During my scholarship visit to Cologne, Germany, I was honored with a rare opportunity: to introduce sinigang to a group of esteemed social scientists. My host, the director of the city’s ethnology museum, invited me to stay at her home and requested that I prepare a Filipino dish for a special dinner she was organizing in my honor, with her colleagues and friends from the university as guests.

On the day of the dinner, my host went off to work, leaving me to prepare sinigang in her home kitchen. At the local supermarket, I gathered ingredients as close to traditional as possible, despite a few necessary substitutions: beef short ribs (my favorite for its rich, slightly fatty flavor, similar to the cuts used in Korean galbi), broccoli florets, spinach in place of kangkong (water spinach), radish, eggplant, frozen okra, onions, tomatoes, and jalapeño peppers instead of siling haba (Filipino finger peppers). And, of course, I picked up rice—both for its starchy wash water to enrich the sinigang broth and to serve steamed alongside the soup.

To replicate the sour base of the soup, I chose a bag of lemons instead of tamarind powder, which wasn’t available in Germany. I usually pack tamarind powder when traveling for exactly this reason, but I had none with me this time. Fortunately, I found bird’s eye chili peppers and fish sauce imported from Thailand, essential for the sawsawan (dipping sauce) that would accompany the meal.

The sourness is truly sinigang’s signature trait, and its intensity varies depending on personal taste or regional traditions. For many Caucasians, that tangy flavor can feel almost shocking, while for most Asians, it’s the taste of home. When introducing someone to Filipino sour dishes, it’s often wise to tone down the tang a bit by adding salt or even a dash of sugar. I remember once when my daughter took a Jewish friend to a Filipino restaurant for the first time. He’d been curious for ages, and she suggested he try a tamarind-flavored beef sinigang. Afterward, she asked what he thought, and he admitted, “It felt like I just drank a lot of acid. But it was surprisingly good!”

Later that evening, my host returned to find me finishing up the soup. She set an elegant table for ten, featuring my sinigang alongside her own creamy chicken breast dish, which she’d prepared in advance and was now reheating. I couldn’t help but feel uncertain about the pairing. A sour soup and a creamy dish seemed worlds apart, but it was her home, her guests, and her table. I decided to embrace it.

As the guests arrived, they admired the vibrant colors of the sinigang and took their seats around the table. I was placed at the head of the table, directly across from our host, which made it easy to guide them through the proper way to enjoy the dish. I had served each guest a small bowl of sinigang broth with a spinach leaf or two for color, and I instructed them to sip the broth first to appreciate its unique sour flavor. If they liked it, I suggested they could moisten their rice with a little more broth, savoring it in small spoonfuls.

On the side, I set out saucers of fish sauce mixed with plenty of chopped bird’s eye chili peppers, not realizing that for the unaccustomed, this can be a dangerous combination. Just as I noticed one guest lifting a spoonful of the sawsawan straight to her mouth, I managed to intervene, gently explaining that it was meant to be a condiment, not a shot. Everyone laughed, breaking the formality a bit, and soon they were all savoring the sinigang as if they’d grown up with it.

Some guests paired it with the creamy chicken out of curiosity, but they quickly agreed that sinigang was best enjoyed solo. In its completeness, it stood out at the table: comforting, vibrant, and warmly familiar even in a foreign setting.

Watching my German friends sip sinigang and navigate fish sauce was like witnessing a delightful culinary adventure—one spoonful, one laugh, one curious glance at a time. They may have started a bit wary, but by the end, they were pros, balancing broth with rice and embracing the bold flavors. That night, they didn’t just eat sinigang; they got a taste of what it means to eat like a Filipino.

The next day at the museum, some of the dinner guests were still talking about their experience with sinigang, marveling at its comforting sourness. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Cultural exchanges like these—sharing a meal and introducing one another to new flavors—happen countless times as people encounter unfamiliar dishes and ways of eating. True, some tastes may surprise or even challenge the uninitiated, but more often than not, the gesture is warmly received, sparking appreciation across cultures.