Burritos and Privilege

The amount of sheer joy I derive from living in California in such close proximity to some of the best food America has to offer is often hard to put into words. My town alone has a large population of Latinos, Sikhs, Vietnamese, and a host of various Asian transplants which elevate the local cuisine to delectable heights.

There are mosques and temples, fish markets and panaderias, flea markets, outdoor malls, and a host of experiences to initiate the curious, but I have found the easiest way to learn about a culture is through their food. 

Growing up in Bakersfield there has been no shortage of exposure to Latino culture from quinceaneras, school assemblies with folklorico dancing, weekend swap meets, pinadas, day of the dead celebrations, and the majority of my friends' families who fed and helped raise me into who I am today. 

However, I think a lot of people take for granted this diversity, and some have even come to expect the world to kowtow to their whims. Due to their inherent privilege they assume a level of comfort and respect at all times, and when that is encroached upon they are willing to write off an entire experience.

People sometimes tell me the place I recommended to them had rude service, they were ignored, or they felt like they were being talked down to, and, more often than not, this is a white person entering a predominantly non-white establishment. It is not hard to imagine the same experience is often flipped with non-whites in a white establishment feeling patronized or disrespected by an assumed prejudice employee. Neither side's intent has to be prejudice, but the perception of a new experience can be distorted by ignorance.

Once, I was ordering pizza in the Bronx, and I was confused as to why the guy at the counter would not take my money. He handed me my slices, gave me the drinks, and there was nothing left for me to do but take it to my table and eat. After repeated attempts to hand him money he looked at me with disgust. I paid after I ate and later asked a cab driver why this happened, and he explained that the guy was Italian and most places in New York have more of a "European" way of doing things: you don't pay until you have eaten your food. Here I was righteously indignant when I had been the rude one inadvertently offending him.

This was reinforced at The Algonquin when I waited for a half hour on my check in a not that busy restaurant. I later discovered rushing me out of a table is a faux pas. On both these occasions I thought I was being messed with, but it is just the way things are handled in that culture. In California the server is flipping tables as fast as possible to get the next tip in, but by the end of my stay in New York I was having 1 to 2 hour meals. 

It is no secret America has a rich history of not being kind to others, and those in the privileged class grow used to privileges. When the kitchen tables have turned and said person of privilege finds themselves on the receiving end of discrimination one should chalk it up to an adventure in empathy rather than an excuse to demonize an establishment. Remember that the next time you perceive something off about your service. It is a privilege to get to partake in their culture and have them prepare their food for you. The price of the meal buys so much more than food, but it does not buy you respect. Like anywhere else, respect is earned, so be thankful for the opportunity to earn it.