{"id":129209,"date":"2018-09-12T11:00:19","date_gmt":"2018-09-12T15:00:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=129209"},"modified":"2018-09-13T15:04:14","modified_gmt":"2018-09-13T19:04:14","slug":"what-david-foster-wallace-ate","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/09\/12\/what-david-foster-wallace-ate\/","title":{"rendered":"What David Foster Wallace Ate"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The writer David Foster Wallace (1962\u20132008) didn\u2019t really eat food. When I met him, in 1996, when I was twenty-three years old, I really<\/em> couldn\u2019t cook, though it wouldn\u2019t have occurred to me to consider this something we had in common. Wallace, who died by suicide on September 12, 2008, ten years ago today, burst into fame in the late eighties with experimental metafictions that took on the modern junk culture of advertising, celebrity, addiction, and alienation through technology. He struggled with those entities himself and was famous among his acquaintances for living mainly on packaged foods. Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story<\/em>,\u00a0the excellent Wallace biography by D.\u2009T. Max, is littered with information like \u201che lived on chocolate pop tarts and soda\u201d and \u201che had a love of showering, Diet Dr Pepper and blondies\u201d and \u201cthere were only blondies and mustard in the fridge.\u201d In 1995, the journalist David Streitfeld saw a kitchen with little more in it than a case of Dinty Moore beef stew and elicited the confidence from Wallace that \u201cwhat\u2019s really sick is I like to eat it cold.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Wallace lived mainly on junk food, according to his biographer, D.\u2009T. Max.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

For my part, I was a noncook to such an extent that my boyfriend, fed up with making meals for me, once angrily coached me through making him a dish he called toaster-oven pizza. This involved an English muffin, a bag of grated cheese, and a jar of red sauce. I made it, but I thought he was being completely unreasonable.<\/p>\n

What I was mostly interested in back then was books and writing about them. I met Wallace because I\u2019d transformed my dubious qualification of having read the advance proof of Infinite Jest<\/em> twice into the opportunity to interview him during the book\u2019s publicity tour. The interview ran on Stim<\/em>, a newfangled kind of publication that in 1996 we called an online magazine. (That interview is still available online<\/a> as part of the Wallace minor arcana and was just republished in August in an updated edition of Melville House\u2019s The Last Interview<\/a> series.)<\/p>\n

The writer crush I developed on Wallace had come to me full-blown when one night, reading alone in my first New York apartment, anxious and probably hungover, I sobbed my way through the end of \u201cWestward the Course of Empire Takes Its Way,\u201d the last story in the 1989 collection\u00a0Girl with Curious Hair<\/em>. \u201cWestward,\u201d seen today with the jaundiced eye of adulthood, is a creaky metafiction about students in a fiction writing class whose plot, to the extent it has one, is about a road trip to a McDonald\u2019s ad-campaign reunion. The main character is Mark Nechtr, a sweet Midwestern fiction writer who is addicted to eating fried roses. Nechtr\u2019s foil is a clever postmodernist girlfriend, who commits fictional suicide in the end (meta, complicated, story within a story). Wallace later repudiated the story as \u201ca horror show \u2026 a permanent migraine \u2026 crude and naive and pretentious,\u201d but there was also a time when he felt it was the best thing he\u2019d ever written. Max says that upon the story\u2019s publication, Wallace felt it was what he \u201chad been born to write\u201d and that it \u201csaid all he had to say.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

This is my signed advance reader\u2019s copy of Infinite Jest<\/em>, which could have been worth fifteen hundred dollars if I hadn\u2019t ripped it in half to make it easier to carry around.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

That anyone could cry over \u201cWestward\u201d is hilarious in retrospect, but truly, I did cry. The demographic of young women seriously upset by postmodernism must be vanishingly small, but in the midnineties, it described me. I\u2019d gone off to college with the squeaky overachiever\u2019s excitement to discover the meaning of life (and then, you know, apply it to what came next). To my dismay, no matter what the subject was, its underpinnings were in French critical theory, which I understood to be a poised intellectual valuelessness and destruction of meaning. This was embarrassing and not the kind of thing one admitted to one\u2019s friends majoring in semiotics, but it clouded my college experience in secret but real ways. Wallace, in \u201cWestward,\u201d seemed to get it. A bit of beautiful doggerel from the story, critiquing\u00a0John Barth\u2019s seminal postmodern story collection\u00a0Lost in the Funhouse<\/em>, has run through my head for the past twenty-two years.<\/p>\n

THE DAY OF THE MOMENT WE\u2019VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR<\/p>\n

