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[REVIEW]
Poor Taste Existential dread creeps in as COVID-19 claims a food critic’s crucial senses Written by
CHERYL BAEHR
I
was four bites into my bagel when the COVID kicked in. It had been three days since I was diagnosed with the insidious virus, and, having absolutely no desire to eat nor energy to fight ac ga e in to y se en year-old’s insatiable appetite for St. Louis Bread Co. delivery. She thinks their mac and cheese is manna from heaven; I’m less impressed — which is why I wasn’t quite sure whether my trouble tasting the bagel was my palate or just the food. As an empathetic human, I’d watched with sadness over the course of the pandemic as COVID-19 long-haulers detailed what it was like to lose their senses of taste and smell without any clue as to if, or when, they would return. My uncle is one of them. A passionate home cook whose ac yard por stea s are the avor of my youth, he lost his ability to enjoy food shortly after testing positive for the virus this past July. He hasn’t tasted a thing since. And here I was, a quarter-eaten asiago bagel in hand, wondering if I, too, was to suffer this fate. As a food critic, my mouth is my moneymaker. Not being able to taste wasn’t simply a source of personal angst; it called into serious question whether or not I could continue on in a role for which I was no longer equipped. Will I have to quit my job? Can I even be in food journalism at all? What am I going to do for work? A series of worst case scenarios ooded y mind quicker than I could utter the words “You Pick Two.” However, the professional questions were nothing compared with the existential dread I felt at not being able to enjoy eating. If I couldn’t taste, who was I? Food has been an integral part of my life
RFT food critic Cheryl Baehr depends on her senses of taste and smell. She lost both after contracting COVID-19. | TRENTON ALMGREN-DAVIS since as early as I can remember. Growing up, my parents weren’t exactly gourmands, opting for econo y o er a or a rger Helper was in regular rotation and Olive Garden — where we’d go only for the most special occasions — was considered haute cuisine. Still, I caught glimmers of greatness here and there: The Schnucks Station restaurant’s beef frankfurter, split down the middle and covered with grill marks, made e reali e that the accid oiled store-brand pork hot dogs I was normally served were an inferior version of the form. The gorgeously marbled ribeye that accidentally came out medium rare one time at Western Sizzlin was so juicy and salt-crusted it made me question, or the first ti e e er why y dad insisted on ordering his well done. I never went back. It was no surprise that once I was old enough to earn money and start making my own decisions about where and what I wanted to eat I went down the food rabbit hole. Equally unsurprising is that I ended up in the restaurant business. For more than a decade, I soaked up as much knowledge as I could, tasting my way through
I could’ve been tasting water when I gulped the spoonful of hot sauce — no tingle, no burn, no saliva from its vinegary heat. Nothing registered except the cold temperature and liquid texture. a never-ending banquet of culinary pleasures courtesy of chefs, managers and talented coworkers who would serve as both the foundation and inspiration of how I think and write about food. These are the things that ash through your mind when faced with the sudden, traumatic experience of losing your taste. But
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rather than a recounting of where I’d been, I was more consumed with where I was never again to go. It was entirely possible that I would never enjoy food again, a disorienting thought for even the casual eater. For someone who’s dedicated their life and work to Dionysian pursuits, it was a spiritual death knell. I hadn’t even set down the bagel before I began the accounting of what was to be lost. Prosciutto was the first thing that ca e to mind. Having cried actual tears of joy about Parma ham on multiple occasions spent those first ew minutes of loss grieving that I’d never again taste that sweet, salty miracle. Next was coffee — that soothing daily constant that fills my kitchen with its intoxicating aroma and the luscious texture it gets when I pour in a healthy bit of half-and-half (or, if I’m feeling really wild, heavy cream). Cheese garlic bread, beef shish kebob, the garlic puree from Al Tarboush — I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. I was scared, but not yet convinced that it wasn’t simply my mediocre lunch, and not my taste buds,
MARCH 17-23, 2021
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