08/06/2026
The people we were waiting for had never met each other. Some of them had never even heard of us.
Around noon, we looked at each other and wondered if inviting a bunch of strangers to an eclectic lunch at an art studio in Brooklyn had been an incredibly optimistic (read: dumb) idea.
Then people started walking in, and they kept coming. We filled the table with bánh mì. Trinidadian doubles. Empanadas. Samosas.
At first, it just looked like a wild spread, every dish from a different country (and different mom-and-pop shop in BK).
But they all had one ingredient in common. Every dish on that table came from a place where tamarind has been part of the local cuisine for generations.
Jordan grew up with her mom’s candied tamarind from St. Lucia.
Carolina talked about falling in love with tamarindo in Mexico.
Brandon said food connects people when words can’t.
Shubh, who had just moved to New York, looked around the room and said, “This feels like community.”
Almost everyone already knew tamarind, just by a different name. Or from a different memory. And those that didn’t learned (and tasted!) something deliciously new.
How easy it is to believe our food and our stories exist in separate worlds. But, put everyone around one table, and the distance doesn’t feel quite so far.
We might start out strangers, but we’re more alike than we think.
Anyway, we didn’t grow up with much, but we were taught there’s always room to pull up another chair.
So, if you’re in New York, we’d love to save you a seat at the next one.