Beni Tonka was looking for herself and a home for a long time. Until he went to look for his father. A conversation about a personal Caribbean cookbook, which is also a search for traces of one’s own roots.
Something was missing. There was this inner conflict in Beni Tonka that he couldn’t explain. And the feeling of not really belonging anywhere – not in Rüsselsheim, where he was born, not in the USA, where he grew up. Already an adult, he learns that the man he calls father is not his father. He gets a name, finds a phone number, but rings to nowhere. Gives up. But the question mark in him remains. It wasn’t until he was 26 that he dared to try again. Months later he finds a new family and a home in Trinidad and Tobago. In “Good Lime” Tonka wrote down his search for his own roots. It has become a personal cookbook in which each story has its own (mostly) Caribbean flavor, its own dish linked to the experience. A conversation about one’s own identity, letting go and coming together and his way of cooking, which should open doors.
Mr. Tonka, your cookbook is called “Good Lime”, which stands for the Trinidadian attitude to life – for spontaneity, living in the moment…
… for me it is a symbol of everything that has happened in the last ten years. I found my family during this time. And it’s also about being able to forget what lies in the past and instead being in the moment, enjoying it. In Trinidad and Tobago, I quickly noticed that life and death are very close together. And precisely because there is such a strong connection to death, people realize how important time is. This feeling is really present there, almost haptic. If you have the opportunity for a great encounter with people, good food, music, stories – then you use it and for as long as possible. It’s a lifestyle.
You lived in Europe, in the USA, and also have roots in Trinidad. You have photographed animals, worked in a Spanish olive oil factory and in Cologne with a violin maker. You write poetry. The list goes on. The liming vibe seems to be in your blood.
I was always on the road a lot, even as a child. This gave me the feeling of not having a home and yet being at home everywhere. And I always wanted to follow my heart, pursue my passions. That’s why I’ve tried so many things.
In the foreword to your book, Alice Hasters writes that you describe yourself as a Nowhereian. So as a person who has no clear home country, no place where he feels completely at home. Is your cookbook also to be understood as a search for traces of your roots?
Working on it was a kind of therapy for me. Writing has always been my reaction to difficult times and experiences, that’s how I process. But it was also important to me to write down my story, because it’s not an individual story, it’s more universal. Many of my friends grew up with the same inner turmoil as I felt. Perhaps the book will inspire others to also search for their family, for their belonging.
The first dish you ate in your homeland was corn soup. You write: “I have arrived”. Do you still associate the feeling with corn soup?
Now that I’ve found my roots, I know it feels like home. I feel very much at home in Trinidad and Tobago. Still, I’m a stranger there too. It’s like in Germany. I’m “in and out” at the same time, I belong and I don’t. But now I enjoy the feeling. Now I have access to many different perspectives.
“Good Lime. Cooking Caribbean and vegetarian” by Beni Tonka was published by Brandstätter Verlag, 208 pages, 32 euros
The corn soup is the first recipe in the book. The chocolate pudding from your grandmother in Rüsselsheim is also included, a comfort meal for you. Also an Old-Fashioned recipe because you were drinking Old-Fashioned when you decided to get in touch with your father. All the recipes in the book serve as a common thread through your life. Every dish has a story, which one is your favourite?
Exactly. Each of these dishes played a role at a pivotal moment. My favorite story is the one about the coconut bake. I love this dish over – almost – everything. I met my father when I was 27. My father met his father when he was 51. I was present at this meeting. It was the day I met my grandfather. That day there was Coconut Bake.
What did you learn about food in Trinidad and Tobago that you didn’t know before?
It starts with very small things. The aromas of generations can sometimes be found in the heavy, cast-iron pots used to cook there. To see how the pot browns, sometimes even turns black, from the outside and inside, how the flavors burn in, that was a metaphor for me. For me, these pots represent recipes that are passed down through generations. That’s exactly what I wanted too. A huge reason for me to write down the recipes was that I didn’t want them to get lost.
Your grandmother in Rüsselsheim, you write, was your home, your anchor. Her recipes are also in the book. But only a few. Does this kitchen belong to the past, to another Beni?
no Trinidadian cuisine has played a major role in the last 10 years, but when it comes to my whole life, my grandmother’s recipes play a very important role. She is always with me. This includes certain cooking details. The flour always had to go through the sieve. I still do it today, even if it’s unnecessary – and then I feel my grandmother with me.
“My story isn’t an individual story, it’s more universal. Many of my friends grew up with a similar inner turmoil,” says Beni Tonka.
© Silviu Guiman
Caribbean cuisine isn’t exactly what your Rüsselsheim grandma used to cook, is it?
That’s right, it was a completely new culinary world for me. For example, I never really liked eggplant. Then my aunt in Trinidad roasted some right in the fire until they were all black. Then she peeled off the skin and mashed the eggplant flesh with hot oil and garlic. This dish was like a door into the world of aubergines for me.
Your way of cooking is also referred to in the book as a door opener. Tell me, what’s behind the door?
In front of the door is the question mark mentioned, behind it a kind of consolation. It’s about the possibility of coming together, it’s about belonging. And of course, my soul is in my food. It’s a multi-layered soul. I’ll explain. My name is Beni. When I came to Trinidad everyone called me Pa Ben. Because my great-grandfather’s name was Ben and I reminded her of him. My father’s mother always wanted her grandson to be named after him. And then suddenly I was there. All our souls are in the courts.
That sounds complex. However, their dishes themselves are convincing in that they are not overloaded with ingredients, and the instructions do not immediately overwhelm them.
This part of the book really worried me. Because a lot of what my family, my aunts, my father prepare is cooked by eye, without a recipe. So I could only learn them by watching. And then a different amount of flour is used each time, oh man…. But I’ve made an effort to write them down in such a way that I’m not the only one who can cook them.
Chili in food keeps demons away, says a Trinidadian saying. Every household on the island is said to have its own chili sauce recipe. It is, one could say, a cultural asset. And in your book of all places there is no recipe. What happened there?
It’s correct. Everyone has their own recipe, everyone thinks they make a better sauce than the next. Of course I also have one, the soka sauce. But the recipe isn’t in the book because I’m selling the sauce now. But maybe there will be fresh chili recipes for the next book
What we cook is perhaps the most authentic description of our identity, writes Alice Hasters. And that you understand that. If so, what did you eat today?
(laughs) I can tell you what I just ate. Sometimes I have to treat myself to something, then I buy a matcha praline from the super organic market. Matcha flavored white chocolate with a filling that’s really decadent. This is just a small orb, but powerful. I really enjoy it – but only once a week.
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