When granted the power of deciding where to eat for dinner I always first suggest The Adams Street Cafe in downtown Toledo. Their Facebook page states the cafe is an “American Restaurant.” An initial glance of the menu verifies this label. After all, it boasts not one, but four variations of a hamburger. What could be more American than that?
But look past the burgers and the menu features more unique items, too. Items that don’t immediately shout “America,” like tempeh and pork tacos, ramen, and gochujang chicken wings. Still, this label of “American Restaurant” feels accurate not in spite of the inclusion of foreign cuisines, but because of it. If a nation’s identity can be found in its food then by featuring such a global and diverse menu, this restaurant is undeniably American.
Modern American cuisine is more than just bar food. And while acting macho by pounding your chest and demanding a burger has somehow become synonymous with American patriotism, American cuisine goes far beyond burgers with fries or eggs with bacon.
The smells wafting in the cafe on any given day are an eclectic mix of cultures. It’s the warm and cozy smell of ramen broth accompanied by the smokiness of pork tacos. It’s the sweetness of vanilla buttermilk pancakes smothered in syrup on the same table as cheesy, comforting poutine.
You can waste your energy organizing these smells by country. You can place them in groups, begging they stay in their proper place. Or you can bottle the entire auroma and call it “America” because this is the new American cuisine: a celebration of our diversity.
Despite being relatively small, the menu is rich. It features poutine, tacos, ramen, chicken and waffles, reubens, and a heavy rotation of weekly specials like fish and chips, po boys, banh mi sandwiches, jambalaya, and curry.
It’s doubtful whether the chef created this menu with the intention of redefining what most people are comfortable considering American cuisine. He likely just wanted to give the people some really delicious meals. In doing so, he created a menu more reflective of our nation than a menu offering only burgers and apple pie.
This evening I order an appetizer of spring rolls. Before eating my own I watch as my mom and dad indulge in their first-ever spring roll experience. I feel giddy and nervous for their reaction. This is what eating together is all about: sharing our favorite foods and taste-testing off one another’s plates. Trying a foriegn dish evokes a sense of exploration and encourages inclusivity; We must open our minds in order to open our palettes.
As one can do among family, we scoff at proper dining etiquette and turn primal, devouring the spring rolls sans utensils like Americans would have in the 1700s. Forks would slow us down, only obstructing our excitement.
I order a vegan bok choy bowl and spare a piece of tofu for my dad. Despite the fact that the US is the largest exporter of soy, I am sure my dad has never even seen tofu before. Though I’ve done none of the cooking, I still experience a mixture of pride and relief when my dad nods his head with approval. As expected my meal is great. But watching my parents’ expressions as they try food they are unaccustomed to makes this dining experience memorable.
Like the food we ordered, the dinnerware is also a hodgepodge of sorts. Our plates appear as if rejects from the lost-and-found: some with tigers, some with delicate floral designs, others checkered red, or solid green. I like imagining they came from a motley of houses. That they once sat comfortably inside the cabinets of my neighbor, your grandpa, and the man working the cash register at 7/11. Each holds a unique history and design, yet their dissimilarities feel rather fitting for a restaurant so in tune with the vibrant patchwork of nations that shape our country.
My mom eats a burger. My dad eats a reuben. My sister eats tacos. The plates rest before us, a moment untouched while we take in the sight of everyone else’s dish. I meditate on this contrasting and harmonious display: This is dinner time in America in 2019. It is the taste of the world and it is right here on one table in a small cafe in a typical midwestern city.
Individually these plates taste like several countries. Collectively they taste like America.
The nickname “The Melting Pot” remains heavily used for good reason. It defines America in an accessible way: the melting of several cultures into one common culture and American identity. We could not earn the nickname “America: The Beautiful” without first being “America: The Melting Pot.”
But alas, if you desire lines, borders, and boundaries, if you crave separation and consider the words “diversity” and “contamination” interchangeable, then by all means continue showcasing your nationalism through eating “American food” and mocking all other. I hope you enjoy your flavorless mush on bread, which is essentially the most “American” food. Because even that precious, classic, ‘Merican burger you so badly want to claim as 100%, purebred American originated in order to feed immigrants traveling on a boat from Hamburg, Germany to the USA.
Meanwhile, I’ll be over here celebrating my American heritage by devouring some sushi.
