn’t as good as I remembered, he’d do it again if I came back. We held each other’s hands for a few seconds before he had to dash back into the kitchen. What a magical moment.

Everyone around us was indeed, ordering lemon tarts. The man at the table next to me got his before I got mine. I told him that the chef was worried about how good the tarts would taste and asked if he had any complaints. He said, “only one – I wish it was bigger.” Then the waiter brought our tarts to my sister and me. I took my first bite and immediately had to pause. I took the photo at the top of this tale, a rare moment for me as I am not generally a foodie interested in displaying meals of any sort. But this one was different and memorable. As I said earlier, from that first bite to the last, my mind was flooded with images and moments from all the times I’d tasted this dessert before. What stunning memories, from raucous laughter, to frustrated tears, to sexy foot games under the tablecloth, intimacy to annoyance, friendship to caregiving, sentimentality to distance, all right on the tip of my tongue and in brilliant visualizations. Simultaneously as real as can be and also, utterly ghostly. An unforgettable experience. I’ve tried to think of an image that would help describe it. I came up with this photo of the blanket/tapestry given to Michael and me by my niece at Thanksgiving, 2013, scant weeks after we received the news that his brief cancer remission was over, his prognosis grim. Our life together, all in one place. That’s what my brain tasted through the tartness of lemon. All of it. Pure and simple magic.