The Sunday Dinner
I was out walking my dog this evening. The air was crisp and fresh as is typical for a San Francisco autumn evening. The sun setting is blinding as it makes its way down behind a giant hill. But as I walk pass a home and hear the clink of china, I am instantly transported to memories of my family gathered around a dining table. That “clink!” of china upon china brings me back to memories of “The Sunday Dinner.”
I truly feel this is typical for so many cultures other than my own. Whether you’re Italian, French, Maltese, Greek, Middle Eastern, Irish, Hispanic, Jewish, or too many other wonderful cultures to count, you all have some version of THE SUNDAY DINNER. Maybe this is something that most of the younger generation don’t experience much of these days. That, and the idea of cultural social clubs (a dying breed).
The Sunday dinner was a way for the entire family to get together. Hours were spent in an overly warm kitchen. Sweating and slaving away in a warm kitchen may not sound appealing to you, but, it was so much more than that. It was family coming together, catching-up, gossiping in the pre-social media days before we knew what was happening in each others lives without ever speaking to each other. These memories are of wine flowing, the smell of amazing food emanating from the kitchen, and laughter with relatives sneaking bits of food as it was prepared.
As time went by, Sunday dinner morphed into other memories. As my Maltese grandparents grew older, and their children were busy raising their own children, in-home, large family gatherings became less and less.
A typical Sunday, as I grew into my teen years and early 20’s, consisted of taking my grandparents to Catholic Mass and rushing off the Maltese-American Social Club of San Francisco. This is where my grandfather would imbibe on whiskey, cards and good Maltese conversation. My mother and I would then pick my grandparents up around 3 or 3:30, where my grandfather would be happy, laughing and a bit tipsy. He would be dropped off at home for a power nap and then we would head to Sunday night dinner at one of the “usual spots.” This included places like Caesars Restaurant, The Basque Cultural Center, Bertolucci’s, Buon Gustos, The Leaning Tower, North Beach Restaurant, and Joes of Westlake. All of the family was always invited and it was always a delight to see who would be attending.
Looking at my grandfather, you’d have never guessed he had money. He wore clothes that had holes in them and their towels were considered “still good” at thread bare. Yet, the one area my grandfather never flinched at the bill was Sunday dinners. You could order whatever you wanted, no questions asked. The alcohol and food flowed freely. I can say without a doubt that was my grandfather’s happiest times. He would walk up and down the table and chat with everyone with a huge smile on his face. It wasn’t how much was spent, or how great the food was that made the memories. It was the family being together. Loud, rambunctious dinners, where everyone wants to talk and you have to speak over the next person to be heard. Hardy debates, scandalous gossip, and old family memories and stories were always part of the evening.
Now, as a woman in my 30’s, I try to carry on this tradition as much as I can. A favorite holiday for most people is Christmas. My favorite holiday? Thanksgiving. It is the one holiday that brings family together around a dinner table. My mother walked past my dinner table a few weeks ago, glanced at a menu I had written out with a table-scape sketched at the bottom of it and exclaimed, “Are you planning Thanksgiving dinner already?!” Yes, yes I am. There is nothing that brings me more happiness than cooking in my kitchen, bare feet, glass of wine in hand, dancing around to Dean Martin playing, sharing a dinner made with love and making new memories.
Food is one of the few things that can bring everyone together. I hope that when I am long gone, my nieces, nephews and children look back at memories in the kitchen like I do of my parents and grandparents. I hope that the clink of china reminds them of how awed they were to walk into one of their Zija’s dinners with fancy china or woodland creatures on the tables. I hope that the smell of pasta makes them think of dancing around the kitchen to old school Italian music and hanging fresh pasta to dry. I hope that the kitchen and dinners are always a memory of love, laughter and joy.
What is your favorite Sunday dinner memory?
