As I reflect on the ever-changing slide show of images in my head, I continue to be struck by the opening event of Slow Food Nation. Dubbed “A Seat at the Table,” the dinner was held in the “Victory Garden,” a demonstration organic vegetable garden planted in the center of Civic Center Plaza. Tables stretched around the center of the Plaza on three sides, covered in brown paper and set for seating eight to ten guests per table. The smell of roasting porchetta (a whole stuffed suckling pig cooked on a rotisserie over a wood fire) permeated the air. I fastened my bright orange ribbon, reminiscent of the fourth prize awards at the county fair, to my jacket. I was a designated “table host” whose job it was to greet my tablemates and explain the plan for our dinner together. This was not your ordinary charity banquet, where scores of black and white clad waiters hovered around the tables like a flock of penguins. In fact, it was my job to inform my tablemates that each of them had a role to play. Under each plate was a card that read “server,” “sommelier,” or “busser.” We were all to serve each other, all of us equals at the table, sharing the blessing of the meal to come with everyone there. Was it purely a coincidence that the CEO of the largest corporate catering company in Northern California was to serve us our dinner? On the other hand, his wife was designated to clear our dishes when the meal was over. A local attorney fetched bottles of wine from the proper pavilion, and poured a glass for each of us upon his return.

 

The conviviality at the table was tangible. Suddenly, we had shed the mantels of our business cards, our name tags, and our places in the society that existed outside the sanctuary of the table. It did not matter who we were or where we came from, the only focus was the food on our plates and the company of those who were gathering sustenance. Each of us reduced to the level of those ancients who huddled around a fire to break bread together. Eating is not a solitary practice, nor is it a spectator sport, as the Food Network might lead us to believe. It becomes the nourishment of our bodies and our souls in the company of those like ourselves, who come together in some instinctual way that no other public forum provides.

 

It is difficult to imagine making war with someone with whom you have shared the table. Perhaps one of the answers to the almost constant strife between men and nations is before us at the same table. For it is at the table that we become completely human, independent but yet interdependent. Someone must gather and serve, someone must host, someone must clear away what is left and someone must pour the wine that lifts all of us to new levels of consciousness of ourselves and each other. Perhaps it is no accident that more than one ancient religious tradition cites the table and breaking bread as a metaphor for belonging, for familiarity, for safety and for solace. The grace we all receive when we sit at a table together shines like a star in the wee hours, brightly lighting our way home.