You are learning defining cultural identity through cuisine: you will read the scene it happens in, learn 10 words and phrases, take apart the pattern behind them (concessive clauses for nuanced argumentation), hear them in a conversation, rehearse them, and finish by saying one thing out loud to be graded.
Smorgasburg, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a weekend food market
Smorgasburg on a Saturday afternoon is the most honest portrait of American food I have ever seen. Under one roof — or no roof at all, since it's outdoors — you can eat Filipino sisig, Dominican mofongo, Japanese okonomiyaki, Colombian arepas, and a lobster roll from Maine. Each vendor has a story. Each story crosses a border.
Even though no single dish at Smorgasburg was invented in Brooklyn, the market itself is something only Brooklyn could produce. The combination — the proximity, the collision, the negotiation between traditions — is distinctly American. Much as the melting pot metaphor appeals, it misses what actually happens here. These cuisines don't melt. They sit side by side, distinct and proud.
Although some purists argue that 'American food' doesn't exist because everything came from somewhere else, that argument ignores what happens at the point of contact. The breakfast taco is not Mexican. The General Tso's chicken is not Chinese. The New York bagel is not Polish. Each is a product of migration, adaptation, and reinvention. That process is American.
Notwithstanding the real and painful history of cultural appropriation in this country, the plurality of American food is worth celebrating — carefully, critically, and with full acknowledgment of who cooked first.