The Transylvania Joem: A Young Peace Corps Volunteer in Romania

“Food is a central activity of mankind and one of the single most significant trademarks of a culture.”
Mark Kurlansky

In Kurlanksy’s sense, what does our  American food attitude say about our culture? In the USA, we happily crowd around full tables for common feasts but a few days per year. My favorite holidays were always Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Independence Day, not necessarily because of their historical significance, but rather because they were food-days spent with family and friends. We sat around, enjoyed casual conversation, and immersed ourselves into multiple courses of amazing, home-cooked meals.There was music and cheer, and little pretension.

As an American, somehow a few sparse days per year of this seemed to suffice. It wasn’t until I moved to Europe and experienced its ubiquitous table culture and hospitality that I realized that, we as Americans, are the world-wide exception of gastronomic norms. In other countries throughout our Earth, food culture is a daily event that stimulates the senses and emotions. Scent and taste flex their little, sensory muscles, and the presiding sentiment is one of contentment– like the world couldn’t possibly become any righter.

In America, we are satisfied with our meager helpings of this soul goodness because we are unaware that it could exist in greater quantity. Despite our abundance as one of the most advanced nations in the world, this simple and fruitful culture of joy has been thrown to the wayside. It is sad and unfortunate, and I would be happy to make my life’s work one of re-sowing it into American culture– if only because it can make you feel so damn good.

Imagine for a moment, that you have traveled to a foreign city— one of the largest and most significant in the memory of mankind. In a place teeming with over ten million lives, you are literally a tiny, foreign speck drifting through the cityscape. In this place, you constantly meet locals who are kind, and even excited, that you have come to their home. At the request of a few of these new friends, you accept a dinner invitation.

I did such a thing– while in Istanbul, Harlem and I went to dinner with two Turkish girls, and in a way that was completely novel (as I am still unaccustomed to it by my American upbringing) it became my best memory of the trip.

The girls, Zeynep and Duygu, took us to a small fish restaurant in Taksim, the ‘new district,’ of Istanbul. Inside, tables were grouped together in family-style fashion, so that the only thing separating us and the guests next to us were a few inches of white table cloth and salt and pepper shakers. Every table in the place was packed with young Turks, and almost all were in groups of four or more. Alongside our table, there was a group of 12 Turkish women our age (with a few, fortunate men scattered throughout). Zeynep and Duygu ordered for us, selecting a few appetizers from a massive tray of small sample bowls brought by a waiter. We were also able to select our fish in the same fashion– fresh, gutted specimens were brought out on a wooden block to help us make our choices.

Zeynep ordered Raki, the national Turkish spirit, and taught us how to drink it– first by pouring a clear shot into a high-ball glass, which becomes a cloudy white (due to the Ouzo Effect) when water is added. Turks sip a little Raki, and then immediately cleanse the palate with a drink from an accompanying glass of water. This smooths the edges of its intense, anise flavor, and you’re left with a full lingering echo of its sweetness. Raki is sipped often, and usually with an accompanying “şerefe!”  (cheers).

It was in this scene that I enjoyed the most amazing dish of my trip: grape-stuffed dolmas. Stuffed grape leaves are common in this part of the world– in Romania, sarmale (as they’re called) are stuffed with pork and rice and savory spices. They are usually topped with sour-cream, and they are heavy and the true epitome of ‘comfort food.’ In this restaurant, the  leaves were stuffed with wild rice, some long-grained grass, and tiny shriveled grapes. The result was something amazing– crisp and sweet. Duygu offered me hers, and I resisted for only a half second and only out of knee-jerk politeness.

But, good food is not enough to constitute culture. I think that, perhaps, this is where we Americans error. Our restaurants are sterile, and the timing and efficiency  of a meal matter more than the pleasure derived from it. Excellent food and exquisite atmosphere alone can not substitute the authenticity of what it is that makes us human– that sort of airy ineffable is the glue that holds the physical of these senses and places together. Hence, what came next was what made the night my most salient.

As we sat and ate and squeezed through the gaps in our language barrier, a trio of Roma musicians entered the restaurant. They had four instruments between them, and fox-stepped to a spot between the tables. Suddenly, one of them whistled loudly and the trio exploded into song. Crashing rapids of Turkish verse accompanied by tangerine, fiddle, and a sort of slide guitar washed across the dining room.

Every single Turk in the restaurant, paused, bloomed into a slow smile, and then began to sing.

This little band blared over a half dozen traditional Turkish songs– songs embedded into the memory and common culture of the people surrounding us. The young dozen women next to us were swaying and calling out words in chorus. Zeynep stood up at our table and let her hands flutter about while her hips sparked to the beat. I had forgotten we were in the land of belly-dancing until that moment. I glanced around the room and saw many of the other young women doing the same.

Harlem and I were dumbfounded. We both had gooey grins smeared across our faces. In that most beautiful of moments, our ability to be profound– even articulate– had been stripped away. “This is awesome,” we mouthed to each other, over and over– and, more apporpriately, we were even able to muster an occasional “oh, my Gd.”

That moment was one of the most crystalline visions I have ever had of the way that life should be. It was a spontaneous combination of the culture of food and song, peaking in a beautiful little crescendo of sensations, and overall ‘good’ feelings. The greatest thing was how fully the people around me embraced the moment– there was a common connectedness in it that sweetened the air and made the walls bleed a violet light.

A culture of joy exists so effortlessly and free in the world. I am grateful that I have come into contact with it, for it has made me a happier human being.