COLUMN: Food lingers after memories are gone

From Michael Feng's, "Snuffles," Fall '99 From Michael Feng's, "Snuffles," Fall '99The other day, my friend gave me some bread to try. It was hard, tasted like cardboard and crumbled like sand in my mouth. I loved it so much I ate the entire package within five minutes. It was the same type of hard bread we received as a treat in preschool if we were good, to be treasured and fought over. Fifteen years later, gobbling down the bread, I felt as though I had rediscovered a deeply cherished and dearly missed teddy bear that had been lost under the bed. Today, the Beijing preschool I attended has long since been paved over. In fact, the entire metropolis of Beijing, filled with neon lights and shiny skyscrapers, bears no resemblance to the gray, bicycle-filled city I remembered. But despite the changes that have dramatically transformed the face of China in the past 15 years, the food has remained the same. For that, I am infinitely grateful, because for me, some of my deepest, and unknowingly the most treasured, memories are of food. For some reason that scientists will undoubtedly one day discover, sensation -- such as a familiar taste or odor -- endures much more vividly than information in our memories. Throughout the course of our lives, we focus on the so-called "important things" --the classes we take, the relationships we form and the organizations we join. So much of our time is occupied by doing something, meeting someone or being where that we never really notice the food we eat. Yet 50 years from now, I will undoubtedly have long forgotten my Econ 101 grade. But the taste of a steaming cheesesteak will perpetually delight both my synapses and my taste buds. Four months in China has been enough to make my mouth water at the mere thought of one. As for Economics, I can barely draw a supply-and-demand curve now. This same discrepancy between what we now perceive as being important and what we will eventually remember exists in every facet of our lives. Almost every day here in Beijing, I stop by the food truck near the post office and order the Beijing equivalent of the Philly cheesesteak, the jian-bing. Something like a deep-fried crepe with a crispy filling, it tastes like ambrosia of the gods. I know that, in my mind, the jian-bing will always be inextricably tied to study abroad in China, just as the Fat Cat -- two hamburger patties along with fries and mozzarella sticks in a sub sandwich -- will always be tied to visiting my friends at Rutgers University. When I remember my years at Penn, it will likely be the same. Given the constant renovation and construction that pockmarks the campus, little will be familiar when I come back for my 50th college reunion. My old rowhouse apartment will be surely have been torn down, and all my teachers will surely have retired long ago. Yet all it will take is one cheesesteak, and I will know that I have once again come home.