Literary Taste Buds

by Steven Steinbock

A few weeks back, I mentioned that I’m not a fan of mushrooms, be they in omelets, salads, pizzas or anywhere else. I never have, and I don’t think I ever will. It isn’t the taste so much as the texture, along with a personal taboo that causes me to gag at the thought of eating them. I’m not alone, because there’s a clinical name for it: Mycophobia.

Be that as it may, a couple years ago I was in New York with my family. It was 2005, the year of the Ellery Queen Centenary Symposium . One night we got together with Ed and Patricia Hoch at a favorite restaurant of theirs. I don’t remember the name, but when we entered, everyone knew Ed. Ed was like that.

After we’d ordered, the chef brought out a tray of liqueur glasses filled with a milky brownish fluid. It had a fancy French name, but in essence, it was a pureed truffle soup. I surprised myself by not only trying it, but liking it! In fact, I tossed decorum to the wind by slurping down three other glasses of the soup from my less daring dining partners.

Despite how quickly I took to the truffle soup, it’s probably the type of victual about which people say, “It’s an acquired taste.” Like Scotch or feta cheese or the music of Charlie Parker, there are some things that don’t taste right the first time around. But as the taste buds climb up to the aperitive learning curve, they become dear old friends.

I remember the first time I read one of Janwillem van de Wetering’s “Dutch Cop” novels. I thought it was off. Not off beat, but just plain off . Where’s the story? Why is Grijpstra so existentially messed up? Why does this cop have a drum set in his office? Why are the names so hard to pronounce? Why am I reading this?

But after finishing the first book, I tried another and found it intriguing even if not quite enjoyable.

For some reason I started reading a third. And I hadn’t read two pages before I realized I was hooked. I suddenly got it, like I got the music of Charlie Parker and the flavor of artichoke. And I couldn’t get enough.

It’s been more than twenty years since I read my first – and last – Georges Simenon novel. I didn’t like it. I’ve never admitted that before. I’ve always been ashamed. Sophisticated mystery aficionados love Simenon and Inspector Maigret. What was wrong with me?

There’s a field of serious study awaiting some researcher: why do different people have different literary tastes, and how do those tastes change. Why are some readers attracted to flowery period pieces while others feel lost in them? Why are some readers perpetually confused by the intrigue in complex espionage novels and other readers riveted.

Perhaps it’s time for me to put my Maigret-phobia aside and try the author again.

Perhaps, like that truffle soup, I’ll find Simenon a real fun guy.

(PS. If you want to read more about that 2005 Ellery Queen celebration, Belgian mystery scholar Kurt Sercu, who hosts the best Ellery Queen website on the ’Net, has a nice page about the symposium here. And if you scroll about halfway down the page, you’ll find a photo of yours-truly behind a Black Mask).