For lovers, the Funhouse is fun.
\nFor phonies, the Funhouse is love.
\nBut for whom<\/em>, the proles grouse,
\nIs the Funhouse a house<\/em>?
\nWho lives<\/em> there, when push comes to shove?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Barth\u2019s fun-house metaphor points to the infinite regression of the narrative viewpoint in fiction\u2014even if you reveal the metastory behind the story, you\u2019re just adding another fallible and relative layer. None of it is real. On the contrary, Nechtr, the Wallace stand-in, \u201cdesires, some distant hard-earned day, to write something that stabs you in the heart. That pierces you, makes you think you\u2019re going to die. Maybe it\u2019s called metalife. Or metafiction. Or realism. Or gfhrytytu. He doesn\u2019t know. He wonders who the hell really cares.\u201d<\/p>\n

In person, Wallace was polite and brilliant, and his answers consistently made my questions seem smarter, which was a huge relief. After the tape stopped rolling, he asked me more about myself and why I liked his work. He was pleased when I said my favorite story was \u201cWestward\u201d and asked if I was a Barth fan. I had to admit that I hadn\u2019t yet read Lost in the Funhouse<\/em>, at which point he said scornfully, \u201cThen what did you like, the McDonald\u2019s stuff?\u201d I was forced to haltingly explain what I thought the story meant, at which point he said yes, I\u2019d gotten it, and seemed even more pleased. Eventually, he gave me his mailing address in Normal, Illinois, and asked me to write him letters. Those who knew Wallace or have read the Max biography will be nodding their heads about now; he had a habit of availing himself of admiring young women, and his behavior has lately come under new scrutiny. The writer Mary Karr, with whom he had a relationship, has spoken out against him as recently as May this year.<\/p>\n

That wasn\u2019t my story with him, possibly because I never did write him. Some days later, at the Infinite Jest<\/em> launch party in New York City, he asked me to go back to his hotel room afterward. I left the party early instead. I saw him once more at another party, months later (in the basement of a Two Boots Pizza in the East Village, if memory serves), and I avoided him, even though he followed me and tried to strike up a conversation when I went outside to smoke.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Wallace, far left, with me, far right, at the launch party for Infinite Jest<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

None of these lapses were because I didn\u2019t like David Foster Wallace\u2014on the contrary, I liked him way too much. Looking back, I realize it was an era when I just couldn\u2019t do a lot of things. I couldn\u2019t cook. I couldn\u2019t write fiction. I had just embarked on an ultimately pointless mass-media career that I would never quite believe in. Very much like a Wallace character myself, I was a child prodigy frozen by adulthood who drank too much and often wasn\u2019t very nice to people. I let many opportunities slip by, and it\u2019s no huge surprise that I flaked on an invitation to correspond with my literary idol or that I fled from a personal relationship that I would have liked to explore. At the time, my best guess on how to fix the things that were obviously wrong with me was to read more books. Then, possibly, I could blame it all on Foucault.<\/p>\n

Wallace never completed another novel after Infinite Jest<\/em>. The Pale King<\/em>,\u00a0published posthumously, is unfinished. I\u2019m not sure how clearly it can be said that his struggles with the book contributed to his death, but any writer who has had a hard time finishing a book knows it\u2019s not great for their mental health. Wallace once called \u201cWestward\u201d a \u201csuicide note,\u201d and I\u2019ve found that prophetic. I\u2019ve thought that he couldn\u2019t ever quite snip through the Barth M\u00f6bius strip\u2014the clever and structural game-playing girlfriend he kills in the story is himself, and the beating and unironic heart he sought to somehow convey in fiction (the life inside the fun house, if you will) was hard to find and wouldn\u2019t have been fun if he had found it.<\/p>\n

In my meandering path toward a better adulthood, I kept reading books but stopped thinking the theories found therein were going to answer the question of how to live in the world. I\u2019ve come instead to the inelegant belief that pretty much the most important thing you can do with your day is make dinner, for your family or friends if you have them or for yourself if you don\u2019t. Do that, and the other stuff mostly falls into place.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know if Wallace ever learned to cook or to eat. By Max\u2019s account, he was happily married, so perhaps he did. In order to cook for him as part of my ongoing Eat Your Words column here at The Paris Review<\/em>,\u00a0I couldn\u2019t make my usual kind of food. I wanted to echo the fried roses from \u201cWestward\u201d by stuffing and frying edible flowers. I considered doing something with corn as a nod to his Midwestern heritage and lovely \u201cWestward\u201d quotes like: \u201cAll we\u2019ve seen is corn. It\u2019s been disorienting, windblown, verdant, tall, total, menacingly fertile.\u201d Or: \u201cThe corn is stunted right here a bit, and Mark\u2019s view goes sheer to the earth\u2019s curve: dark green yielding to pale green, to dark green, to just green \u2026\u2009\u201d But the man did not eat vegetables, so I couldn\u2019t do either.<\/p>\n

