The Table Is Part of the Journey

“Picture it. Sicily…”

For anyone who grew up watching The Golden Girls, those three words probably came with a voice.

Sophia Petrillo could transport an entire kitchen in Miami to Sicily with a story. There was usually a relative, a feud, a questionable decision and, somewhere along the way, food. The details occasionally stretched the limits of believability, but that was part of the charm. Food, family and place were rarely far from one another.

Long before some of us understood food as a form of cultural immersion, we were already watching it tell us where people came from.

American television also gave us a very different introduction to unfamiliar food.

Fear Factor.

Suddenly, what we didn't recognize wasn't something to understand. It was something to survive. What horrifying thing was underneath the lid? Could you swallow it without gagging? Could you figure out what you had just eaten? Add dramatic music, horrified faces and prize money, and unfamiliar food became something requiring courage rather than curiosity.

Of course, most travel doesn't involve Joe Rogan standing nearby while you contemplate your life choices. Still, sometimes our brains can turn the unfamiliar into our own miniature version of Fear Factor.

I've had a few of those moments myself.

Enter the century egg.

Despite the name, it isn't actually a hundred years old. It is a preserved egg, transformed through a curing process until the white darkens and the yolk takes on an entirely different color, texture and flavor.

I have had eggs many ways, and I must admit, that was my least favorite. I'm not always a fan of fermentation.

Then there is balut, a fertilized duck egg with a developing embryo inside.

First bite can escalate quickly.

IYKYK.

That wasn't quite where my curiosity was leading me either. Duck confit or Peking duck, though? Now you're speaking my love language.

Somewhere in all of this was Anthony Bourdain, offering a very different way of looking at what happens when food and travel meet.

Food wasn't something strange to conquer. It was an invitation. Sit at the table. Eat what people eat. Listen. Pay attention. Through food, the conversation became bigger than whatever happened to be on the plate. It became about people, history, place and the ordinary rhythms of life.

As it turns out, some of those experiences don't require a passport.

One of the foods that surprised me most came courtesy of a neighbor who was born in Germany and had perfected smoked venison. I had reservations. Serious reservations. Somewhere between knowing exactly what venison was and remembering a certain wide eyed Disney deer from childhood, guilt arrived before the first bite did.

Then I tasted it.

BBQ Bambi was delicious.

Disturbingly delicious.

There I was, morally conflicted and considering seconds.

There is an intimacy to being fed by someone. A dish can carry a family recipe, a childhood memory, a celebration, a region, a tradition or simply what was available that day. You don't always know which one you're being handed when the plate arrives.

Sometimes all you know is that someone wanted you to taste it.

Perhaps that is what began to change for me as my own travels moved farther from home. The food was certainly part of the experience, but increasingly, so were the people offering it.

The tables changed. The languages changed. The ingredients changed. Sometimes I knew exactly what had been placed in front of me. Sometimes I had questions. Occasionally, I decided those questions could wait until after the first bite.

What surprised me over the years wasn't how different these tables were.

It was how familiar they became.

Again and again, I was welcomed with love and big smiles. Someone made room. Someone offered me something they wanted me to taste. There was often that little pause as they watched my face for the first reaction. When I liked it, there was delight. More often than not, there was also immediately more food headed in my direction.

Different ingredients. Different languages. Different customs. Different ways of preparing, serving and eating.

Yet somewhere along the way, I realized I didn't need a translation for what was happening.

The gesture was the same.

Welcome home.