You Are How You Eat...

The other day in HuffPo, some gal wrote one of those trite bits about how men's eating styles or preferences clue you in to who they are at their core.  Not sure what I make of her pat assessments, but I do agree with her premise that a person's food preferences and eating styles can speak volumes about who they are.

Growing up in a Korean-Vietnamese home, food was not just sustenance.  It symbolized so many things - belief, memory, emotion, affection.  For my Korean father who grew up during the Japanese occupation and the Korean War, certain foods, particularly the sweet ones and fatty ones so hard to come by in his youth, were a symbol of luxury and freedom – from occupation, deprivation, and poverty. 

For my mother, it was memories of a truly blessed food culture that benefited (if at least from the culinary standpoint) from French colonization and the bounties of a Southeast Asian tropic. She introduced me not only to pho, goi cuon and bun, but also to the joys of pate de campagne on a fresh baguette or a light and airy eclair topped with rich chocolate ganache and filled with a perfectly smooth and delicate pastry crème...  

Both parents used food as a way to show concern and love where their cultures didn't encourage open displays of affection. To ask if you had eaten was to ensure your welfare and wellbeing. To cook a meal to your liking was the epitome of care and consideration.

For me, food became all the things it was to my parents and more.  It was something to come together for some times; something to be grateful for all the time; something in which to lose myself when life became chaotic; something to soothe, calm and focus my mind in its preparation; and best of all, something to bond me instantly to just about anyone, no matter the distance or difference, with a mere mention of a familiar dish.

Food was also a teacher – of patience, forbearance, gratitude, creativity and adaptability. Learning to cook naturally lends itself to learning those traits, but not everyone needs, wants, or is inclined to cook. Everyone does, however, EAT.  And it was as much, if not more, through the eating of it, that food shaped my character and personality. 

When my parents were poorer than rich, we ate 25 cent packets of Sapporo Ichiban ramen with a poached egg and some cilantro and/or green onion chopped on the bias for a bit of glam.  It was salty, savory, filling and comforting as anything.  Doctoring that little brick of deep fried noodles and foil seasoning packet into a satisfying dinner taught me that a little ingenuity and creativity could turn poverty into bounty. 

When times were better, our family’s diet indulged my dad’s love of (huge bowlfuls of) chocolate ice cream and well-marbled rib eye steaks.  My mom would pan-fry those rib eyes to a lovely, pink medium rare, and I learned how especially delicious rich and fatty foods are when you have to wait through more than a few packets of ramen to have them. 

When things stayed better for a while and my parents could afford other indulgences like hwae (Korean style  sashimi), live Dungeness crabs, kalbi (Korean barbecued shortribs), pate de foie gras, imported French butter and all sorts of other goodies on the regular, I learned that there was a whole world of good and delicious things to eat if I was willing to try something I might not like in order to discover something I might love.

Oysters on the half shell and the rather obscene looking geoduck clam taught me that some times, things are really ugly on the outside and a complete treasure on the inside.  Eating dragon fruit for the first time taught me that some things, while captivating to look at, are really just meh once you get past the outer layers.  And bitter melon taught me that some stuff really is just as nasty and difficult as it looks.

When I became a starving student and Life tightened the belt once more, I looked forward to a monthly dinner out (on a coupon, no less) while eating for days from a pot of chili or spaghetti sauce.  This time, food showed me that nothing lasts forever.  Not the ramen, not the rib eye, and eventually not the spaghetti sauce, either.

And all the while, the lessons I was taught not just BY food, but THROUGH it remained with me.  Serve others, especially elders and children, first. If eating buffet or family style, take a judicious helping of any dish – someone else should not be left wanting for your greed.  Take just enough and finish what you take because there is always someone, somewhere, who would be grateful to be able to eat what you discard.  


If someone went to the trouble of cooking a meal for you, eat it graciously, completely and gratefully.  When in Rome, do as the Romans do and eat pasta even if you’re used to rice.  You will certainly survive and most likely find that pasta can be quite deliziosa.  And most importantly, be happy and thankful for whatever is set before you, humble or indulgent.  There is a season for, sustenance from, and value in, all of it.

That said, food isn’t so magical as to render me any less odd, eccentric (or crazy, depending on who you ask), bitchy, snarky, sarcastic, unruly, undisciplined or underachieving.  But it did teach me to be grateful, flexible, easygoing, adventurous and adaptable. Make me a dry meatloaf, I’ll squeeze a healthy dollop of ketchup on top and gobble with a smile.  No ketchup? I’ll just wash it down with water.  Leave me with nothing but a can of baked beans and a turkey dog, and I’ll make trailer park party in a bowl.  Put a bowl of menudo in front of me, I'll ask for extra tripe.  Take me to Marche Moderne and I’m all over the hamachi crudo and foie gras torchon.  And if ramen’s all we got for lunch the next day, then ramen again it is!

But what a fantastically doctored bowl of ramen it will be. :)

shinae