![]() “But it’s not the point.” Photograph by Hugo Yu for The New Yorker It entered through the department store’s second-floor windows, with the help of a crane, and came to rest on a pork-pink marble plinth, surrounded by matching flowers-a monument of cold-cut grandeur. What Gohar delivered (along with a hula-hoop-wide raspberry tart and larger-than-life butter sculptures of a hand, a mouth, and an ear) was a mortadella the size of a telephone pole. ![]() In 2019, when the French department store Galeries Lafayette hoped to lure luxury shoppers to its new location on the Champs-Élysées, the company turned to Gohar to cater an opening-night party. Like many of the designers and decorators attending the fair, Gohar has made a career out of elevating something functional-in her case, food-to rarefied aesthetic heights. Gohar was in the midst of creating an installation at the independent design show Alcova, an offshoot of the Salone del Mobile, Milan’s annual furniture fair. Most would be embalmed in shellac and arrayed in precise and inscrutable tableaux, although it was too soon to say exactly how. Only a small number of these confections would be eaten. The bags-from Gucci, from the venerable pasticceria Marchesi 1824, from the supermarket chain Penny-held food, mostly: floral pastilles, pistachio drops, sugared squares of fruit jelly, pastries shaped like maraschino-tipped breasts. On a hot June afternoon in Milan, Laila Gohar emerged from a taxi at the Ospedale Militare di Baggio carrying many bags.
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