The Thursday night after Dallas’ four-day ice and snow-related shutdown, 57,000 other people in my neighborhood and I decided to go for Mexican food.
I think each of us has our go-to spot. Maybe it’s Mesero, José, or Mi Cocina. Regardless, they were each packed. Mexican restaurants seem to be our collective go-to for good food and drinks, community, the last meal before a long trip away and the first meal after the plane lands.
Sharing a meal together, whether at home or at a restaurant, is as American as apple pie. Except, apple pie originated in England and was perfected by German and Dutch bakers.
I personally prefer cake to pie but recently had the most amazing pie ever on an Amsterdam food tour. Dutch Apple Pie is deep dish and deeply delicious. You can try one yourself at Emporium Pies or Hive Bakery. I digress.
Expressions of culture in food and music can be presented purely or diluted by adaptation, neither of which is a bad thing.
I was thinking, if food literally spoke the language of its origin, which language would our favorite foods speak?
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I’ve been craving chicken fried steak lately. On my quest to find the best, I considered Celebration Restaurant, Jonathon’s, and Bubba’s. I went with Bubba’s and ordered a big plate of German-speaking chicken fried steak. My sides were coleslaw, which speaks Dutch, and fried okra, which speaks Amharic. I dipped my okra in Ranch dressing which speaks English with an Alaskan accent.
Like many of you, I attended a Super Bowl party and enjoyed all sorts of snacky foods that go hand in hand with the best (in my opinion) American sport ever created. A friend brought the most divine deviled eggs that speak in a Roman dialect but cannot understand a word spoken by the thin-crust pizza from Naples. From the same country but different languages.
Though I speak a little Italian, it was hard for me, too, to communicate with some of the foods, so I was relieved the chicken wings speak English, although some with a bracing upper New York accent while others have a soothing southern drawl. I dipped the accompanying celery sticks, which speak Arabic since it originated in North Africa, and Persian-speaking carrots, in hummus, which also speaks Arabic but a different dialect than the celery.
Dessert was equally indulgent. The Chantilly cream king cake appeared to parle en Français, of course, some condescension on Louisiana’s version of Galette des Rois. We laissez the bon temps rouler, anyway.
I eat Mexican food two or three times a week. It’s comfort food. Next time I visit my favorite Mexican restaurant, my combo plate will speak to me in indigenous languages and Spanish, and my orange cheese taco topping will surely address me in the King’s English.
Cultural silos benefit no one. America is more like a salad bowl than a melting pot, with distinct identities of ingredients blending without losing their uniqueness. That feeds bodies and souls.
Kersten Rettig, a freelance writer with leadership experience in the food and travel industries, resides in the Park Cities, where she is known as “the restaurant sherpa” for her expert recommendations. Follow her on Instagram @KerstenEats.
