As a food writer, I am the kind of person for whom interest in food automatically translates into an interest and empathy toward other things like history and politics. There is no food without the culture that conceived of it, and there is no culture without politics. Because of that, I understand the joy that comes with seeing someone not from your culture enjoy its cuisine, mostly because I understand the frustration that comes with a cuisine's dismissal (someone once told me they didn't like Indian food because they didn't like "the texture." You know, the one texture. I'm still mad, obviously). It feels like appreciation of a cuisine is a natural conduit into a deeper understanding.
But I bristle at the idea that enjoying food is a political act in and of itself. This week, Raj Tawney wrote in Bloomberg about butter chicken, that ubiquitous Indian restaurant dish that many Indians dismiss as food for white people, and how its popularity in America "has helped bridge cultural gaps" since the 1970s. "This is not to say that the presence of butter chicken was a magical antidote to the violence and prejudice that Indians faced, but it played a part in the community being accepted as part of the 'model minority,'" says Tawney. "We now know how harmful the label can be, but at the time, it felt like a much-needed reprieve." Butter chicken, he says, helped open minds.
But what good is a mind so open that it cannot take a stand? I think of former Eater writer Jenny G. Zhang's piece on the false promises of "breaking bread" in the show Taste the Nation. In one episode, a restaurant owner claims to love his Mexican staff and their food, while also saying he supports Trump, whose immigration policies would be detrimental to that community. "If this owner hasn't changed his political views after decades of growing up and working with Mexican immigrants, then are we supposed to accept the 'breaking bread' refrain as anything but an empty hope?" asks Zhang.
This week, I'm especially thinking of Reem Kassis's piece in The Atlantic: "They Ate At My Table, Then Ignored My People." In it, Kassis wrestles with becoming seen as an ambassador for Palestinian cuisine, and her belief, up until the events of October 7, that through her cooking Palestinian people would be humanized. "The way I thought of it, echoing culinary experts across the world, was that if more people experienced authentic hospitality around the table of a Palestinian, then they could not help but empathize with other Palestinians," she writes.
That didn't happen. She acknowledges falling into the trope of the "model minority" Tawney speaks of, that as a Palestinian growing up in Israel she internalized the values of assimilation and self-censorship as a path to acceptance. As Israel has killed over 31,000 Palestinians, and the population faces famine, Kassis writes that it became "painfully clear that the so-called food diplomacy I had been cultivating for years had not worked. The enthusiasm expressed for Palestinian cuisine did not always extend to empathy for the people, or the struggle, behind it. Instead, I realized that many people saw me as an exception to other Palestinians rather than one of them."
I wish food could bridge the divide, because I don't know what else can. What else do we have that is such an immediate experience of someone else's life, that literally becomes part of you the moment you consume it? Perhaps the romantic metaphor there is exactly why so many of us fall into the trap of thinking if we can get someone to like our food, we can get them to like us. Maybe their minds will be open. But usually they're just open to buying more.
Further reading:
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