Food is a treacherous topic to write about. It lures you in with what appears to be accessibility: food is an indispensable part of everyday life; it speaks to everyone. As a subject of contemplation, it is almost irresistible: it entices...
moreFood is a treacherous topic to write about. It lures you in with what appears
to be accessibility: food is an indispensable part of everyday life;
it speaks to everyone. As a subject of contemplation, it is almost irresistible:
it entices and appeals to all human senses. But what seems to be the great
advantage of food writing is also its downside: as most people are preoccupied with what they eat, many have strong opinions about it. !e chance of an argument over a dish getting you a black eye is just as high as one over football or politics.
When the Bulgarian-language version of this book was published atthe end of 2014, I was invited to the Sofia studio of a weekly political program
on Bulgarian national television. I found myself unexpectedly in a
noisy dispute with a veteran member of the parliament. Undeterred by his
scarce knowledge of the history of Bulgarian food, the politician from the
Socialist Party—the successor party of the former Communist one—angrily
shouted random assertions, which soon turned from food (had we
ever really been talking about food at all?) to the former regime.
Here is the other treacherous thing about food: writing about it means
writing about nearly everything. As the Bulgarian philosopher Raycho
Pozharliev puts it, food “is eloquent about many things, in contrast to
other aspects of life, which mutter rudimentarily.”
Historians have long looked down on food as a lowly manifestation of
everyday life, but it is a dream subject to research, for it takes you to the very
heart of any given époque. It is about the actual taste of times, in both a literal and abstract sense. Food is very much an individual
experience, endlessly varying. But it is also like a fabric in which the threads of every aspect of social life show through. By studying a single menu,
one can read the entire context around it: the economy and society, technological development, material and emotional culture. Each dish can become a well with glass walls, o)ering a panoramic view of an entire
world of the past—all seen from the kitchen.
When I started writing this book in 2012, I had not yet realized this. I had the intention to write a hundred pages of short, humorous essays, which would introduce strangers to the peculiarities of contemporary Bulgarian foodways. By then I had worked for &ve years as the editor in chief of Bacchus, Bulgaria’s wine and food magazine, and in that time many entertaining stories had passed through my hands, which I intended to develop
and bring together in a small volume. I had planned to label some of these essays as “the small mischiefs of Communism,” as I saw the Communist
period of my childhood clearly responsible for some oddities of local food culture. I quickly discovered how delusional I was about the slightness of the topic. I found that people love to talk about food, that they daydream about food, that food opens up their memories and their desire to share them; but what they shared was their lives, and their life stories could not be taken lightly.
The more I heard from them, the more I realized the complexity of what I was researching and most of all the diversity of the ways in which people
remembered and reinterpreted the past that we shared. My slightly arrogant journalistic excursion was transformed into an epic quest, in which every
encounter made me feel smaller and smaller. My own interpretation of events, which at the beginning seemed quite de&nitive to me, became contested by one, two, many, others, and at the end, it was just a grain of sand in a sea of experiences.
I talked to nearly a hundred people: professionals who worked in the food industry or related fields, or just people who had signi&cant everyday
life experience in Communist times. Many of the conversations led me back repeatedly to the state archives, where I researched the patchy records
of di)erent relevant organizations, the pages of state-published cookbooks, the most important women’s magazine, and any other sources I could
get hold of. What came together as a result had little to do with my free will, let alone with my early plans. As many other books, I suspect, this one as
well just happened.
My writing became an in-depth account of how the Communist regime determined Bulgarians’ everyday experience with food from $*%% to $*+*.
!is book examines the daily routines of procuring food, cooking, and eating out through the memories of those who lived during the period. It also considers how food was produced. It turned out tobe reflecting more the perspectives of urban dwellers than rural people.
The narrative voices vary and are uneven in their reflexivity. I believe such is the usual texture of any society jointly created by some individuals who tend
to re,ect upon the ways and meanings of the social order they inhabit and by others who just live their lives. !e early post-Communist history was dominated by the former, and then my research started to focus more on the latter. !is book shows, I believe, that both perspectives worked together
to mold Communist societies into what they were.
After the book was published, it quickly became a bestseller in Bulgaria, and most of the conversations I had in my country since then became like
a continuation of my research interviews—people kept reaching out to share their food experiences.
The English edition is not a verbatim translation of the Bulgarian one. Material was added, removed, and adapted for an international audience.
What I did preserve is my journalistic voice. You will hear it through the book, wondering, doubting, being ironic, perhaps more emotional and assertive
than you would expect in an academic publication.
I thought that it would be right to keep it when rewriting the book, since it was the voice in my head when I had carried out the research.