During the pandemic, food shows and documentaries were my comfort. I watched everything from sobering docu-series journeying into the history of black American cuisine, to the food stories of chefs and locals in cities and countries across the globe. There were moments of tear-jerking catharsis, of childlike wonderment, of deep interest in the intricate storytelling, and satisfied joy when ingredients came together. In response to my newfound interest, I baked, fried, marinated, mashed, practised, perfected — and concluded that good food was a universal human comfort, and the stories behind good food were undeniably the same.
Food is survival but, beyond that, food is sensory. Spiritual even. It is nourishment and joy. Food is a storyteller. A custodian of culture, of histories, and of peoples. Food is a conduit for celebrating identity and supporting community. This is especially true for immigrants and diasporas across the globe. For those of us who identify as such, food can stem loss, it can reaffirm our connection to “home”, it can negotiate our interactions in our host countries.
Bia! — meaning “food” in Irish and “come” in Igbo — is a community storytelling project. Bia! is not about the latest culinary innovations or flavour profiles, rather it’s about how immigrants and diasporas produce their symbolic presence in Ireland through food. How our foods — suya, dosa, injera, lumpia, batata harra, farofa — travel, intersect and weave us together. It’s about how, as we migrate, we adapt, how our food practices change. Bia! is an exploration of identity, cultural heritage, resistance and celebration. Bia! is a representation of the voices, the food, the stories and the histories of marginalised communities in Ireland. Here, some of the contributors share their stories.
‘In Dublin, I try to recreate a little of my mother’s world in India’
Prerna Shah
In India, my mother’s kitchen always has a little bit extra, no matter what is being cooked for the day.
She sends a katori of kheer to a neighbour, keeps aside a slice of the savoury rice and lentil-based Indian cake known as handvo for the girl who used to stay with her as a “paying guest”, a roti layered with ghee for the stray cow or the dog that frequents our neighbourhood, fritters for the man who sells vegetables in his handcart.
Food is always meant to be shared, she says. With friends, family, neighbours, colleagues, fellow travellers in trains, cows, dogs, sparrows and even monkeys, who destroy our garden and eat all the rosebuds.
In Dublin, I try to recreate a little of her world, with the help of our neighbours and my husband.
My husband is a very good cook, and he recreates the cuisines of our Gujarati childhood, and dishes from across the length and breadth of India.
It also helps that when we first moved to our apartment in Stillorgan, I was greeted by Alex — who lived next door, and whose first words to me were: “If you ever run out of tea, coffee, sugar, bread or potatoes, just knock on our door.”
I was delighted. “They are so much like us,” I said to my husband.
“Please don’t go knocking on their door for sugar or potatoes,” he pleaded.
But as luck would have it, we soon came to know our neighbours very well. Alex and Stephen were lovely, and little dishes and containers of home-made food began to be exchanged between our households.
We sent them idli and sambar, kheema pav, chicken curry, butter chicken pie, masala bhaat. They sent us coddle, steaming hot pancakes with maple syrup, a full Irish on Paddy’s Day, and on Christmas, a complete meal with drinks, starters, mains and a dessert.
An accompanying card read, “Thank you for being such amazing neighbours… in dark days you have brought us so much joy, cheer + fun. Many thanks for all the lovely cooking + treats…”
My kitchen was emboldened and began to have lots of “extras”. We found other neighbours who equally delighted in sharing food, and with that food such a big part of themselves.
We have sampled Coorgi pork curry, Himachali dham, Sindhi kadhi and pakora, banana bread, a home-made tiramisu, huge slices of cakes (store-bought but delicious), soda bread and muffins.
With each little container that comes into our house, and the ones that go out, we share stories — not just of ingredients, bazaars, recipes and cuisines, but of the people who inspire these dishes and the memories that come with them.
That one slice extra is all about building bridges and a sense of community. No matter where you live, or who you are.
Our food is our language — unique and universal at the very same time.
