Books are glorious things. When we read a book, we bring ourselves into the authors parlor, and interpret it through the veil of our own prejudices and experiences. I thought this was a book about food and flavor, and had no idea that it would hit me on such an emotional level. I was often excited by her discoveries, but just as often saddened and angered by them.
When I read the stories of Ranji, from India, I learned that he was denied citizenship because he wasn’t considered white, that after the Civil War we allowed “citizens of African nativity”, but still not from India, and that the Immigration Act of 1917 specifically excluded South Asians (Indians). But if they were here, they still had to register for the draft. In 1923 the Supreme Court held that any Indians who had somehow been granted citizenship, lost it, and all future applications from Indians would be denied. It wasn’t until 1965 that that was abolished. I thought of my late sister’s husband, Siddartha. Sid is from Delhi, has a PhD in Economics, is a professor, and is the kindest, gentlest man I’ve known. At my sister’s wedding his mother and sister were resplendent in their saris and bindis. To imagine that their beautiful bi-racial daughter, Mira, could be treated in any way as less than equal breaks my heart.
When I read the soy sauce chapter, I read the stories of the Chinese being beaten, taxed, and children forbidden to go to school. In the 1880s we actually codified into law the Chinese Exclusion Act, which stayed in place as the law of the land until 1965. Even worse is what we did to the Japanese during WW2. My nephew’s lovely wife is from Hong Kong. Their bright, artistic daughter (whom her Chinese grandmother calls Jieming) is adorable with her European yellow blond hair and her big dark Asian almond eyes. I can’t believe that in my lifetime the delightful trio of mother, daughter, and granddaughter would not be welcome here.
The story of Edmond Albius, who discovered the means to make millions of dollars for the white vanilla plantation owners, yet he died “a destitute and miserable end”, tore me up. I think of my niece’s young daughter Zyla, whose father is black. She is so full of life and energy that the world should be at her doorstep. When she grows up, she can be anything she wants to be. But like Edmond Albius, the color of her skin may close doors to her.
The chili queens were an inspiration. They found a way to develop a thriving enterprise. But then they were persecuted and regulated out of business. Today, we still have raging political battles about immigration from Mexico and other Spanish speaking countries. My brother’s second wife, a Cuban exile, is a pilot and a co-founder of Brothers to the Rescue. His son’s wife is from Colombia; their 2 young daughters are beautiful. His other son and his partner, from Mexico are expecting a child this summer. They all live in South Florida, so they are somewhat insulated from the rampant racism against Latinos, but it’s painful to hear what’s said in our ‘hallowed walls”.
I don’t have any family members from Italy, VietNam, Thailand, etc, but the first 4 chapters of this book kept driving home how so much of our food, discoveries, and culture was brought here on the back of unappreciated immigrants. We love our Chinese food, but we don’t want the Chinese. We think of tacos and burritos as everyday food, but we don’t want the Mexicans that brought them. There is a whole new wave of appreciation for Southern Food and Soul Food, but we denigrate the black people that created them from whatever they could scrounge.
I really loved the book. I loved it for what I learned about the origins of our most cherished flavors. But I also loved it because it made me think. I wondered about why we don’t cherish the people as much as the food. And I cried.
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