![]() He even continues to do this when given the ultimate second chance. The very intimacy of this kind of culinary act makes it a perfect stand-in for the couple more generally, and for the issues between them: The reliably conflict-averse Oscar, for example, cooks when he should talk, as though he could nurture the ailing relationship simply by fixing it dinner. It’s domestic, in every sense of the word: homemade, on home soil, by one home-owner for another. The food on display in Forever doesn’t belong alongside the fine dining moneyshots, regional delicacy close-ups, or full-blown Italo-porn of Master of None, though. As anyone familiar with another Yang project, Master of None, will know, eating and drinking are central preoccupations in his work, somewhere close to a full-blown obsession. Showrunner Alan Yang could have used anything to chart the evolution of their relationship - think of the equally masterful sequence that opens Pixar’s Up - but it’s hardly surprising that he lands on food. The scene illustrates the repetition and tedium of this dysfunctional marriage in microcosm: the initial excitement, followed by the slow decline into borderline-resentful boredom on the part of June in particular. And he does so again and again and again, with consistent enthusiasm on his part, but visibly dwindling interest from his wife. We later learn that his signature preparation is trout amandine, but at this point in the series, all we see is Oscar present it, with a flourish, to June. Oscar appears to spend most of his time there fishing and cooking his catch. They meet-cute, bond over drinks and dinner, and eventually buy a lake house. The show charts the slow decline and gradual rehabilitation of the marriage between Oscar (Fred Armisen) and June (Maya Rudolph), two contented-seeming, yuppy-ish types living out contented-seeming, yuppy-ish lives in the suburbs of Southern California. ![]() The extended montage that opens the first episode of Amazon’s acclaimed series Forever explains why this caveat was always necessary. But there would always be one condition attached: Every time you ate the thing, it would taste as good as the very first time you’d tried it. It started with a simple question: “If you could eat one for the rest of your life, what would it be?” The in question varied: sometimes we’d leave it totally open sometimes reduce it to a cuisine or restaurant dish or a fruit or a cheese. When I was younger, my mother and I would play a game.
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