Us and Them
“For us, it’s always been a priority,” I find myself repeating ever since I moved to the UK. By us, I mean my family; more specifically, my mum and grandmother. By it, I mean the quality of the food we put on the table.
The sentence makes its way out of my lips even against my own will, as if I couldn’t stop the need of setting myself apart.
This is not the Sunday lunch ritual I am used to.
I emphasize the for us at the beginning of my statement, marking a clear distinction between them and me. I draw the separation willingly, as a shielding technique. It feels safer to mention the difference myself, before others highlight it. What surprises me is that the longer I insist on self-explaining, the more I realize our priority is not just the food. Our Argentine Sunday meals are about something bigger than mere chewing and swallowing and digesting.
How can they understand sobremesa when they don’t even have an English word to describe it? I muster a definition out loud, certain they won’t grasp its depth by my narrow explanation. Even if I was able to express it properly, it wouldn’t matter. The untranslatable term does not make them feel any special way. I knew it as soon as I noticed they don’t remain in their seats verbally dissecting what we just ate nor planning what we will eat later. They get up as soon as they’re done, dishware gone and cleaned and put away immediately.
I resist. My English husband knows why and stoically remains by my side, fighting his natural urge to leave the table. He asks whether the current affairs of the world could also be part of the postprandial debate. I answer it’s not frequent nor desired. One of the few dining etiquette rules we follow is not speaking about politics or religion; the table is too sacrosanct a space.
Do I recall any specific conversation held at sobremesa? Not really. This well-delimited time and space is for bonding, relaxing and digesting food. The mind wanders in a meditative state while hands gather crumbs in orderly piles, play with a wine cork, or fidget around with a toothpick.
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They eat quickly and move even faster towards the sink, whilst I chew my roast potatoes and parsnips. Undoubtedly, they’re the best part of a Sunday roast; way better that the main protein piece. I add lots of olive oil and salt and pepper to the boiled corn, peas, broccolini and carrots. They cover them in “sauce”, but I refuse. They use gravy granules which, to me, render coloured starchy water. “I was so spoiled growing up,” I admit somewhat embarrassed, “everything we ate was made from scratch”. As I continue to dig into the delicious crispy potato bits left on the roasting tray, the sound of my cutlery collides with the soapy water of the washing bowl. Everything's clean now, except for my plate, fork, knife, and water cup. I’m still eating.
The English dishwashing custom reminds me of how my grandma used to do it. She would first rinse a dirty saucepan, and then prepare in it a foamy warm bath for our crockery.
I (re)observe my Abuela’s old routine from my current eco-anxious perspective: her method sounds like a great idea.
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I am lost in my own thoughts about community and reunion and everything that feels familiar at the table.
Food as care,
food as a bridge,
food as an excuse to hang out together.
Surprisingly, I felt very much at home when I visited Seoul. The Korean friends I made invited me to their intimate eating ceremonies, each meal painted as an opportunity to spend time with loved ones. “True communal style, just like us Argentines,” I couldn’t help expressing when I noticed their copious servings. Banchan, soups and meats placed in the middle of the table for everyone to share; the only personal item being an individual rice bowl.
Conversely, in Tokyo I felt distraught at the sight of people eating in silence, quickly. Even the table choices of some joints reflected such tendency, with narrow bars around the perimeter to cater to solo diners. The cultural distance I felt then returns almost every Sunday roast in London.
My hunger for deliciousness is satiated, yet my appetite remains.
I jump mentally between the subtle sweetness of the honey-glazed parsnips I devour right here right now, and the garlic-oil ramen I slurped years ago in Japan. Do I recall the taste? Can I recover memories of other sensations, too? I remember the soup was delicious, but what made the night memorable was the juxtaposition of personalities involved: solo travelers from all over the world who had met briefly at an Akasaka hostel and decided to dine together.
We sat next to each other —facing the wall, as mandated by the architecture— and talked mostly to the people directly on each of our sides. One of the guys shouted “noodles refill” in (sort of) Japanese and we laughed. One of the girls ordered the most scarlet of all the broths, and could barely eat it due to how fierce it was. As we left, we all took pictures with a cardboard cutout of an oiled bodybuilder we found near the entrance. We then walked back to the hostel as a group, chatting about the experience.
Maybe the food is not the point.
Maybe it’s the stories we build around it.
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I welcome cultural differences by mindfully focusing on how they also hold the power to connect us.
It’s about the people in front of me.
Those who made the effort to buy the ingredients, prep, and cook.
The ones opening their houses (and hearts) to me.
Humans interested in showing me what they’re all about, even if it’s not identical to what I call home.
I’m learning to be malleable and adapt and mix and match some of them, with some of us, into a new we.
In tangible terms, it looks like embracing plain boiled vegetables but dousing them with Italian extra virgin olive oil.