on, food is food. What can you say about fried chicken that you haven’t already heard, said, seen,
thought? And eating is eating, with some slight variations of table manners. To put characters, then, in
this mundane, overused, fairly boring situation, something more has to be happening than simply beef,
forks, and goblets.
So what kind of communion? And what kind of result can it achieve? Any kind you can think of.
Let’s consider an example that will never be confused with religious communion, the eating scene
in Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones (1749), which, as one of my students once remarked, “sure doesn’t
look like church.” Specifically, Tom and his lady friend, Mrs. Waters, dine at an inn, chomping,
gnawing, sucking on bones, licking fingers; a more leering, slurping, groaning, and, in short, sexual
meal has never been consumed. While it doesn’t feel particularly important thematically and,
moreover, it’s as far from traditional notions of communion as we can get, it nevertheless constitutes
a shared experience. What else is the eating about in that scene except devouring the other’s body?
Think of it as a consuming desire. Or two of them. And in the case of the movie version of Tom Jones
starring Albert Finney (1963), there’s another reason. Tony Richardson, the director, couldn’t openly
show sex as, well, sex. There were still taboos in film in the early sixties. So what he does is show
something else as sex. And it’s probably dirtier than all but two or three sex scenes ever filmed.
When those two finish swilling ale and slurping on drumsticks and sucking fingers and generally
wallowing and moaning, the audience wants to lie back and smoke. But what is this expression of
desire except a kind of communion, very private, admittedly, and decidedly not holy? I want to be
with you, you want to be with me, let us share the experience. And that’s the point: communion
doesn’t need to be holy. Or even decent.
How about a slightly more sedate example? The late Raymond Carver wrote a story, “Cathedral”
(1981), about a guy with real hang-ups: included among the many things the narrator is bigoted against
are people with disabilities, minorities, those different from himself, and all parts of his wife’s past
in which he does not share. Now the only reason to give a character a serious hang-up is to give him
the chance to get over it. He may fail, but he gets the chance. It’s the Code of the West. When our
unnamed narrator reveals to us from the first moment that a blind man, a friend of his wife’s, is
coming to visit, we’re not surprised that he doesn’t like the prospect at all. We know immediately that
our man has to overcome disliking everyone who is different. And by the end he does, when he and
the blind man sit together to draw a cathedral so the blind man can get a sense of what one looks like.
To do that, they have to touch, hold hands even, and there’s no way the narrator would have been able
to do that at the start of the story. Carver’s problem, then, is how to get from the nasty, prejudiced,
narrow-minded person of the opening page to the point where he can actually have a blind man’s hand
on his own at the ending. The answer is food.
Every coach I ever had would say, when we faced a superior opposing team, that they put on their
pants one leg at a time, just like everybody else. What those coaches could have said, in all accuracy,
is that those supermen shovel in the pasta just like the rest of us. Or in Carver’s story, cube steak.
When the narrator watches the blind man eating—competent, busy, hungry, and, well, normal—he
begins to gain a new respect for him. The three of them, husband, wife, and visitor, ravenously
consume the cube steak, potatoes, and vegetables, and in the course of that experience our narrator
finds his antipathy toward the blind man beginning to break down. He discovers he has something in
common with this stranger—eating as a fundamental element of life—that there is a bond between
them.
What about the dope they smoke afterward?
Passing a joint doesn’t quite resemble the wafer and the chalice, does it? But thinking
symbolically, where’s the difference, really? Please note, I am not suggesting that illicit drugs are
required to break down social barriers. On the other hand, here is a substance they take into their
bodies in a shared, almost ritualistic experience. Once again, the act says, “I’m with you, I share this
moment with you, I feel a bond of community with you.” It may be a moment of even greater trust. In
any case, the alcohol at supper and the marijuana after combine to relax the narrator so he can receive
the full force of his insight, so he can share in the drawing of a cathedral (which, incidentally, is a
place of communion).
What about when they don’t? What if dinner turns ugly or doesn’t happen at all?
A different outcome, but the same logic, I think. If a well-run meal or snack portends good things
for community and understanding, then the failed meal stands as a bad sign. It happens all the time on
television shows. Two people are at dinner and a third comes up, quite unwished for, and one or
more of the first two refuse to eat. They place their napkins on their plates, or say something about
losing their appetite, or simply get up and walk away. Immediately we know what they think about the
interloper. Think of all those movies where a soldier shares his C rations with a comrade, or a boy
his sandwich with a stray dog; from the overwhelming message of loyalty, kinship, and generosity,
you get a sense of how strong a value we place on the comradeship of the table. What if we see two
people having dinner, then, but one of them is plotting, or bringing about the demise of the other? In
that case, our revulsion at the act of murder is reinforced by our sense that a very important propriety,
namely that one should not do evil to one’s dinner companions, is being violated.
Or consider Anne Tyler’s Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (1982). The mother tries and tries
to have a family dinner, and every time she fails. Someone can’t make it, someone gets called away,
some minor disaster befalls the table. Not until her death can her children assemble around a table at
the restaurant and achieve dinner; at that point, of course, the body and blood they symbolically share
are hers. Her life—and her death—become part of their common experience.
For the full effect of dining together, consider James Joyce’s story “The Dead” (1914). This
wonderful story is centered around a dinner party on the Feast of the Epiphany, the twelfth day of
Christmas. All kinds of disparate drives and desires enact themselves during the dancing and dinner,
and hostilities and alliances are revealed. The main character, Gabriel Conroy, must learn that he is
not superior to everyone else; during the course of the evening he receives a series of small shocks to
his ego that collectively demonstrate that he is very much part of the more general social fabric. The
table and dishes of food themselves are lavishly described as Joyce lures us into the atmosphere:
A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, on a bed of creased
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