The Art of Competitive Generosity

As a kid of Iranian parents growing up in Arkansas, trips to Tehran were both sweet and brutal. Sweet to know I had so much family (not that I always recognized them all). Sweet to raid the trees in my agha joon’s (grandpa’s) backyard for tiny sour cherries, apricots, and plums, which my aunts and grandma cooked down either for jam or spread on trays and dried on the roof to make lavashak, the OG Fruit Roll-Ups. Brutal because I felt almost equally out of place. In Springdale, Arkansas, my English was a work in progress. In Tehran, my Farsi was a work without progress. That’s me, Sara Mardanbigi, embarrassing herself at home and abroad. Brutal, too, because we were shuttled from home to home for seemingly ceaseless mehmoonis (house parties) at which my siblings and I were subjected to taarof, the demented art of Persian hospitality.

Taarof is, essentially, a fierce, relentless generosity competition, a game of chicken between provider and recipient. It’s complimenting someone’s bra only to have them, quite literally, remove it then and there and hand it to you, while you tenderly and aggressively decline the offering as if your pride depended on it. (And yes, this actually happened.) It’s the warzone of politeness that ensues after Maman pops open the two giant, stuffed suitcases she hauled to Iran and starts gifting their contents — perfume, makeup, shirts, shoes, and other fruits of all that aforementioned haggling — all of which must be vehemently rejected before it can be accepted.