When I was a child, I remember the grimace on my uncle’s face when one of my sticky little cousins drank from his can of soda. He announced that he could no longer drink it because another person’s saliva had touched it. While no one said the words “germaphobe weirdo” out loud, we were all thinking it. Our shock increased as he abandoned his old can for a fresh one, because in the early 1990s wastage was serious – fizzy drinks were a treat and we had whatever the opposite was to the “don’t worry if you can’t finish that, darling” school of parenting.
Fast forward 35 years, and I’ve realised I am now that uncle. And not just drinks – this extends to food too. This may come as a surprise to some people, given that I’m Indian and sharing food is a fundamental pillar of who we are. But at home, we serve our food in giant pots, family style. There’s a spoon for every dish, and that kind of sharing is perfectly fine. There is no double-dipping because there are unspoken rules of engagement. What is not perfectly fine, however, is when different cultures come together, and someone thinks it is OK to put the spoon that was in their gob into the main pot, or use it to scoop something from another person’s plate.
The other week, I went to a chic restaurant; the kind of place that only has five things on the menu and dainty glassware. Since quitting alcohol a year ago, I’ve upped my desserts game and because I’m in the wonderfully belligerent “I’ll do whatever I damn well please” stage of perimenopause, I ordered a creme brulee as a starter. The waitress, in what I perceive to be an act of violence, said: “Two spoons?” despite me giving no indication whatsoever that I was looking to share.
I was with new friends, and so I did the British thing and said yes, even though I wanted to say no. But when the two spoons arrived, I couldn’t continue with this farce any longer. As my new friend held her spoon aloft, I told her that she had to have the first bite. “Oh, but then you won’t get to crack the top of the brulee!” she said. I had to patiently explain that as a 45-year-old, I would be OK not doing that. When I could see her about to protest again, I had to be direct and say: “I really don’t want to double-dip because I’m conscious about catching germs.”
Despite the awkward silence that followed, I regret nothing.
The pandemic undoubtedly radicalised me, given how many people I knew who seemed to have caught Covid after sharing food off each other’s plates. But it was also noticing how I tended to fall ill after sharing drinks with friends who would insist I take a sip, and ask to try mine. These viruses often knocked me out for two weeks, and now I refuse point-blank. I don’t care if it has been made with the cordial of a flower that only blooms every 20 years. If it’s touched your mouth and you aren’t my lover or partner, it isn’t touching mine.
“But I’m fine,” a friend protested when I refused to try the braised cauliflower on her plate, muttering that I was being precious. When she messaged me about coming down with a cold two days later, I replied: “Vindication!” She didn’t respond.
