Meals That Turn Into Stories
by Carlos C. Palma
I'm not the friendliest of people.
Between sharing a table with a stranger and the potential of awkwardness, I must admit, the awkwardness terrifies me.
I grew up in Manila. And in Manila, we don't share tables. We don't sit where people have occupied a particular space, never mind the fact that only one person occupies a table good for 6.
In the rare instances that this has happened, whether it be out of desperation both on my and/or the other persons end, or sheer politeness, I dread the silence and awkward dance of eye contact and small talk. I suspiciously look around if I'm getting “punk'd” or worse, was being scammed and I'd walk away a cellphone and wallet poorer. (side note: Punk'd was a late 90s early 2000's show on MTV where Ashton Kutcher would play pranks on famous people. This was a legit concern back then.)
And from a country where our often greeting to friends and acquaintances would be "Tara kain!" or "Let's eat!" this was not common behavior in Manila nor so for me.
Take for example your road-side BBQ man who sells Isaw (grilled chicken intestine), Betamax (grilled chicken blood squares), hotdog and your regular BBQ (grilled pork in skewers). You all take sticks of things you'd likely consume, quickly order from Manong Buko Juice (vendor selling coconut juice) on the side, and wait till your merienda (snack) is covered in carcinogenic (debatable and science has not proved it!) char, as you dip your sticks of meat and innards in the vinegar that has probably more spices then anyone would care to admit or look into. Nobody speaks to each other. You only talk to the person you came to the corner with. If perchance you decided to go alone, you whip out your phone and skim Facebook until Kuya BBQ (man selling the grilled pork) calls out your orders.
That's why I surprise myself whenever I travel and find myself sharing tables with the locals. Maybe it was the language barrier that allowed me to politely not engage in conversation. Maybe it was the overwhelming need for me to appreciate and try the local fare, such that I'd overcome my fear of awkward social interactions. But sometimes, in my desperation to order from a “non-English” menu, the locals would see my struggle and they would gladly translate, even if they barely spoke any English as well. I appreciate this and would gladly talk about where I'm from and what's special about this particular meal. And usually meals like these are the ones you remember.
We walk away saying "That was the best _______" and we post it on Facebook or Instagram. I remember the best meals I've had, travelling, were never from Michelin star restaurants. Don't get me wrong, those had really good food, but the meals I actually end up remembering were the ones I shared with people.
Whether it be special people, or people whom I never expected to help, these were the meals that turned into stories. I could go on and on about the taste of this or how good something was, but somehow, I end up telling stories about how someone helped me or a conversation I had with a fellow traveler. We would share what we loved about the place, what we missed back home, what they should visit elsewhere. And as we exchange goodbyes and promises of visiting, we somehow walk away feeling proud to have shared something special.
And I guess that's the point of it all. The meal as a conduit of sharing something meaningful and special. A shared experience that allows us to open up and share a bit of ourselves, during communal consumption. We exchange hearty laughs and burps, meaningful stories, burning memories into our lives, with food at the centerpiece, bringing together people who were once strangers, and transforming them into something else.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR
Carlos C. Palma, carlos@palma.ph