The Tummy Trilogy by Calvin Trillin
Fats Goldberg Lives!
Throughout the 1970s, as he wrote the American Journal feature for the
New Yorker, Calvin Trillin crossed and recrossed the continent. Braver
than most transients, he dined in every manner of restaurant, sampling all
kinds of native cuisine. He tirelessly sniffed out plain but great joints where
the local people loved to eat. [Dont take me to the] place you took your
parents on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, [but] the place you went
the night you came home after fourteen months in Korea. As a result of
such hard-nosed pursuit of good food, this Walt Whitman of American
eats produced three delightful books chronicling his gastronomic journey,
and they have now been collected into The Tummy Trilogy. Trillin is a
marvelous writer, affable and witty under any circumstances. Hes also an
extremely enthusiastic eater, so the books are filled with gourmet brio.
Heres a sample from the first book, American Fried: ME: Anybody who
served a milkshake like this in Kansas City would be put in jail. ALICE:
You promised not to indulge in any of that hometown nostalgia while Im
eating. You know it gives me indigestion. ME: What nostalgia? Facts are
facts. The kind of milkshake that I personally consumed six hundred
gallons of at the Country Club Daily is an historical fact in three flavors.

Your indigestion is not from listening to my fair-minded remarks on the
food of a particular American city. Its from drinking that gray skim milk this
bandit is trying to pass off as a milkshake. This book is almost as fun
as tucking into a big, delicious meal (but no substitute, of course). Trillins
family, long-suffering in the face of a fathers obsessions, is as winning as
always. If youre a dedicated fan--or just dipping into the writing of this
good-natured maestro--The Tummy Trilogy is a wonderful book. --Michael
Gerber
Personal Review: The Tummy Trilogy by Calvin Trillin
I seriously doubt when Calvin Trillin was knocking out this purple prose
back in the early `70s that he ever considered himself a "food writer." I
expect no one at the time save the M.F.K. Fishers and Elizabeth Davids of
the world even considered that label for themselves. Besides, Mr. Trillin
was--indeed, still is--funnier than hell about his gastronomical habits and
so was likely slotted under "Humor" in disco-era bookshops--a fate, I'm
sure, worse than literary death. I mention all this as a eulogy to how far
we've come, category-wise; Mr. Trillin is indeed a food writer and a great
one to boot. And even though he's been at this over thirty years his
essential approach--*bon vivant* foodie, not frustrated chef or that hideous
modern invention, "food critic"-- remains unique.
So how is it that someone scribbling about *eating* (not, mind you,
*cooking*) can have me laughing out loud? And wouldn't a self-confessed
"big eater" feel at least some desire to whip up what he puts away? Part of
the answer lies in that essential dichotomy: Trillin seems vaguely aware
that writing about consumption is ridiculous, but he lets us in on the game
and, like any good comedian, takes his craft *very* seriously. Most of the
stories in these three hilarious volumes have long been published
elsewhere but taken together (they can easily be consumed in any order)
they betray a level of culinary detail that I doubt any European 3-star
Michelin grader could approach.
From the first pages a wonderful informality reigns; Trillin seems to write
like I'd imagine he speaks, which in this context is near-perfect. Being
invited to the kind of BBQ joints, Chinese restaurants, and fried chicken
houses that he describes *demands* this kind of chatter and rather than
rambling, the author's language almost seems made for his venues.
(Starting with "the best restaurants in the world are, of course, in Kansas
City. Not all of them; only the top four or five.") The folksiness not only
serves the purpose; when it comes to food, Trillin makes it clear: it *is* the
purpose.
Another delightful device is familiarized repetition: bringing back an issue
(the paralyzing fear that unreadable Chinese on menus hides
unimaginable gastronomic delights, for example) from a previous story
helps us identify with Trillin's angst--but also betrays his quiet confidence
that we *read* the previous part and know its importance. Bringing whole

characters (e.g., Fats Goldberg, the pizza baron) back into the mix
regularly is even more fun.
To be sure, after nearly four hundred pages the author has a few overlaps
(at least a few titles start with "Confessions of ..."), but they're minor
compared to his comic genius. Reading `The Tummy Trilogy' was delicious
from start to finish and the only dated portions--best exemplified by
continual slams against "continental cuisine" (exemplified by `La Maison
de la Casa House')--still rang somewhat true, even playing to a thinly-
disguised inverse snobbery.
My only regret after this satisfying meal was not getting a better picture of
the author himself, despite his occasional family references. Perhaps that's
not all bad; I doubt Mr. Trillin and I would get along. From his recent
writing, he appears to be indulging in political fever-swamping (especially
against Mr. Bush) which is a tragic waste of talent. While he admits his
days as a "sausage-eating crank" may be behind him, I can only fervently
wish otherwise.
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