Instead, I made blondies, which are just chocolate chip cookie dough baked as a slab. I tried trendy brown-butter and maple-pecan versions and ended up with the classic recipe on the back of a Toll House bag, baked in a 9 x 9 pan for a satisfying chunky shape. The test batch, which I served at a children\u2019s party, was the first dessert to vanish, and I was surprised to see even the adults scarfing them down. Then I made a burger because Wallace liked them (cooked well-done) and featured them in both \u201cWestward,\u201d with its McDonald\u2019s plot, and in Infinite Jest<\/em>\u2019s Whataburger tennis tournament. I made the burger as simply as possible on the stove top using a two-ingredient recipe and the brilliantly easy technique from Mark Bittman\u2019s classic How to Cook Everything<\/em>. I could have stopped there, but the table looked lonely, so I decided to return to that long-ago classic and prove I\u2019m now a person who can make a toaster-oven pizza without crying. It seemed like something Wallace might have eaten or cooked or appreciated. I tried various versions, including one with red sauce from a jar, but ended up with a pizza using homemade three-ingredient red sauce lifted from a Marcella Hazan cookbook (not one of her official sauces but the easier version she includes with some recipes). I spread the sauce on a baguette with fresh mozzarella and a pinch of oregano. It wasn\u2019t bad. I had one for lunch, and I cried again, a little, for David Foster Wallace and for the young woman I once was. You are missed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mark Bittman<\/strong>\u2019<\/strong>s Basic Burger
\n<\/strong>from\u00a0How to Cook Everything<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Serves 4.<\/p>\n

1 1\/4 lbs ground chuck
\n1 tsp salt<\/p>\n

Handle the meat as little as possible. Shape it lightly into four burgers, about four or five inches across, sprinkling with salt as you do so.<\/p>\n

Preheat a large heavy skillet (cast-iron is best) over medium-high heat for three to four minutes. Sprinkle coarse salt over its surface.<\/p>\n

Cook the burgers for three to five minutes per side, depending on preferred doneness.<\/p>\n

Serve on a bun, garnished as you like. I used a brioche bun, plus lettuce, tomato, and bacon.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Toaster-Oven Pizza <\/strong><\/p>\n

Serves 2.<\/p>\n

2 tbs olive oil
\n14 oz can of diced tomatoes
\n2 cloves garlic, minced
\n1\/4 tsp salt
\n3\/4 cup fresh mozzarella cheese, chopped
\ndried oregano for topping
\n2 5-inch lengths of baguette, cut in half<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Heat the olive oil in a skillet on medium-high heat. Add the minced garlic and fry, stirring frequently, until the raw edge is off and the garlic is fragrant and beginning to golden, about ninety seconds. Add the can of tomatoes, stir, and turn down to a simmer. Cook for ten to fifteen minutes, until the sauce has reduced to a fairly thick paste.<\/p>\n

Spread each baguette length with two tablespoons of sauce, topped with two to three tablespoons of mozzarella and a pinch of oregano. Toast and serve.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Chunky Toll House Blondies
\n<\/strong>Adapted from the recipe on the back of the Toll House bag. <\/em><\/p>\n

2 1\/4 cups flour
\n1 tsp baking soda
\n1 tsp salt
\n2 sticks butter, softened
\n3\/4 cup granulated sugar
\n3\/4 cup packed brown sugar
\n1 tsp vanilla extract
\n2 large eggs
\n1 1\/2 cups Nestl\u00e9 Toll House Semi-Sweet Chocolate Morsels
\n1 cup chopped pecans<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Preheat oven to 375. Butter a 9 x 9 baking pan.<\/p>\n

Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in a small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar, and vanilla extract in a large mixer bowl until creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in morsels and nuts. Spread in the pan, and bake for twenty-five to thirty minutes, until the crust is golden and the center is set.<\/p>\n

Cool before slicing and serving.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

My advance reader\u2019s copy of Girl with Curious Hair<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Valerie Stivers is a writer based in New York.\u00a0<\/em>Read earlier installments of Eat Your Words<\/em>\u00a0here<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  The writer David Foster Wallace (1962\u20132008) didn\u2019t really eat food. When I met him, in 1996, when I was twenty-three years old, I really couldn\u2019t cook, though it wouldn\u2019t have occurred to me to consider this something we had in common. Wallace, who died by suicide on September 12, 2008, ten years ago today, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":669,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[30795],"tags":[16496,154,37054,16497,1968,8996,37056,37052,37241,22132,14695,37053,7462,37055],"class_list":["post-129209","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-eat-your-words","tag-d-t-max","tag-david-foster-wallace","tag-david-streitfeld","tag-every-love-story-is-a-ghost-story","tag-infinite-jest","tag-john-barth","tag-lost-in-the-funhouse","tag-pale-king","tag-postmodern","tag-postmodern-literature","tag-postmodernism","tag-semiotics","tag-the-girl-with-curious-hair","tag-westward-the-course-of-empire-takes-its-way"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat David Foster Wallace Ate by Valerie Stivers<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"David Foster Wallace didn\u2019t really eat food. 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