You Are Invited

When you first find the card, you can hardly believe your eyes. It’s not unusual in any sense of the word, and yet, it stops you in your tracks. Your entire life, you’ve gone back and forth between wishing to one day receive a card like this and doubting that such a thing could even exist. Now that you hold it in your hand, feel the weight and texture of the paper, it’s like a fever dream come true, impossible and inevitable at the same time. Mesmerised, you turn the card back and forth. It’s not bigger than your palm and incredibly simple in design. YOU ARE INVITED, the front reads in capital letters, silver foil shining brightly on a black background. The back is kept in white, two rows of small black letters spelling an address, not far from where you live and a date, not long from the current one. On top, it says, ‘The Potluck Dinner’, and though there are no further instructions, no signatures or other signs explaining who the card might be from, that is all you need to know. The dinner is legendary, and you are invited.

Over the next couple of days, you find yourself forgetting about the dinner as if your brain can’t fathom the possibility of it being real, but as the date grows closer, the silver foiling keeps catching your gaze every time you walk past the card. Finally, your mind kicks into panic mode, a million questions running through your head: What if the card wasn’t meant for you at all? Will people be expecting someone else to show up? Does it matter? And if it doesn’t, what on earth are you supposed to bring to a dinner such as this one? You know, without having to be told that your dish is supposed to represent you on a fundamental level. And not just you as a person, either, but your story, your culture, your legacy. After much agonising, you decide on your favourite childhood recipe and make your way to the location. 

When you arrive, an enormous wooden table is set for two dozen people. Black candles light the room, and big bouquets of Baby’s Breath represent the white in a room that’s kept as dark as the front of the invitation card. A second table, pushed up against the wall, is filled with an entire landscape of dishes from all over the world, each labelled in stunning silver cursive. All around the room, people stand together in little groups, chatting and laughing. You recognise none of them, but no one seems surprised by your appearance, and soon, a girl beckons you to join her group of five standing by a fireplace. As everyone shakes your hand, the girl introduces herself with a beautiful Hungarian name, and the conversation quickly returns to the food everyone chose to bring. A boy and a girl, a sibling pair from Thailand, explain that their choice of Phat Thai was made with regards to the potluck-dinner-potential and easy shareability of the rice noodle dish. The tall young man next to you reasons that he chose to bring a plate of Seswaa, a dish of boiled and pounded meat, because of how popular it is in his home country of Botswana.

When asked about your offering, you shrug and admit you brought a personal favourite. Then, just as you finish speaking, a fork gets tapped against a wine glass and the whole room falls silent. 

“Welcome”, a deep voice says, and, for a second, you have trouble identifying who it belongs to. The people around you seem caught off guard as well, looking around puzzled until a person dressed in black and white, silver rings stacked high on their fingers and in their ears, steps into the light of a candle. As much as the dinner is legendary, the host is nothing short of a mystery. Nobody knows their name or – come to think of it – anything else about them: “Welcome to The Potluck Dinner. I’m happy to see you all followed my invitation”, they smile. “We live in a world that loves to highlight our differences, but I have found that seated together around a table, connecting over food, it’s our similarities that shine. I’m sure you will find that to be true over the course of this dinner, and I would ask you to keep an open mind as long as you’re seated at my table. And now, let’s enjoy the dishes you have so kindly brought”, and with that, they take a seat among their guests. For a moment, no one seems to know what to do next, then a boy in a wheelchair takes a plate, fills it with a variety of food items from the second table and encourages everyone else to join in. Soon, a line forms.

When you reach the table, you notice that the food isn’t separated into appetisers, mains, or desserts, but you decide to start your dinner with a  bit of ‘an aperitivo’, as an older Italian lady next to you calls it. She tells you that she is responsible for the big sheet of freshly made Focaccia that smells heavenly and finds its way onto your plate first. You also add a spoonful of Hummus and Baba Ganoush. As you return to your seat, a variety of beverages are passed around the table, and you choose a glass at random to clink with your neighbours. And then, finally, you take your first bite. The Baba Ganoush is out of this world: creamy, nutty, and zesty, perfectly rounded with a drizzle of olive oil on top. Before you can stop yourself, you go back for a second dollop. At your return, you’re engulfed in a conversation all about fermentation. Though quite a few different opinions are voiced, you are amazed at how happy everyone seems to be to explore other points of view. It’s only when someone says they haven’t tried much fermented food that eyebrows are raised for a second. Still, nobody laughs at them or scolds them for missing out on what has been the gastronomic super trend of the last few years – or, as someone else points out, an age-old practice that has always been used to conserve food. There are suggestions being made on what kind of fermented food could be a good starting point and stories of other ‘first times’ being told. Soon, the conversation transforms, the topic of fermentation seamlessly leading into an excited discussion about food experiments. Just by listening, you learn that most of you are passionate chefs, though no one has worked in a kitchen professionally. Some say they prefer to eat, while others share their love for the act of cooking or baking, often surpassing the craving to actually eat everything they produce.

