One of the difficulties of discussing cultures is the general lack of tangibles. When trying to decode how cultures make decisions, communicate, or see the world, much relies on the painstaking collection of data points, working through case studies to break down how or why things are the way they are. Even when an academic does the hard yards, and presents their findings, there’s still room for debate and counter argument. The truth is, like so much of life, finding the absolute truth is near impossible. That’s perhaps why we often leap on the material, the physical examples of culture, the examples we can hold in our hands, or in many cases, eat. For many, food is the most accessible example of a culture.

That being said, it doesn’t mean that food is free from discussion either - in some instances, discussing food can be far more abrasive than presenting a paper to a room full of academics. Simply put, this is because food is something everyone can engage with at some level. In the modern world, we don’t have to hack our way through a jungle in order to discover a different culture, nowadays most of us can go to a restaurant, or simply order online, and quickly receive a mouthful of a totally different approach to the world.

However, is food a useful way of viewing a different culture? Perhaps, but it is also true that because food is such an open doorway, we tend to over extrapolate. Do fish and chips tell us about the inner minds of the British? How about Wurst, is it the ultimate indicator of how Germans think? There’s surely useful knowledge to be gleaned from food, the choice of ingredients, the history of its development, even the arrangement can tell us something, but not everything. What I’ve always considered far more telling of a culture is not the food itself, but the reactions to it, especially when someone starts messing with the system.

One story I’ve discussed many times over the years was my experience of trying to change a particular order at a Bavarian Wirtschaft one beautiful summer's afternoon. We’d been hiking along a well known path in Franconia, and decided to stop at a restaurant that we stumbled across. One of the many lessons I’ve learned living in the south of Germany is that Bavarians seem to have an innate ability to know exactly the right place to put a traditional restaurant. Another is that it’s almost impossible to order badly. We ordered a round of beers, laughing at how ridiculously beautiful the location we’d found was, as we scanned the menus, sat on benches under enormous oak trees in the early afternoon sun. There wasn’t much choice, but since we all knew whatever we ordered would be good, we quickly made up our minds. This is where the problem began.

As the server took down our choices, I suddenly decided what I actually wanted was a Schäufele (pork shoulder), but not one with the usual gloopy Kloß (dumpling), but with Pommes (chips). Thinking nothing of my substitution, since tables all around were happily eating Pommes with a variety of dishes, I ordered. Instead of a word of acknowledgment, or even a confirmatory noise, my selection was met with silence. I looked up at the server, and they were going a shade of puce I’ve only seen in movies when someone’s head is about to explode. I was told in no uncertain terms that what I’d ordered was unacceptable, the Schäufele came with Kloß and nothing else. I was slightly taken aback, after all, it wasn’t much of an effort to switch out one type of potato for another, and despite my protests I was once again informed that I couldn’t order that particular combination.

Perhaps it was the pre-lunch beers, or the bloodymindedness of having lived in Franken for five years, but I repeated my order, made another argument that it really wasn’t that big a deal. Grumbling and indignant, the server took my order, probably realising correctly that arguing with some British idiot was far below their pay grade. When our food arrived, the grim faced server informed me that they had put the Schäufele and the Pommes on separate plates. So awful was my choice in their eyes, they couldn’t possibly allow the two orders to meet. I laughed, after all it was an excellent response given our short argument when ordering. Feeling suitably chastened, we ate, drank, paid and went on our way.

There are different ways of looking at this story. Does it tell us about the inflexibility of the Germans? Maybe it only speaks to the Bavarians, or possibly it’s telling more about the Frankish. Is this an example of the much maligned German customer service? It might be the perfect example of how Germans seem predisposed to hate any kind of change, no matter how insignificant. It may well be telling us all of these things, or none of these things, but frankly I think the interaction itself isn’t really that meaningful. What is telling, at least in my mind, is the reactions to this story when I tell it to other Germans.

Sometimes people will laugh and say I was risking my life messing with one of Franconia’s most famous dishes. People might nod sagely and compare it to a time they had to deal with an inflexible Beamter who demanded they fill in a form in a very particular way, or who wouldn’t accept some document or other. Other times my audience will shake their heads at the pettiness of the whole interaction. A common response is to challenge my actions. I’ll be admonished, my decision to order Pommes derided, and I will be told pointedly that to mess with traditional combination of foods is unacceptable. ‘Who are you?’ they will ask ‘Who are you to mess with hundreds of years of Franconian culinary development?’

I find this last reaction fascinating. The indignation with which it is delivered tells us a lot about how some Germans understand the world. Of course all cultures are protective of their food, and prefer for it not to be maligned, but not every culture would react with such direct annoyance. Germans though, the lovely, protective Germans, will not only tell me I’m wrong for ordering Pommes, but that I shouldn’t have attempted to mess with perfection in the first place. In one memorable exchange I was told, in all earnestness, that it is a scientific fact that the combination of Schäufele and Kloß is correct, which seemed to imply I was breaking some Newtonian law by choosing to have my potato fried rather than boiled. It also might be an insight into how passionate Germans can be about their own culture. For a people that are criticised for being cold and insensitive, it’s really something to see Germans suddenly animated over the traditions of their food. In a country that keeps its national pride carefully guarded, save for the occasional football tournament, it’s interesting that in the realm of cuisine, they can unfurl the metaphorical flags and take a stand for their national dishes.

Yet there is a part of me that wonders why this annoys people so much. In one instance I was told that I wouldn’t go to the Louvre and mess with the paintings, which seems to be ramping the drama up to eleven. In my mind there’s being protective, and then there’s being precious. One is understandable, the other is essentially gatekeeping. We don’t all have to agree, it would be boring if we did, we’re allowed to make choices that differ. Do my Pommes diminish German culture? Of course not, but demanding conformity at every turn does. Accepting difference on its merits is important, seeing things differently has value, and can help us to appreciate what we have in different ways. Some may never get that, and that’s just how it is, but if you happen to be wandering the woods of Franconia this weekend, and stop for a bite to eat, consider adding something different to your order. You never know, you might just like it.

Proofreader: @ScandiTina

Image Credit

Foto von Nsey Benajah auf Unsplash

Foto von form PxHere

Jeremy Keith on Flickr

Foto von Randy Laybourne auf Unsplash

Foto von Joyce Panda auf Unsplash