New England Spice

Call me a snob, but I believe in good table manners. I believe in good manners overall. My attention to table etiquette, however, figures prominently into my life for a few reasons. First, I have worked in many restaurants, including those of a fine dining caliber. Second, my father has worked in the service industry for more than 40 years; in fact, he came to this country for an opportunity with the Sheraton hotel. Third, my mother is a native New Englander, and I like to believe New Englanders retain certain formalities of lifestyle, albeit old-fashioned.

What I enjoyed about my upbringing was the amalgam of culture that surrounded it. My father is from Trinidad and comes from East Indian heritage. He ate Indian food but studied under a British system of education in the Caribbean. His mother was Hindu; his father, Catholic. He relished in lush, humid, tropical surroundings while playing with friends but also handled manual labor such as lugging baskets of fruit through town and clearing brush in the backyard. My mother's Bostonian background seems so different from my father's background. My mother grew up with brutal winters, obsession with the Boston Red Sox, Irish humor, and a shyness that characterizes her as what I call a classic middle child. My father, on the other hand, can make friends while being in line at the bank, and this gregariousness helped him establish himself in a new country.

Despite their personality differences, my parents shared a commitment to teaching their children good table manners. My brothers and I learned how to set tables properly, use appropriate utensils, and hold proper dinner conversation. To this day, I cringe when I see someone holding a utensil incorrectly or ordering at a restaurant by saying something like, "Let me get the..." or "I want the..." That audacity of talking to a service worker that way galls me. I might be biased toward members of the service industry by empathizing with them, but I believe in politely asking for something rather than barking orders. Let me clarify something, though: we are not rich, New England blue bloods! No, my parents both worked to support their family, and we kids understood the meaning of earning one's pay.

But, oh, the dinners we'd have! When my brothers and I spent weekends with my dad at his place, we'd test our adventurous limits with curried goat and sawine. My dad would often tell me about weddings he bartended and the elegant setups at each table. He taught me how to serve from the right and clear from the left. He showed me how to make a radish rose. He helped me practice folding napkins into pretty fans.

At home, we'd indulge in my mom's numerous baked delights. To this day, none of us shies away from sugar. We inherited the Irish trait of taking comfort in carbohydrates, and we'd enjoy them while watching our mom and grandmother sip cups of tea cradled by pretty saucers. We learned to appreciate the elegance injected into simple delights of snacking.

To this day, I resent being labeled a "blue blood" when I tell people I grew up in Connecticut. Although I appreciate the etiquette lessons of my upbringing, I want people to realize the influence my father's background had on my childhood. Almost to an extreme do I bear the responsibilities and burdens of having an immigrant parent. For instance, my father once told me I have no reason not to work two jobs. He held his children to rigid academic standards, and he tolerates no laziness. But his penchant for calypso music and spicy curries gave us a new perspective on life as we grew up in what some consider boring, sterile New England. We value passion and hard work, we reminisce about trips to Fenway Park, we appreciate nice dinners, and we take neither baked goods nor curry for granted.