You find yourself nodding along to some opinions and challenging others. Though people from a variety of different backgrounds, ethnicities and cultures are present, there seem to be no borders when it comes to enjoying food together, everyone seeming excited to share their opinions, traditions, and techniques. 

Every time you leave the table to get more food, you sit down next to someone different, getting to know new people and exploring new ideas. After a while, the ever-changing seating arrangement reminds you of a game you used to play when you were a child – only that no seats are being taken away here and there is no music to be found. You discuss this new thought with the person next to you for a while, finding that they, too, enjoyed playing a similar game in kindergarten. Then, inevitably, you ask them your favourite question: “What made you bring your dish?“ You are amazed by the variety of reasons and love how considerate people have been with their choices. Many chose to do vegetarian options, with some even opting to go completely vegan, just in case anyone might feel more comfortable with that kind of food. Of course, this sparks a lively discussion about veganism, but once again, you are pleasantly surprised at how open and accommodating everyone is. Soon, the people around you no longer seem like strangers but newfound friends, and whenever someone lifts their glass to toast this extraordinary experience, you gladly join in with their cheer. 

Meanwhile, one dish tastes better than the next, making it impossible to pick a favourite, so you quickly abandon the idea. Every dish, much like the person who prepared it, is unique and excellent in its own right, you think, as you fall in love with Korean dumplings and get second helpings of Puerto Rican Empanadillas. The last main dish you try is meat-stuffed peppers in tomato sauce from the Hungarian girl who first welcomed you into her group. You find her gaze from across the room and lift your glass once more. 

By the time you load your plate with the three sweet options – a chocolate truffle from Brazil, an Austrian dish called Kaiserschmarrn and Mandazi Donuts from Malawi – hardly anyone is sitting at the table anymore. People are moving around from one group to the next, taking their plates and glasses with them. By now, the conversations have diversified as well, centring no longer just on food-related topics but covering any- and everything. One group is immersed in a chat about book-to-movie adaptations of the last decade, another shares national and personal holiday traditions. There are stories being told left, right, and centre, often covering the same joys and worries, fears, and dreams that feel familiar to you, too. You catch bits of conversation as you walk through the room aimlessly, savouring first the Brigadeiro truffle, then the donuts. 

“So, you brought this?”, someone asks not far from where you stand, pointing to what looks like a pile of fluffed-up dough, sprinkled with icing sugar. 

“Yes”, the girl next to him smiles: “It’s a Kaiserschmarrn – one of the most well-known and traditional desserts of Austria.”

“Isn’t Austria most well-known for the Schnitzel? Why didn’t you bring that? It would have been a much more obvious choice.”

“I guess I didn’t feel the need to be particularly obvious”, she shrugs. “You see, Austrian cuisine has a lot more to offer than just the Wiener Schnitzel. Much like the country itself, it has a long and diverse history, full of influences from neighbouring countries and a big tradition when it comes to sweet dishes and desserts. For me, that’s what really stands out about our cuisine, and I guess I wanted everyone else to experience it too.”

“Fair enough. But what exactly is it?”

“Imagine a classic pancake batter, but instead of mixing everything together you separate the eggs and whisk up the whites. That way you get a really fluffy and airy texture – a great juxtaposition to the crispy outside you get when cooking and caramelising it. It’s delicious, especially with some cold milk”, and she lifts her glass as if to toast him, “Go on, try it!” Her companion does and you see his somewhat sceptical expression slowly change to one of pure delight. 

“That tastes great!” he says, “Sorry for giving you such a hard time just then. I guess I’m getting a bit tired and worn out.”

“No worries”, the girl says, and you look down at your watch. It is well past midnight, but you’ve never felt more awake. You allow yourself another moment to take in the scene: dark candles almost burnt down to the quick, empty bottles of wine, water, and juice on every available surface, rounds of chairs pushed together. After a while, you select a new group at random and sink down in an empty seat. As you take a bite of the Kaiserschmarrn the two had just been talking about, you remind yourself to savour this taste – this moment, this night – forever.