Cultural Gastronomy: Lessons in Raw Fish and Melted Cheese

 

 

Nearly 40 years ago, while living in Britain, I was once asked an intriguing question by a Swiss friend:

 

"Japanese eat raw fish, don't they?"

 

When I confirmed this, the response was swift and unfiltered: "That's disgusting."

 

The phrase "raw fish" conjures up visceral, almost grotesque imagery—the notion of biting into a fish, freshly plucked from a stream, scales and all. To clarify, I explained that what we eat in Japan is akin to Italian carpaccio—thinly sliced fresh fish served with soy sauce rather than olive oil and balsamic vinegar. My friend appeared somewhat reassured, if still perplexed, by this cultural culinary nuance.

 

Curiously, the term "raw fish" persists today in articles about Japan, especially those catering to Western audiences. While such descriptions aim to demystify sashimi, they inadvertently evoke a sense of barbarism, fostering reactions like the one I encountered: "disgusting."

 

Some months later, this same Swiss friend proudly announced that he had tried fish carpaccio. When I asked for his verdict, the response was measured: "Not bad." Coming from someone whose culinary experiences likely centred on freshwater fish from landlocked Switzerland, this felt like a significant triumph.

 

A Window Display of Unexpected Hospitality

 

One evening in late 1980’s, my family and I were strolling through the central London, searching for dinner, when a grand window display of fresh seafood caught our attention. Intrigued, we entered the restaurant, where a waiter promptly seated us. Yet as we settled, I overheard him exclaim to the kitchen:

 

"A Japanese family who must know fish! Are we prepared for this?"

 

When he returned to take our order, I reassured him we were no experts and asked for the chef’s recommendation. The waiter hesitated, then relayed after consulting the kitchen: "Everything on the menu is recommended."

 

Spotting fish carpaccio on the menu, we all opted for it as a starter, relishing the rare opportunity to enjoy raw fish. Before leaving to place the order, the waiter paused and asked: "Would you like soy sauce with it?"

 

When I relayed this to my parents, they hesitated, concerned that the scent might disturb other diners. Conveying this to the waiter, he disappeared once more, returning with plates of generously portioned white fish carpaccio on the table, and laid out a small dish of soy sauce and the assurance:

 

“This should be discreet enough to avoid bothering others.”

 

Tentatively, we dipped the lightly dressed slices of fish into the soy sauce. The taste transported us immediately back home—delicate and unmistakably sashimi. While wasabi would have completed the experience, we made do, savouring every morsel until even the soy sauce dish was scraped clean.

 

This subtle gesture—a small dish of soy sauce—left a profound impression on us. It was a reminder that hospitality transcends cultural divides. My father, moved by the thoughtfulness, left an unusually generous tip.

 

Cheese, Tradition, and Cultural Misunderstanding

 

A few months later, I visited a place called the Swiss Centre, located in central London. Whether it still exists today, I cannot say. At the time, its ground floor was dedicated to displays of Swiss souvenirs, while the second floor housed a restaurant. We were drawn by the promise of cheese fondue—a nostalgic echo of a trip to Switzerland the previous year. At the restaurant, the bubbling pot of Gruyère and Emmental was served with bread and steamed vegetables, and we eagerly indulged, exclaiming over its richness.

 

Partway through our meal, a staff member wheeled out an enormous cheese on a trolley, almost as tall as my shoulder. Using a heated blade, he scraped molten cheese over small boiled potatoes, introducing us to raclette.

 

"A light dish to accompany your fondue," they explained.

 

This theatrical display and the indulgent flavours left us spellbound. The experience underscored the diversity of Swiss culinary traditions and their deep-rooted appreciation for cheese.

 

The following day at school, I recounted our meal to Japanese friends, only to be met with looks of horror:

 

"How could you eat something so smelly?"

 

Some even pinched their noses. I countered with a comparison to pizza, pointing out its generous layer of cheese. Yet fondue, with its distinctive aroma and melted texture, seemed a bridge too far for them.

 

Overhearing this, my Swiss friend was visibly dismayed. After confirming I hadn’t found the cheese’s smell off-putting, he appeared reassured, though the reactions of my peers clearly unsettled them.

 

Reflection

 

Years later, I worked for a travel company, suggesting cheese fondue as part of a Swiss tour. My proposal was met with scepticism:

 

"Cheese fondue often leads to complaints. Japanese tourists find the smell too strong. We offer oil fondue instead—deep-fried vegetables and meats."

 

This anecdote illustrates how cultural preferences shape perceptions of "delicacies." Gruyère’s pungency and the lingering scent of white wine might be divine for one palate and offensive to another. Similarly, sashimi—raw, fresh, and delicate—can be misinterpreted without proper context.

 

The appreciation of culinary delights varies across cultures.

 

Take sashimi, for instance—fresh fish filleted and thinly sliced. Without proper explanation, this delicacy can strike those unfamiliar with eating raw fish as a shocking or even grotesque practice. Similarly, soy sauce, with its distinct aroma, might be off-putting to those unaccustomed to its use.

 

Cheese fondue, another example, is a fermented food, and like many fermented products, it can polarise opinions. Its strong smell, combined with the inclusion of wine—a fermented beverage itself—can lead to a less-than-pleasant experience if consumed at the wrong moment or under unsuitable conditions.

 

Over time, I have gained a degree of confidence in explaining sashimi to international audiences. Yet, I lack the same conviction when it comes to popularising cheese fondue in Japan. Unless someone is a true enthusiast for cheese, suggesting a shared fondue experience is unlikely to be well received.

 

Our family fondue set, once used frequently, now gathers dust due to health concerns. Yet, as sushi restaurants multiply abroad and global palates evolve, I wonder if the world might someday embrace fondue with the same enthusiasm it has for sashimi.

 

For me, these memories—of carpaccio in London and cheese fondue at the Swiss Centre—remain vivid. They remind me of how food connects us across cultures, even as it highlights our differences. One day, I hope to revisit these dishes with my family, cherishing not just the flavours but the memories they evoke.