For many, the name Calvin Trillin is synonymous with food writing characterized by a particular voice of deadpan humor. Others are familiar with his work as a longtime contributor to The New Yorker. On a brisk, sunny October morning, it was the allure of having this writer share his enthusiasm for some of his favorite food spots that drew nearly 40 people to a secret meeting spot in the West Village.
The Come Hungry tour, part of the annual New Yorker Festival, is a tough ticket. A few weeks before, the Friday that tickets went on sale, I sat before my computer ready to do battle with the online system, at noon on the dot. In just a couple of minutes it would be over. I had tried to get these tickets each of the last five years with not even a slim moment of hope before the sold out message appeared on my screen, seemingly the same second they were supposed to be available. The spinning wheel, the processing Web page — this time, I had won the lottery.
Trillin is a man of average height. With droopy cheeks, a bulbous nose, bushy, unkempt eyebrows and hunched shoulders, he resembles a St. Bernard. His blue eyes seem twinged with sadness. If you passed him on the street, he would seem unremarkable. It is his writing that makes people take note, his dry sense of humor that emanates from the words on the page, a humor that makes you laugh out loud while reading; to be a part of this tour was to translate that to life.
Trillin is a man of average height. With droopy cheeks, a bulbous nose, bushy, unkempt eyebrows and hunched shoulders, he resembles a St. Bernard. His blue eyes seem twinged with sadness. If you passed him on the street, he would seem unremarkable. It is his writing that makes people take note, his dry sense of humor that emanates from the words on the page, a humor that makes you laugh out loud while reading; to be a part of this tour was to translate that to life.