Culture shock

Two events happened at dinner last night that shook up my world a bit, each in their own way.

The first was a cultural experience that everyone ought to have but that I've not had before: to see a cherished institution of one's culture (Southern California culture, in this case) heavily misinterpreted. The second was the removal of a cultural myth that, for all my postmodern question-everything education, I would never even have thought to doubt.

Event 1

The course was fajitas. Yes, they've heard of fajitas in Britain, and the result was quite tasty. The chicken was not prepared in what I would think of as a fajita manner but it tasted sufficiently Mexican anyway, and they had real tortillas and everything. The refried beans were spiced a bit oddly, but very recognizable; the 'hot' salsa might have been labeled 'medium' in the States, but it was tasty enough; the sour cream was fine.

I didn't expect much from the guacamole. Now, I'm a bit of a guacamole conoisseur; I love good guacamole, I make good guacamole, and I shed a little tear at cut-rate stuff. But I was surprised enough to find guacamole at all over here that I did not worry too much about the quality.

The brand was 'Old El Paso,' a promising name: if any American city knows Mexican food, El Paso would be the one. The guacamole itself, though, looked as if the avocados hadn't been very fresh when they were packed; it was kind of a darker olive green, rather processed, and looked a little limp, you could say. Well, this is the UK and those avocados were hardly grown just down the road; entirely forgivable.

The taste, however, shocked me. It wasn't bad! It was a pleasant flavor, it accented the fajitas well enough. But it was not guacamole. There were hints of mellow avocado roundness in there, but something else dominated it, something sweet, in a vegetable sort of way. Perhaps they were overzealous on the bell peppers? That might be it.

I looked at the ingredients. Avocado first, and therefore predominant; good. But only 27% avocado? Odd, to say the least. No bell peppers, so it wasn't that. Sweetener, perhaps? There was a bit of sweetener, but far down the list, barely a trace ingredient. Not nearly enough to cause the flavor I had detected.

What could it be? I went back to the top of the list. Avocados, peas, water, chopped tomat...

...

Oh.

Event 2

We were talking, later, about portion sizes in the UK and the States, how we tend to overdo things in America, which is true. They were talking about pub food and how pubs tend to serve goodly portions, so I asked for an example to compare to what we get in a 'pub' in America. I remembered getting a big plate of corned beef and cabbage—classic pub food of course, though of an Irish stripe—at O'Sullivan's, an Irishesque restaurant in Escondido. The chunk of beef was huge and I wanted to know if you would get something comparable over here.

They were mystified. Corned beef? You would get corned beef in a pub?

Well, of course—this is England, not Ireland. Corned beef isn't an English thing, it's an Irish one. But then my hosts are from Ireland, so I pressed the question. What about in Ireland, how large a serving of corned beef would you get in a pub there?

Pause.

'Why would you get corned beef at a pub?'

Isn't that the Irish dish? Corned beef, cabbage, and potatoes? That's what we eat every St. Patrick's Day! Isn't that... isn't that the Irish thing?

'Well, cabbage and potatoes, yes. But the Irish hate corned beef! That's all we really had during the war, and we got quite sick of it years ago!'

Everyone? Not just your family? No one eats corned beef in Ireland?

'Well, you might have it on a sandwich, but not often, and certainly not as a meal. It's really not an Irish thing, we really don't like it.'

'Here's an Irish cookbook,' my hostess added. 'See any corned beef in there?'

I did not.

So the Irish. Hate corned beef.

It was like reality was collapsing around me. I could do nothing but laugh.