International Foods Invite Diversity and Teaches us About Different Cultures
Food from different cultures was unknown to me when I was younger. I grew up in a large family. Routines helped control the chaos of seven children.
Mealtimes were consistent and predictable. Tuesday night was pork chops. Thursday night was company stew. No meat on Fridays, so pancakes or scrambled eggs. Sunday was the perennial pot roast with the grandparents. My mother did not relish cooking three meals a day for a table of nine. She took no joy in the kitchen. Eating out was rare, and a privilege.
The only fine dining available was at a local restaurant where the Who’s Who of Port Huron partook. The Fog Cutter was on the top floor of the highest building in the city, 6 stories! The décor was right out of a 1970’s Woody Allen film, velvet wallpaper and sculptured carpet in burnt orange and browns. Seafood options were from our front door: Lake Huron walleye, perch and pickerel.
Me as a young woman at the Golden Gate Bridge with the San Francisco skyline in the background.
My palate was very basic growing up. I was not prone to eating adventurous food until I moved to San Francisco, where overcooked beef roast was not available. I had landed in one of the top culinary capitals of the world. Eager, youthful, and open to new experiences.
My first introduction to international food was a flavored journey with sushi. Unheard of in the Midwest, I had to slurp down enough sake to eat raw fish on my virgin venture. Japan town, out in the avenues, was filled with an array of options. Tuna was not yet overfished, and the talented Sushi Chefs, called Itamae, were revered. Fresh ginger to cleanse the palate between courses just enhanced the experience.
The next taste exploration happened in Koreatown. Little grills were stationed in the middle of the table, and six or eight bowls of kimchi were positioned around them. Marinated beef, pork and chicken were served for us to grill ourselves and then add on the delicate flavors of the kimchi. I learned about true spice heat and Korean beer to cool the palate from spicy, tangy and savory flavors.
Then there was Italian cuisine. North Beach, home of Vesuvio’s, was the pasta district. My favorite was a hidden gem where autographed photos of Opera stars lined the walls. The Italian patriarch sat at a corner table, smoking and observing. He didn’t speak English but took pride in his hand-made pasta and desserts. When a dish sold out, it was 86’d off the menu for the night-without any malevolent meaning. He would come to our table and ask us if we enjoyed our meal, in Italian, and we gave an enthusiastic ‘Si’.
The tiramisu was so delicate and delicious we started ordering a slice before our meal, just so we would have enough room to savor it. The red wine flowed and an espresso finished the experience. At that age, caffeine never prevented me from having a full night’s sleep. In retrospect, perhaps it wasn’t my young constitution letting me sleep solidly, but the vast quantity of wine we tried while dining.
My roommates and I lived over an oyster bar. Religiously, on Friday nights we enjoyed an array of oysters straight out of the Pacific. I can still recall the briny flavor announcing itself when first sucking one down, followed by a sweet, earthy finish.
The beach restaurants had buckets of steaming chardonnay ladened little neck clam, served with crusty sourdough bread. I would wash it down with a Napa Valley Sauvignon blanc.
San Francisco had a huge Hispanic population. You could stop at a window in an alley and buy a burrito the size of your arm. They were filled with homemade salsa, fresh avocado, Mexican cheese, rice, seasoned beef and jalapenos. Every bite, the perfect solution to a hangover.
The Tenderloin district was inundated with Asian restaurant choices: Vietnamese, Chinese, Thai and fusion. All equally delicious. Introducing new textures to my palate. Filling my nose with new, strange and enticing smells, and igniting flavors on my tongue I’d never tasted.
Rent control and a livable wage allowed me to afford these excursions. In our twenties, none of us were thinking about saving for retirement.
Unbeknownst to me, I was absorbing something much more important than food. I learned about different cultures and diversity that was not available in the vanilla village of my youth. The staff of the Korean BBQ explained how kimchi is made. The young Chinese server who taught me how to pronounce the various dishes became a friend. Even the elderly Italian patriarch who only spoke his native tongue carried on a friendly conversation every time I went in.
As I write this, I reflect on the diversity I took for granted.
It makes me wonder if those restaurants are afraid to open their doors today. The current political climate has forced many of our neighbors to hide, unable to earn a wage to support themselves and their families. Not because they are here illegally, but because the current regime is allowed to arrest and throw anyone they want into detention (er - concentration) camps. Even American citizens.
Being introduced to an array of cultures allowed me to appreciate not only the dining experiences, but the people who own and work in them. My neighbors and my friends.
21% of food service employees are immigrants. I have owned two restaurants in San Franciso. All my kitchen workers were from South America. They were hardworking, respectful, reliable employees.
The government’s immigration crackdown is not just targeting criminals; it is treating immigrants like sub-humans, unworthy of living in the Land of the Free. Both my parents were first generation Americans. In the current environment, I shudder to imagine what might have happened to my grandparents if they were alive in America today.
The extreme actions of immigration enforcement are affecting the entire food flow. What it has accomplished, besides shock and dismay from so many, is a labor shortage, rising food costs, consumer price increase, and an unstable industry.
Moral outrage does not seem to suffice. Pulling citizens off our streets continues today, no matter how much we protest.
Current gas prices and unnecessary war seem to be enlightening those blinded by the rhetoric of this regime. It is a shame that the violent treatment and murder of citizens didn’t provoke their outrage.
This country is in crisis. We have watched our democracy being stripped away, our freedom of the press dying, and I want to feel like my actions can be more than just a drop in the ocean.
Resistance is the most patriotic action you can take when our democracy is being challenged by tyranny.
I can still resist with the best of them-even if I am wearing orthopedic shoes instead of Doc Martins.
I hope you join me and subscribe to my mailing list to stay posted and involved.
— Sally
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