Food serves as a universal language, understood by all, as we all share the need to eat. However, there are certain words and concepts related to food that can be difficult to translate. During a writing workshop in Slovenia, I found myself explaining the meaning of the word “pasty” and discussing how its appearance in a story can reveal social class or character traits. I confidently stated that the author chose a pasty instead of a sandwich to convey Keith’s masculine needs and his longing for a hot lunch.
Portable dishes exist in all cultures, and the pasty exemplifies this universality. After showing my students a picture of a pasty through Google, they immediately grasped its significance. However, the Cornish pasty, when made authentically, possesses a distinct identity that should not be altered. This became more complex because Keith, the character we were analyzing, is an old-fashioned and meticulous individual who enjoys passing judgment on his lunch as much as he enjoys eating it.
I was cautious about delving too deeply into the specific ingredients, fearing that my authoritative role as a teacher would crumble with one mention of “potatoes, but not carrots” (let alone swede). Instead, I focused on mentioning Keith’s habit of keeping a handheld vacuum cleaner in his car to handle any crumbs from his beloved pasties. This evoked laughter from everyone, as car-crumb neuroticism is a shared experience worldwide.
Outside of the classroom, some people in Ljubljana, particularly in a post-Brexit context, were intrigued by British gravy and asked me about it with a smile. These questions sparked a slight identity crisis within me, as explaining the essence of gravy proved challenging and a little embarrassing. They also inquired about our usage of the word “pudding” to describe both a course and specific dishes. Alarming to me, they were familiar with spotted dick, a dish that may now symbolize our self-imposed parochialism. However, I cherished these conversations despite feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the sophistication of my European hosts and their command of English. Food has the remarkable ability to facilitate conversations with strangers effortlessly, allowing for discussions on topics beyond food itself, even if approached indirectly.
Curiosity flowed both ways, as I had plenty of questions myself. When the fish I ordered in the medieval town of Škofja Loka had an incredibly earthy taste, I wanted to know its origin (answer: a river just seven miles away). When a bowl of ice cream arrived with a hint of tarragon flavor, I wondered if this was uncommon (answer: no, tarragon is often used in sweet dishes in Slovenia). People enjoy being asked about food, and their stories, filled with pride and nostalgia, foster a sense of patriotism that resonates with anyone.
It is astonishing how quickly one can develop a longing for foods that were completely unfamiliar just a week ago. In Ljubljana, I had the pleasure of trying two dishes that I truly enjoyed. The first was a bean-rich soup called “jota,” accompanied by thick slices of smoked sausage. The second was “potica,” a rolled pastry that can be filled with walnuts, poppy seeds, curd cheese, or tarragon. Both dishes were delicious and completely new to me, as I relish experimenting with new flavors. However, in London, a city known for its diverse cuisines, I cannot find any Slovenian or Balkan restaurants, let alone purchase potica online. As a result, I already miss both dishes dearly.
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