|
Comfort
culture
December 29, 2004 BY BILL ADDISON Comfort certainly plays an undeniable part in the foods we're eating. Rathbun's and Two Urban Licks, the hottest restaurants to open in Atlanta in 2004, entice their hipper-than-thou crowds with dim, industrial-tinged interiors. Yet a substantial portion of the food served at both these hotspots are venerable dishes our mothers and grandmothers made for us. I see roast chicken and beef brisket on both menus. Among the sushi-like "crudo" and Thai rare beef salad on the menu at Rathbun's are yesteryear favorites like chicken livers and mock turtle soup. Two Urban Licks forgoes swanky, minimalist desserts in favor of cupcakes, chocolate cream pie and peanut butter chocolate parfait. Why this appetite for soothing foods, soft sounds and sexy suburban matrons? Escapism? Patriotism? Nostalgia? Is it runoff from the year's strained political climate? The trend also snuck onto the silver screen. I went to see Kinsey at Tara cinemas on opening weekend. The theater was full, and, given the buzz on Liam Neeson's performance, I expected the audience to be responsive. What I hadn't expected was the tension in the crowd once the film got into the heart of Alfred Kinsey's shocking and painstakingly documented Cold War-era sex research. A straight couple next to me sighed heavily during the film when Kinsey sleeps with another man. I also felt people bristle when the movie dealt with topics of open relationships and women's sexuality. It seems that as sexually blatant a society as we've become, we're still touchy when the intimacy of film throws this stuff in our faces. We'd rather escape to the popcorn stand than reflect on how these sticky issues apply to our own lives. But that's the rich, inherent contradiction of American entertainment. Most of us are thankful we're not the naive nation we once were (or pretended to be). We like a bit of edge in our retro culture: the partied-out growl in Stewart's voice, the techno-beat above our heads as we dine on lemon sole and pot pie, the breakdown of a television mother of four who gets hooked on her children's ADD medication. You'd never find June Cleaver announcing to her guests, "Ward cries when he ejaculates," the way Bree Van De Kamp called out her husband during the tense dinner party where she served her braised lamb shanks. We may be creatures seeking succor, but we also don't flinch from TV characters and pop stars who serve us a flinty dose of close-to-home realism. That gives me comfort.
|
