Introduction

What is The New Yorker? I know it’s a great magazine and that it’s a tremendous source of pleasure in my life. But what exactly is it? This blog’s premise is that The New Yorker is a work of art, as worthy of comment and analysis as, say, Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” Each week I review one or more aspects of the magazine’s latest issue. I suppose it’s possible to describe and analyze an entire issue, but I prefer to keep my reviews brief, and so I usually focus on just one or two pieces, to explore in each the signature style of its author. A piece by Nick Paumgarten is not like a piece by Jill Lepore, and neither is like a piece by Ian Frazier. One could not mistake Collins for Seabrook, or Bilger for Galchen, or Mogelson for Kolbert. Each has found a style, and it is that style that I respond to as I read, and want to understand and describe.

Monday, June 29, 2020

June 29, 2020 Issue


Combing this week’s New Yorker for arresting sentences, I found this beauty:

On a recent sunny afternoon, a masked bike messenger dropped off a pair of the flawless kardemummabullar, plus a crusty sourdough boule thickly scented with maple and fenugreek, a square of oily focaccia pocked with dollops of ricotta and pepita-parsley pesto, and a deliciously tangy Danish-style sprouted rye, whose fermented dough was so moist that it stayed good for weeks.

It’s from Hannah Goldfield’s “Tables For Two: Bread to Go.” I find Goldfield’s column a dependable source of pleasurable description. Here are three more selections from her recent work:

I ate my paneer makhani with a thrillingly bitter lime pickle; with yellow shahi rice, steamed in chicken stock and turmeric; with gobi ka keema, a mix of minced cauliflower and bell peppers cooked down until it’s sweet and pastelike, punctuated by the gentle crunch of freshly ground whole spices. [“Tables For Two: Jalsa Grill & Gravy," April 20, 2020]

Leo’s version comes in a fluted glass tumbler that showcases its appealingly messy striations, as spoonable as pudding. Vanilla angel-food sheet cake is soaked in espresso and a soft spike of rum and amaro. The finished trifle is showered in delicate curls of Askinosie chocolate, and each creamy bite bears an unmistakable vein of salt. [“Tables For Two: Leo,” February 10, 2020]

I knew what to get at a seafood stall called Chili Boiled Fish, where live ones flopped around in a tank. A friendly cashier with a tattoo on her neck of a lipstick kiss carefully sealed a patterned bowl (for which I paid a five-dollar deposit) with plastic wrap to insure that it stayed hot. That proved unnecessary; it was many minutes before the dish cooled to less than scalding—which didn’t stop me from immediately plunging my flimsy spoon into the oily depths to find silky fillets of fish, tender cabbage, and chunks of cucumber, Sichuan peppercorns clinging to all, staining my rice with neon drips. [“Tables For Two: HK Food Court,” February 3, 2020]

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