Hospitality in Tehran

by Maria Bauer

While I groped for an answer, another lady, nodding knowingly, said, "Maybe she didn't want more" and then eagerly asked me, "What did you use?"

Later I found this total openness among Iranian women refreshing and felt free to ask them questions I would never have dared to bring up with my closest American friends. But during this first ladies' luncheon in Tehran, soon after our arrival in late 1958, I wished that we, wives of newly-appointed foreign service officers, had been better briefed about the cultural differences we would face, and about the unique rules of Iranian hospitality. I found out the hard way that I should never admire anything belonging to an Iranian lady. When, after the luncheon dishes were removed, I complimented my hostess on her beautiful tablecloth, she promptly pulled it off the table and handed it to me. Later, when I admired another lady's dress, she told me apologetically that she couldn't take it off right then. The next morning, the dress was delivered to me by messenger.

We were almost equally unprepared for the social affairs given by the Shah's entourage, the rich and powerful members of the Iranian upper class—galas not too different from those held by the "Beau Monde" all over the world. They took place in Tehran's Officers' Club or in unbelievably luxurious private homes where, instead of the strictly non-alcoholic fruit beverages served at the usual Iranian parties, imported liquor flowed in unlimited quantities and the most expensive foods including the large-grained silver caviar were served in profusion. The male guests were almost always Western-educated, widely traveled and easy to talk to, while the women dressed in the latest French designer creations, sparkling with jewels. However, having been instructed by the State Department's Post Report (whose author obviously had never attended any of these parties) to bring only modest high-necked and long-sleeved gowns, we, the American diplomatic women, looked pitifully dowdy next to those Iranian beauties whose cleavages would have caused a sensation in the Western world.

Whenever an invitation came, one never knew what to expect. There was, for instance, that memorable farewell party at the home of an Iranian Army colonel in honor of the departing Chief of the American Mission's Military Assistance Advisory Group, General S.

The Iranian colonel told his wife that this was an important occasion, and he wanted her to make a special effort. Since it was known that Americans had a fixation with cleanliness, she must see to it that everything she put on the table would be completely sanitary.

The wife took the task very seriously. Instead of sending her cook to do the shopping in the bazaar, she bought all the food herself in a special Armenian food store which catered to foreigners. In search of clean paper napkins, she went to the Ferushka Ferdowski, the only department store in Tehran at the time, where imported merchandise from all over the world was sold.

On the night of the dinner party, the house was very festive. The living room where the guests first assembled was decorated with baskets of fresh flowers and multi-colored electric light bulbs (the kind we use on Christmas trees) were strung along the walls. Cups of cold soup were passed and sipped by the standing guests like drinks at a cocktail party.

Finally, the doors to the dining room opened, and General S. was asked to lead the way to the buffet. The large dining room table was magnificent. Decorated with rose petals on a white lace tablecloth, it was laden with an enormous array of very tempting dishes. And on each side, behind a semi-circle of perfectly polished silver flatware, stood a large, opened box of Kotex. General S. walked to the buffet and, taking a plate handed to him by a servant, turned to his aide behind him and curtly whispered, "Pass the word: If any one of my men as much as bats an eyelid, he will be shipped home within twenty-four hours."

Then he filled his plate, picked up a knife and fork, took a sanitary napkin out of its box, walked to the adjoining room and sat down at one of the candlelit tables. He was followed by his officers and the other American guests who, having duly admired the impressive buffet, sat down at their various tables, putting their filled plates in front of them and the sanitary napkins in their laps.

When our time had come to repay the many Iranian invitations, I began planning my first big party—a buffet dinner. I was extremely nervous. Of the 45 expected guests, I only knew two well: Leila, my sole Iranian friend, and my husband's friend Dr. Hessaby, who had become my advisor, trying to make me understand the contradictory aspects of his country.

I had learned that quantities of food and a wide assortment of dishes are the most important aspects of Middle Eastern hospitality; and I assumed that just as Americans and Europeans always show great interest in foreign dishes, the same would be true for our Iranian friends. Their buffets always abounded with several varieties of rice dishes: plain rice, rice cooked in pomegranate juice, steamed rice served with raw egg yolk, rice with orange rinds, nuts and raisins, rice stewed with meat and poultry, and often rice pudding for dessert. I would be original. I was going to serve many different dishes too: broiled steak, roasted chicken, a veal casserole, all prepared the American way with potatoes and noodles and a variety of green and red vegetables—but no rice.

The night of the party, Leila was the first to arrive. The food was not set out yet, but my table was beautifully decorated, and I proudly took her into the dining room to show her. She let out a scream, and, snatching the centerpiece from the table, yelled, "Quickly, Maria, find another vase!" Then she broke into uncontrollable laughter.

I was speechless. I had worked for an hour on that centerpiece—a bouquet of multi-colored roses edged with ferns, spectacularly arranged in an unusually shaped copper pitcher I had bought that morning in the Shimran bazaar.

"That's an aftaba," Leila finally said when her laughter subsided. "That's not for the dining room table."

"But why? It's so beautiful..."

"Fill it with warm water and put it next to the toilet where it belongs," Leila interrupted me. "Its only function is to rinse the prescribed finger of the left hand we use for cleanliness; you know—like you use paper."

Fortunately, the guests were late as usual so we had enough time to arrange the roses in another container. When the party had assembled and it was time to lead them to the dining room, I proudly whispered to Dr. Hessaby, "Tonight we'll have a real American dinner. And no rice."

"Then you have no dinner," he remarked.

And, of course, he was right. The party went well, the conversation was animated and the food was consumed in the usual impressive quantities. Yet, I sensed an undercurrent of disappointment among our guests.

This social mishap, my first but by no means last, was a lesson I never forgot during the many years I was to live in the Middle East. From then on, I would compete with every Iranian or Arabic housewife in the quantity and variety of rice dishes I served.

© 1996 Maria Bauer. All Rights Reserved.