The Table as a Teacher: How Food Became My Favorite History Book

Learning Through Taste

You can learn about a culture in many ways—through books, documentaries, travel guides, or museums. But nothing compares to the experience of sitting at a table and tasting what people eat. Food is not just sustenance; it’s a form of storytelling. Every ingredient carries history, every recipe reflects migration, trade, and adaptation, and every shared meal is an invitation into someone’s world. Unlike lectures or facts on a page, food speaks directly to your senses—it lets you taste geography, tradition, and memory all at once.

When someone invites you to eat their food, they’re doing more than serving a dish. They’re opening a door to their past, their family, and their identity. Around a table, culture stops being abstract and becomes something you can feel between bites, in the warmth of the conversation, and in the explanations of why a dish is made that way. That’s why the table can often be the best teacher: it doesn’t just show you a culture, it lets you live it.

I’m a true believer—and an even truer lover—of this way of learning. Every time I land somewhere new and my taste buds are hit with something they’ve never met before, my brain switches instantly into journalist mode: What is this? Where does it come from? Why is it made this way? And with every answer, I feel like I’m not just eating—I’m decoding a country’s soul.

Traveling Without Moving: A Month in the Netherlands

This past month, for example, I’ve been living in the Netherlands. And even though I haven’t been jetting off to dozens of new destinations, I’ve sort of felt like I have. Life here is multicultural—way more than what I was used to back in Italy. In just a few weeks, I’ve traveled to Syria, Argentina, Morocco and Africa without even leaving the kitchen table, thanks to friends who cooked for me dishes from their own homelands. Through their food, they shared not just recipes but their memories, their traditions, and pieces of their identity. It’s been like passport stamps—one plate at a time.

Syria on the Table

The first country I got to “travel” to without moving was Syria. The very first Syrian dish I tried was labanieh, a warm and comforting yogurt-based dish that’s somewhere between a sauce and a soup, cooked with meat and rice . At first it felt unusual to me—creamy, tangy, and delicate—but as I learned more, I discovered how deeply rooted it is in Syrian cooking, tied to family meals and traditional flavors passed down for generations.

Later, another evening I was invited to taste a Syrian BBQ shish kebab. My friend explained that back in Aleppo, every Friday—considered the holy day in Syria—his family would go to the park together, grill kebabs, and share an abundance of small side dishes. It wasn’t just about eating; it was about community, laughter, and the ritual of being together.

Argentina in a Slice of Chocotorta

A few days later, I landed in Argentina. Well, not literally—more like spoon-first. That’s when I met the chocotorta, a layered dessert made with coffee-soaked chocolate cookies, dulce de leche, and cream cheese. Sounds simple, right? But behind it lies a whole cultural icon. The magic ingredient is the Chocolinas cookies, invented in the 1970s, which quickly became the backbone of every Argentine childhood birthday and family celebration. My friend explained it with such nostalgia that I realized I wasn’t just tasting a dessert—I was eating decades of family kitchens, childhood sticky fingers, and national tradition.

Africa in Chicken and Plantains

Then came Africa. One evening, a friend proudly cooked a meal from his homeland: rice, chicken, and sweet plantains cooked together. And let me tell you, the chicken with plantains was an absolute revelation—tender, flavorful, unlike anything I’d ever tasted. What struck me most was his pride. He explained every element of the dish with detail, even pulling out chili peppers he had brought separately because, in his words, “they’d be way too spicy for you.” (He was right.)

A Sweet Taste of Morocco

And just when I thought my taste buds had finished their world tour, Morocco arrived on the table, bringing with it some salty/sweet snack made with nuts and honey.

All of this confirmed something I already knew: a single dish is one of the most powerful keys to unlocking a culture. What you see on a plate is never random—it’s the outcome of centuries of movement, encounters, and exchanges. Recipes aren’t just instructions, they’re living archives—ingredients that traveled across oceans, cooking methods that adapted, traditions that survived because someone kept cooking them.

A Global History in a Bite: The Lesson from Thailand

And if all of this still sounds too abstract, let me give you a concrete example. Thailand.

As you might have already noticed I’ve always been a food lover, curious to know the “why” behind every plate, but when I traveled in Asia, this curiosity turned into an obsession.

In Thailand, I became addicted to local food, convinced that the chili heat and bold spices I loved most were the purest expression of Thai identity.

Then I discovered that chili peppers—the very soul of many Thai dishes—aren’t Thai at all. They came all the way from South America and only arrived in Southeast Asia in the 16th century, carried over by Portuguese traders. Yes, the same Europeans who were busy planting flags everywhere also planted chilies in Asia. Before that, Thai food wasn’t spicy in the way we know it today. Crazy right????

So, with a single chili pepper, I accidentally got a crash course in global history. Trade routes, colonial expansion, the Columbian Exchange—all on my plate. Suddenly, every bite of curry or papaya salad wasn’t just about flavor; it was about migration, power, and centuries of human movement.

Another dish that taught me this lesson was my absolute favourite Pad See Ew—stir-fried wide rice noodles with soy sauce, broccoli, and egg. Today it’s considered a Thai classic, the kind of comfort food everyone eats, but its history is a little less “Thai-only” than it seems. The technique of stir-frying and even the soy sauce itself were introduced by Chinese immigrants, especially the Teochew community that settled in Thailand centuries ago.

In other words, what we now call “authentic Thai street food” is actually the child of migration and adaptation. Chinese techniques blended with local ingredients, and over time the dish became so rooted in Thai daily life that no one even questions its origins anymore.

And that’s the funny part: food tricks us. It feels timeless and national, as if it has always belonged to that place. But the moment you dig a little deeper, you find out it’s basically a history book in disguise. So Pad See Ew was no longer just lunch— but a pice of history.

The Real Magic of Food

At the end of the day, food is the most democratic history book we have. You don’t need to be a scholar, you don’t need to know the dates of every empire or the names of every king. All you need is a fork, an open mind, and maybe a friend willing to explain what’s on the plate in front of you.

Because food doesn’t lie. It tells you where people came from, who they met along the way, what they borrowed, and what they made their own. It shows you how cultures aren’t sealed boxes, but constantly evolving stories written through spices, cooking methods, and dinner tables.

So now, whenever I sit down to eat—I know I’m not just having dinner, but I’m being handed a piece of someone’s history, their memory, their pride.

And maybe that’s the real magic: you don’t just taste the food. You taste the journey it took to get there.

What do you think about this? Do you ever do it?

With Love Maggy