\The other day I watched The Taste of Things, a film by Vietnamese-French director Trần Anh Hùng that is, in very simple terms, about food, love and passion. It’s a film about Dodin, a gourmand (which I’ve learnt is literally just an old French terms for “foodie”) and Eugénie, his cook of 20 years. In that time, the two have developed not just an incomparable working relationship, but a tender romantic one too.

So much of that story is told through the food itself. Take the first big chunk of the movie for example: a significant portion is just dedicated to the preparation and cooking of a multi-course meal for Dodin and his friends. When you see them cooking in the kitchen, the dialogue is sparse, their communication brisk and to the point; that doesn’t come from coldness of emotion, but a deep understanding of each other and of the food.

Every frame oozes with care for the food, and every movement within the frame is quick yet careful. We see each of them looking at the other, seeing what they’re doing, and preparing to do the next thing before the other asks.

We see each step of the cooking process rendered in the warm sunlight streaming through the country windows, and in this meticulous documenting of the labour behind the food, we see the logic behind it. Those vegetables she used and chopped up go into the crock pot to become a stock, which she later blanches lettuce in, then those vegetables come back out and become a bed for the fish as it sits in the oven, and then small bits and pieces are brought out again and used as garnish.

It becomes clear that there’s a rhythm to the food, a meaning to each piece; the whole course is constructed like words, all building to meaning, to saying something to someone.

And when the dishes come out, one by one, we see the guests feast. Their reactions mirror the cooking — when each item comes out, the reaction bleeds forward from the previous. Of course, it led to this! They take joy in understanding and following the flow of the food being served. When they see Eugénie after the meal, they lament that she couldn’t join them in conversation over the food. She says that she’s said everything she needs to… through the food.

So, while the rest of the movie remains subdued in its execution and restrained in its dialogue, we still feel everything. We see meaning in all their acts of service, in how they look at each other, in how they help one another. When it’s Dodin’s turn to cook for Eugénie, we understand what he says in the dishes he brings to her. He may be bewildered at their perceived distance — the two are not officially “together” (whatever that means) and mostly sleep in separate bedrooms — but we know that it doesn’t matter. No marriage, no words, no ring, can resonate stronger than their acts for one another.