Throughout history, shared meals and sacred celebrations have been integral to our social fabric. They are part of what makes us human, providing a timeless link to that which is sacred.
In 2008, the initial findings of archaeological research in the Galilean cave of Hilazon Tachtit, which had begun three years prior, were published by Dr. Natalie Munro in the esteemed journal Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences (PNAS). The highlight was the discovery of a “shaman’s grave”: the burial of a relatively short, ill woman who had died around the age of forty-five. In this and later publications, Dr. Munro—an archaeozoologist and anthropologist—employed ethnological methodologies which garnered significant media attention. The grave, dating back to roughly 10,000 BCE, is linked to the Middle Stone Age Natufian culture, which spanned from about 12,000 to 7,500 BCE in the Middle East. This culture is particularly intriguing for researchers as it provides evidence of the shift from hunting and gathering to agriculture, and from nomadism to settled living, all within a confined geographical area.
What, apart from the shaman, did Natalie Munro find in the grave? The complexity of the burial itself is striking—the pit was lined with polished shells, fragments of basalt, ochre, chalk, and flint. After the remains were laid, everything was covered over with ash, a layer of limestone, and topped off with a heavy stone. Most interestingly, however, the grave was filled with various animal bones: the pelvis of a leopard, the wing of an eagle, the tail of a cow, the front hoof of a wild boar, the skulls of martens, and eighty-six tortoise shells. The woman’s skeleton lay surrounded and partially covered by all of this.
However, the most fascinating aspect might be not the woman’s profession but rather the way in which she was laid to rest. In 2016, Dr. Munro and Professor Leore Grosman from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem attempted to reconstruct the funeral ceremony. In an article in the journal Current Anthropology, published by the University of Chicago, they identified six different stages—focusing particularly on evidence for an extraordinary, ritualistic meal that may have involved up to thirty-five people.
What Makes for a Celebration?
Thanks to Natalie Munro’s “shaman,” we know that people began to hold feasts associated with special events shortly after they changed from a nomadic to a settled lifestyle. This is a view shared by another archaeologist whose attention has turned to anthropology, Brian Hayden. Initially interested in studying shamans, he eventually focused on celebrations, searching for their archaeological origins. His definition of a “feast” (from 2001) is “any sharing of special food (in quality, preparation, or quantity) by two or more people for a special (not everyday) event.” The scholar points out that, although many ceremonies and rituals may involve a feasting element, a feast per se always has to have food and drink squarely at its center.
The quest for a definition is not trivial. Research exploring the underlying significance of celebrations is a relatively new field. In his classic monograph from 1938, Homo ludens: Play as the Source of Culture, renowned Dutch historian Johan Huizinga expresses surprise on almost every page that scientific interest in play and celebration is still in its infancy. He also proposes early (albeit not perfect) definitions. “The sacred act is ‘celebrated’ on a ‘holiday’—i.e., it forms part of a general feast on the occasion of a holy day. When the people foregather at the sanctuary they gather together for collective rejoicing. […] Ordinary life is at a standstill. Banquets, junketings, and all kinds of wanton revels are going on all the time the feast lasts” (trans. R.F.C. Hull). Here, Huizinga is clearly fashioning a definition to fit his own purposes (arguing that debauchery is not a necessary element of celebrations), but he does identify two essential features of the phenomenon under study: celebrations involve a suspension of everyday life and the presence of food.
Nearly three decades before Huizinga’s work, the esteemed Georg Simmel, a foundational figure in sociology and a pioneer in what is now known as the “sociology of everyday life,” made a compelling argument about the crucial role of communal eating in human socialization. In his insightful 1910 essay on the sociology of meals, Simmel observed that it’s challenging to share the exact same morsel between two mouths—yet it’s the act of sharing a meal that sets humans, as a species forging social bonds, apart from solitary-feeding, non-human creatures. Eating is—Simmel points out—fundamentally a personal, exclusive activity, but humanity has transformed it into a communal custom of gathering and sharing food. This idea is both elegant and audacious, particularly when considering, for instance, the communal feasting of lions or the feeding habits of chimpanzees and bonobos. A study published in Human Nature revealed that bonobos prefer sharing food with strangers rather than with close family, likely in order to broaden their social networks. Simmel’s 1910 essay rests more upon his own intuitive understanding than empirical research, but it later inspired Claude Lévi-Strauss in developing his famous theory of cooking and eating as systems of communication. Indeed, three of the four volumes of Lévi-Strauss’s monumental Myth and Meaning focus primarily on food. Similarly, in the 1970s, Mary Douglas explored the structure, routine, and ritual of meals, drawing extensively from structuralism. Lévi-Strauss wrote about “the origins of table manners” (l’origine des manières de table), Douglas about “deciphering a meal.” Both emphasized the hierarchy of the table and ritualistic aspects of dining as integral to celebration. Contemporary food anthropologists continue to build upon these insights, recognizing, as Douglas succinctly put it, that “food is not feed”: eating transcends mere nourishment.
