What happens at the table

[It's another long one. I apologize in advance]

“We have a barbecue on Sundays. You will be staying for that.”
It was the first topic of conversation of the day, after having spent Saturday night at my friend Razan’s house. Razan’s grandparents arrived at 1:00, and her grandmother promptly posted herself in the kitchen chopping parsley for tabouleh, joining Razan’s mom who was elbow deep in cabbage salad. I looked over her shoulder at the kitchen counter, which was stacked with plates of meat ready for the grill. “Most people only barbecue one kind of meat at a time, but we like having lots of kinds. You will try a little bit of everything, ok?” I agreed to the challenge.

At about 2:30 we sat down to the table, and I scooped up what I considered a decent portion of salad, anticipating the need to pace myself, but Razan picked up the serving bowl and advanced toward my plate. “Ok, Miriam, I know that Americans don’t like to be served, but I’m sorry, I just have to do this,” she said, laughing at herself, as she increased the size of my serving of salad to a small mountain. Next to me, Razan’s younger brother’s plate held a few French fries and a small puddle of tahini. This was acceptable for a picky eater family member, but not a guest. In this culture hosts are responsible to make sure guests are provided for, to a nearly excessive level, and the primary symbol of provision and hospitality is food: lots of food.

In addition to the salads on the table, there was lebaneh, hummus, olives, vegetables, tahini, bread… And then the food from coming inside from the grill: kebabs, chicken, vegetables, fish, grilled sandwiches… By the time the last of the meat came in, Razan’s older brother leaned over and charitably confided that if I didn’t think I could finish everything that had been placed on my plate, he would be glad to lend a hand. I took him up on his offer.

While we ate, the table was a constantly changing landscape as various family members removed, replaced, and rearranged dishes around me. I thought that this indicated the meal’s approaching end, but it was actually just preparation for the meal’s next phases. At about 4:00 Razan’s aunt and uncle and cousins showed up. They joined us around the table as the last of the main course was removed.

The next course was nuts and seeds, and then fresh dates, and finally trays of fruit.
These are foods that have rituals of preparation and sharing at the table. The fruit has to be cut up and peeled and divided. These foods take time, they are eaten in limited portions as each piece becomes available, each person participates in the preparation and serving, and the passing and offering of food is an important part of the process (the actual eating seems almost an after-thought).

Meanwhile, the project at hand serves as an excuse to sit and spend time together. This feast is a weekly family gathering, where the central context for interaction and bonding is an entire afternoon of preparing, serving, and sharing food. The family commented on each other’s recent activities. They explained to me each others’ eating habits. They heatedly discussed the challenges that Razan’s brother and his fiancé—both doctors—will face in marriage. (“I don’t tell my kids what to think,” Razan’s dad told me. “But—I will not hesitate to tell them what I think!”) During the meal, Razan received good news about her recent university exams, which called for hearty congratulations and another round of beer from the family’s store downstairs.

And did you think that we were done with this meal? Silly you, we haven’t had coffee yet. Razan brought Arabic coffee and cake to the table, and by the time we finished, it was after 6:00 pm. The aunt and uncle and cousins said their goodbyes, having sat and talked for a couple of hours already.

That evening, I sat in the kitchen with my journal. Razan’s parents wanted to know what I was writing, and I told them I was trying to remember everything I had eaten. They laughed and groaned, shook their heads and held their stomachs. But they were more interested in the project when I told them I was trying to write down recipes and ingredients for each dish. It became a cooperative project as the family helped me make a list of the English and Arabic words for the ingredients.

I felt the formality of the guest-host relationship melt as we tried to reconstruct the meal we had just eaten, and I realized I had found a way to connect with Razan’s parents through—what else?!—food. In light of my struggles to communicate around the barriers of language, culture, and general shyness, food often has ended up being the agent of communication when all else fails.

And so, on that day, and many other times recently, I have been so grateful for the amount that can be communicated through the symbolism of preparing, eating, accepting and sharing food.