— Prerna Shah is a media and content professional. She blogs at thebanyantree.home.blog and thegoodstoryproject.com
‘We’re so excited for the future of Filipino food in Ireland’
Nallaine Calvo, owner and head chef of Kubo
Kubo’s journey starts in the Philippines, in Cabanatuan City in Nueva Ecija, where I was born. Two years later, my parents moved to Toronto. My sisters and I were fortunate to have been raised true to our Filipino heritage. We spoke the Tagalog language as children, we ate nothing but Filipino food — chicken adobo, pancit noodles, and spam and eggs for breakfast. We knew no one but our large Filipino family.
When my parents bought their first home, my dad built a little bamboo hut in our backyard, what we call a kubo in the Philippines. Over the years, it saw many family gatherings, barbecues and quite a few beer pong parties. Our little kubo was the hub for our friends and family.
Two and a half years ago, when I started my Filipino small food business in Belfast, there was no second thought as to what I would call it: Kubo.
I was working as head chef for a hotel, and decided the time was right to bring exposure to Filipino food. We started with Belfast’s first professionally planned Filipino Kamayan (”eat with your hands”) event. Long tables were covered with banana leaves dressed in amazing Filipino food — Lumpia spring rolls, whole roasted fish, Filipino pork barbecue, roasted pork belly and an array of vegetables. The reception was amazing and we knew we had to keep it going while momentum was high. In August we found our permanent location in the newly opened Trademarket in Belfast, we’re proud of what we accomplished both as a home business and a Filipina-owned business. Education through food is our mission. We’re so excited for the future of Filipino food in Ireland.
‘The joy I receive from cooking makes me realise I am my mother’s daughter’
Adesewa Awobadejo
My mother is a really good cook. That is affirmed by anyone who has tasted her food, and her subtle smirk at the compliments of others tells me she knows this too. She carries a certain culinary prowess. She puts together a meal in less than 30 minutes without even tasting it. This might not seem like a big deal, but for Nigerian food, you need to devote a morning or an evening to cooking. Recipes can be complex and require multiple steps.
Chop the vegetables, blend them, bring to a light boil, fry with some oil, tomato purée and optional onions and then, just then, you have your jollof rice base. Next comes the layering of flavours through various spices, and then the rice.
I ask myself, “Is cooking a talent?” I know it’s a skill everyone should learn, but for some it is a gift.
I watch my mother bake pastries to serve after church. She makes every Nigerian dish under the sun for us at home or to share with friends, with ease and a flair. I memorise her jollof rice recipe by simply observing. Our kitchen is a masterclass space, except when you ask about measurements and specifics. She says: “You should just know.”
For most Nigerians, food is linked to ceremonies. Food after church services is prioritised. Like the services themselves, there is something sacred about the way we break bread afterwards. We see food as a liturgical practice and a communal act, offering a seat at the table to all. A way of practising our values, a subtle act of worship. I’m also thinking about Eid-el-Kabir celebrations or “Sallah”, celebrated by Nigerian Muslims, a festival marking the importance of obedience and sacrifice. As a rededication to the cause of mankind, the sacrificed animals are offered to all in the community, Christian or Muslim.
When I began cooking, I discovered I had inherited my mother’s ease and flair. We don’t share many overt traits but this was something obvious, like dimples or an eye colour. There’s something genetic about it; the innate passion I have for food and the joy I receive from cooking makes me realise I am my mother’s daughter. The ways I “just know” what I’m doing when cooking.
For diasporans, food can offer a sense of belonging as we grapple with the intersections of food and home. I found belonging mixed with self definition. I’m thinking about the altering of recipes to suit our tastes, how food becomes our own while simultaneously remaining part of something more than ourselves. Food was a way of trailing my family’s legacy and connecting with a longline of my family history.
Bia!, edited by Victory Nwabu-Ekeoma, launches on Sunday at noon in Hen’s Teeth store, gallery and cafe in Dublin 8. The first issue costs €10 in print and €6 for a digital copy. biazine.com
