I miss my grandmother's couscous
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Since the second half of the twentieth century, Indian cuisine has become increasingly popular in British culture and social life. Today, there are approximately nine thousand restaurants and take-aways run by South Asian immigrants and their descendants. Most of their customers are White people (Buettner, 143). Buettner explains this increasing taste for so-called Indian food by using the term ‘‘celebratory multiculturalism’’. However, this multiculturalism still came with a form of racism and exclusion (Buettner, 145). Indian restaurants and take-aways were ‘‘damned and praised simultaneously’’ (Buettner 159). Some clients considered that the food was good, all while being cheap. Others considered that these restaurants were disappointing, and that the food lacked flavor. Some described these restaurants as nice places to grab food after hitting the pub (Buettner, 158). Many of these restaurants were criticized for having the same designs and the same menus, thus, lacking authenticity (Buettner, 156). They could even be depicted as ‘‘second-class establishments’’ (Buettner, 157). Some White people have considered rebranding the food, modernizing it, and attracting new clientele (Buettner, 168). Personally, I consider this to be not only cultural appropriation, but also a strange form of colonialism. It’s as if Westerners want to colonize food in order to make financial profits.
Food can also be linked to nostalgia, thus, to a form of melancholia. Cooking can be a way of recreating immigrant people’s home countries. It can also be a way of recreating the past in their present lives. In order to make authentic food, which is different from the rest, one must recreate their own homes. However, the nostalgia one feels in relation to their home country leads to the creation of things that ‘‘never were’’ (Mannur, 32). This means that the person who is recreating their home, is only recreating a perspective, and not a reality.
The music video overall presents how food links us to our families, our parents and grandparents. In the music video, the moment I find the most interesting is when we see Jaffrey in a boxing gym, wearing boxing gloves and a championship belt. I think this symbolizes the fact that we all consider our grandmothers as the best chefs. I can eat couscous anywhere in the world, but in will never be better than the one my grandmother made that one time when I was nine years old. Was she truly the best chef? Was that really the best couscous I ever ate? Or am I just nostalgic of my childhood, and of being able to spend time with my grandmother?
I believe that food is important for diaspora histories, as it not only allows people to keep a part of their culture, but it also allows them to interact with other people. In fact, food is a way of sharing your culture with people of other diasporas. It’s also a way of interacting with White people, who can claim your food as a new part of their culture, all while describing it as disgusting, greasy or stinky. Food can bring you back to your childhood, your home country, your family. You can also start being ashamed of the food you once loved because of the way it’s perceived by White people. -
Like many of us, food has always been one of the strongest connections to my origins. Growing up, I often felt disconnected from the meals that were part of my culture, which made me disinterested in food. It wasn’t until I first visited Algeria that my perspective began to shift.
Stepping into Algeria felt both foreign and familiar. I struggled with the dialect, and while I could catch the jokes, there was an undeniable sense of belonging that came through the food. The scents, colors, and flavors provided an instant source of comfort, representing a tangible link to my Algerian heritage—a piece of my identity that felt solid and real.
I realized that my parents' cooking was more than just about making delicious meals; it was their way of preserving our culture and sharing it with us. Those large gatherings around couscous or trida were not just about the food; they were about community, family, and our shared history.
Now that I can host and cook for my friends, I find joy in sharing those recipes and blending my Algerian roots with their traditional dishes. Continuing this tradition feels important, not just because the food is enjoyable, but because it connects us to our stories and cultures. Food has this incredible power to unite us and remind us of who we are.
Reflecting on my journey, I resonate with the sentiment: “The disinterest in food that I had felt during my childhood years was transformed into a new kind of need for that food as an essential connection with home” (Mannur). I now recognize that those very dishes are crucial to my identity and my connection to home. -
The search for "authentic food" has been a frequent and animated topic of discussion among Iranians at various gatherings. This recurring conversation within the Iranian diaspora made me reflect on the significance of "authentic" Persian cuisine and the deep cultural connection it represents. Having been in Canada for just a year, I still consider myself a new immigrant. Yet, alongside family, friends, and my city, the flavors of home-cooked meals are among the things I miss most. I vividly remember the joy I felt when I first tasted authentic Persian food at a friend’s gathering, about six months after I moved. The familiar taste transported me back home in a way that music or literature—my usual comforts—hadn’t managed to.
Gradually, I discovered Iranian cafes and restaurants in Montreal and found myself spending time there—studying, meeting friends, or simply being around something familiar—more often than anywhere else. Observing the atmosphere in these spaces, I saw firsthand how Persian food becomes a unifying force in exile, bringing people together. I noticed that many Iranian cultural or literary gatherings are held in these cafes, where people enjoy Persian tea after a good meal, a customary tradition in Persian culinary culture.
These cafes have become havens for Iranians seeking a sense of comfort; as many have told me, they feel as though they’re briefly back in Iran. This fleeting but familiar experience is unique to the act of sharing food, embodying what Mannur insightfully describes in Chapter 1 of Culinary Fictions, where food becomes central to creating a sense of home after immigration.