A Meal to Remember in Tunisia

I have often traveled off the beaten path and found myself in the company of people I would not have met had I stayed in hotels in touristy sectors. Often these encounters have led to an invitation to a meal and sometimes to be hosted for several days. This was the experience I had while traveling in Tunisia in the late 1980s.

I met a wonderful Tunisian family that invited me to stay for several weeks. During the time I lived with this generous family, we were hosted at the home of the eldest daughter and her husband on the beach in the northern Tunisia. As I was taught by my parents, I offered to assist in the kitchen. To my disappointment I was declined, as the women wanted to show their hospitality. Not knowing where to go, I found a seat in the living room among the men of the house. The husband, a doctor, asked me in a very gruff tone why I wasn't taking my place with the other women in the kitchen. Speechless and not desiring to cause a rift within the family, I smiled and left the room. As I passed the kitchen to make my way to the porch, I was met by their daughter, Insaf. A name that means "one who wishes to be equal".

Insaf and I were the same age, 21, but lived vastly different lives. As we walked along the beach she confided in me her feelings about her father's tight grip on her and her plan to go away to school, become an independent woman and travel alone like me. I became quite worried that she would mention this at dinner and asked her with a wink if she would kindly to keep her ideas to herself until I was safely out of the country. Laughing she agreed and we walked back to the house to find her grandmother making bread in a traditional Tabouna oven (pictured at the top of this article). I watched this old woman strain to gently and skillfully pat the dough onto the sides of the oven and remove the hardened loaves, sometimes burning her hands and fingertips. She passionately told me through Insaf that this tradition was dying and soon Tabouna bread would no longer exist. I was saddened when I heard this as the warm, yeasty smell wafted up toward me, but I understood that modern women such as Insaf probably wouldn't have the time or the inclination to continue the tradition. I think that Insaf read my mind because she nodded to me in agreement.

We sat outside on the floor of the porch around the low dining table. I loved sharing and eating the food with my hands as well as the few drinking glasses available. There was a closeness and warmth that I had never felt before that even radiated from Insaf's father. The generational distance floated away on the warm sea breeze, leaving only people enjoying each other and their food.

The spread consisted of the fragrant Tabouna bread made by Grandma and also:

Beef Kefta, a seasoned meat accompanied by Harissa, a spicy tomato salad
Deviled eggs
Homemade couscous made in the traditional way
Chorba, a soup similar to minestrone, but with many more spices
Chakchouka, a roasted vegetable medley of chick peas, tomatoes, peppers, garlic and onions served with a poached egg on top of the lot
Salata Batata, a hot potato and caraway seed salad

We finished with Makroud, a semolina cake stuffed with dates, orange peel and cinnamon followed by strong, sweet Turkish coffee.

By the end of the meal I understood how difficult it might be for Insaf to leave her home to follow her dreams of independence. At that moment I didn't want to leave them either. I sensed my Western tendencies begin to melt away and my feminist ideals at odds with my feelings. I wanted to understand what this meal meant to them, to me and how the food and culture of Tunisia fit with the rest of the world. It was at this dinner that I knew I wanted to be an anthropologist, even though I wouldn't really understand what an anthropologist truly was until many years later. This was one meal of many courses that changed the course of one life.