Buen Provecho!

What the Poblanos (the people of Puebla) lack in road rules, Netflix and Asian food, they more than make up for in manners. Especially at meal time. Almost to an extreme.

Miranda and I were sitting in a café a few mornings ago, and when our breakfast arrived, the man eating alone a few tables over looked at us and shouted, “Buen provecho!” (the Spanish equivalent of “bon appetit”). The man looked relatively normal, though obviously suffered from Tourette syndrome or some type of brain lesion. I mean, as charming as the action is, who yells such things at strangers in a restaurant?

Minutes later, another man walked into the café and, as he passed us on his way to the pastry counter, smiled and said, “Buen provecho,” then continued on.

What is wrong with these people? In the U.S. (on the East Coast, at least) you could get seriously killed, or worse, for telling a complete stranger to enjoy his meal. We Americans generally feel that we have the right to have a disappointing dinner, to brood over breakfast, or to lament over lunch if we so choose. We certainly don’t need to have our personal conversational space invaded by any Juan, Dick or Harry who feels compelled to tell us how to experience our food.

The nerve.

Only, the thing is, here in Puebla you quickly start to get used to it, enjoy it – even look forward to and expect it. And the real transformation comes when you, yourself, actually build up the confidence to do it to somebody else. It requires stripping yourself of years of American “leave-me-alone-and-I’ll-do-the-same-ness”, but once you do, and the first proactive “Buen provecho!” leaps out of your mouth and into the ears of Mexican diners you’ve never met and will likely never speak to again, something inside you will have changed. A warmth of heart and spirit will overtake you, and you will suddenly realize that being a cold, uptight American a-hole in public isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

I’m not saying I’m going to rush back to the States to spit “Enjoy your meal” at strangers all over the place (especially not New York or Boston); however, I might – if I’m drunk enough and see that I have a straight shot to the restaurant exit – test one out at a friendly Texas barbeque joint, or, to be even safer, at a nursing home cafeteria in Kansas.