About a year and a half ago, I went on holiday with some old school friends after my prelims. We spent a week in an apartment in Perpignan, a small French city with lovely sunsets, gothic architecture, and beautiful weather. Whilst there, we cooked dinner together every night before spending hours chatting over the table. For one reason or another, we also developed a complete obsession with madeleines, and we ended up going through one or two large packets of them a day. After the holiday, we all joked about how we couldn’t possibly eat a madeleine again for at least a year.  

Then just a few months ago, I was at someone’s birthday party and there were madeleines on the table. I picked one up, bit into it, and was violently transported straight back to France. In an instant my mind flicked through flashbacks of amber glowing streetlamps, blue skies, and our cosy little apartment. I faintly felt all over again the way my hand ached from holding playing cards. And I could almost hear, coming from somewhere untraceable, that lovely warm sound of my friends’ laughter. 

The taste, smell, and appearance of certain foods have always transported me back to specific moments: the smell of a fish counter takes me back to my childhood holidays in France, gravy reminds me of sticky school canteens, and buttery toast drags me back to nursery.

These food-stimulated flashbacks are powerful. Yet they are so fleeting that it feels impossible to grab a hold of them. Instead, they become a memory of a memory, a shimmering snapshot in the mind that folds in on itself before it can be fully perceived. They become so delicate that they feel almost dreamt up. 

But that is precisely what makes them special. 

French writer Marcel Proust was famous for exploring the power of food. He saw it as an involuntary catalyst for accessing the intrinsic and indescribable essence of his environments. In his most famous book, Á la recherche du temps perdu, the protagonist underwent an intense emotional experience which was brought about by eating a madeleine alongside a cup of tea. Proust wrote:

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin […] And suddenly the memory revealed itself. 

His writing went on to draw a distinction between the physical appearance of things (apparaître) and their intrinsic yet invisible essence (être). He believed that when we taste a certain food, we can be transported to a memory and a part of ourselves that would remain otherwise inaccessible. 

But long before Proust, we have always known that food is a lot more than its taste, texture, and nutritional value. Every meal is an intense social and sensory experience that serves to nourish our minds just as much as our bodies. And whilst this all sounds brilliant in theory, our modern-day relationship with food rarely permits this kind of meditative experience. 

During an intense Oxford term, mealtimes are usually rushed. With back-to-back essays and tutorials, it’s easy to skip lunch, or to grab the same old meal deal day in and day out. Then, at dinnertime, to put on a podcast whilst cooking pesto pasta for the third time in a week. When it’s finally time to eat, you might even still have your laptop out to watch a series, or to conjure up an essay conclusion. This makes the relationship between food and memory increasingly distant. We become detached and have less time in the day to stop and appreciate it. 

I believe the remedy for this detachment is to make food as much of a community and a meditative exercise as possible. 

One good thing about Oxford is that most colleges serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner in hall, which gives us the opportunity to enjoy a meal in the company of friends, and to get a proper break from all the work. In fact, many of the best conversations in Oxford happen over the table at a formal dinner, or in college bars. In Spanish, they actually have a word for that special time spent at the table after a meal, they call it sobremesa, literally translating to ‘over the table’ or ‘on the table.’ 

Particularly when reaching the peak of term, during those cold Michaelmas nights or dark Hilary mornings, I have found that food is the key to comfort and happiness. Because of the relationship between food and memory, when I eat homemade food at Oxford I am immediately transported back to the stress-free environment of home. 

Interestingly, Proust also wrote about how the receptacle for a meal is almost as important as the meal itself, and I couldn’t agree more. I love seeing the mugs and plates that my friends have brought with them for the term. It makes me smile when I go into the kitchen for breakfast and see all these little fragments of my flatmates’ personalities in the cupboard. 

I suppose it’s the same reason why tea tastes better out of my grandma’s fine china, and why coffee is better out of my favourite mug. It’s a mix of the familiarity of the experience, the personality of the receptacle, but most importantly, the collective positive memories associated with that object. 

…Or maybe this is just a long-winded way of justifying my weekly overpriced flat white and sweet treat! Nonetheless, I stand by the fact that all food is sacred, and we should treat it as such. It offers us rest, connection, and comfort through its ability to stimulate our memories. It has the incredible power to awaken us to hidden parts of ourselves and the seemingly mundane things around us. 

So, as Proust would say: N’allez pas trop vite. Take your time. Treat yourself to that post-lecture latte and pistachio cookie. Go to that formal despite tomorrow’s deadline. Next time you eat, savour the deep experiences the food gives you. You never know what hidden away memories and ideas will reveal themselves. 

 —-

Sources: Gilroy, James P. “Food, Cooking, and Eating in Proust’s À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu.” Twentieth Century Literature, vol. 33, no. 1, 1987, pp. 98–109. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/441335. Accessed 10 Nov. 2025.

Proust extract: From Á la recherche du temps perdu, translated by C.K. Scott Montcrieff