"I’ve realized that the moments of literary eating I like best are the ones in which the characters suffer because of their food," posits Brit writer Geoff Nicholson in his recent New York Times essay, "Go Ahead. Spoil My Appetite." He then goes on to list some of the most horrific foods in the canon, like a "pinkish-gray stew" in George Orwell's 1984, "hideous English candies" in Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, and fishy-tasting milk in Herman Melville's Moby Dick. Is this a rare case of food masochism? If so, I'd love to hear about your favorite dishes from literature. Here's mine: Henry Perowne's fish stew in Ian McEwan's Saturday.
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