Thou Shalt Not Covet Delicacies
Celebrations begin with a suspension of “ordinary life,” as Huizinga put it. They involve special occasions, perhaps specific times and places, and undoubtedly include the preparation of exquisite dishes in a unique manner, along with specific behaviors and, occasionally, costumes. They also involve a certain hierarchy. Has this always been a fundamental part of celebrations? Consider the burial ceremony of the “shaman” at Hilazon Tachtit. Were those in attendance part of the local elite, or did the entire community participate in the farewell? Were the turtles eaten simultaneously or one by one? Was there any specific order to the meal? The question of the natural or cultural origin of the hierarchical component in celebration might hang in the air, were it not for chimpanzees (always helpful in this regard). In the late 1960s, it was none other than Jane Goodall who observed how meat was distributed among chimpanzees during a shared (!) meal—of course, going from the more dominant males to the less important ones, clearly reflecting a hierarchical structure. Martin Jones, an archaeologist from the University of Cambridge, referenced Goodall’s findings in his acclaimed book Feast: Why Humans Share Food (2007), providing a compelling perspective on this aspect of social gatherings.
“When you sit down to eat with a ruler, observe carefully what is before you, and put a knife to your throat if you are given to appetite. Do not desire his delicacies, for they are deceptive food,” the book of Proverbs teaches (Pr 23:1–3, English Standard Version), highlighting the author’s awareness of the complexities that arise when accommodating different social ranks at the table. Hierarchy is inherently woven into the fabric of a celebration. Those at the far end of the table receive what’s left on the platters that were initially served to the most important guests. Seats of privilege—next to the king, prince, or powerful host—are reserved for special, invited guests.
This sense of hierarchy is exemplified in historical contexts: Poland’s King Augustus II, for instance, had only the envoys of the emperor and the elector of Brandenburg seated beside him at his coronation feast, excluding the Polish magnates. In contrast, King Arthur’s legendary Round Table symbolized the abolition of such hierarchy, a concept often echoed throughout history. Yet, the hierarchy of the table remains prevalent today, especially in diplomatic circles where the principle of precedence is rigorously maintained. Anyone ever relegated to the far end of the table at a formal reception involving high-ranking officials or diplomats will know what this feels like.
The phenomenon continues to be a topic of academic study. Martin Jones, applying Mary Douglas’s methodologies, conducted a study at the University of Cambridge in 2008 on holiday feasting. His research focused on the seating arrangements at tables, the dress codes, and the order in which dishes were served. For instance, he identified thirty-three different utensils involved in the sharing of food, seven unique items of clothing worn specifically for such occasions, and various methods used to denote the hierarchical relationships among those present.
Liquid Offerings
An ideal example of the order and hierarchy of the primordial feast that has survived to the present day can be found in Georgia’s supra—a celebration of eating and drinking with an established script for behavior, involving toasting, speeches, and drinking (as noted by scholars like Paula Manning in her Semiotics of Drink and Drinking, 2012). Presided over by a tamada, or toastmaster, the supra is an opulent banquet comprising numerous dishes specially prepared for the occasion by women—who appear at the table only briefly. This is a male celebration: rhythmic, ritualized, and hierarchical.
It’s easy to see clear parallels between the Georgian supra and the Greek symposium. In Greece, after a light meal where no wine was drunk, a structured, alcohol-fueled feast would ensue, reflecting a military-style order. The course of the event, the number of guests, and even the amount of wine were all predetermined. In the andron—a room where only men were allowed—a symposiarch (a master of ceremonies akin to the tamada) oversaw the progression of the feast, the topics of conversation, and the quantity of wine consumed.
Imperial Rome had embraced only the god Bacchus (in Greek, Dionysus) from Greek feasting traditions, leaving the orderly and somewhat strict customs to the Greeks. Nonetheless, Roman feasts were still associated with a certain decorum, violations of which were frowned upon. The extravagant Roman banquet detailed in the first century by Petronius Arbiter in his Satyricon, a sardonic portrayal of Roman society, highlights the poor taste of the host, Trimalchio. The excessive array of dishes, wines, staged scenes, and grandiose ideas devised by Trimalchio—a wealthy freedman—elicited nothing but hidden contempt from his guests, who discreetly yearned to leave his home. Outside of literature, a century earlier, the formidable and esteemed Roman statesman Lucius Licinius Lucullus had also acquired a reputation for vulgarity due to his excessive feasting.
Alcohol has consistently been a pivotal element in celebrations, integral to feasts across various cultures and available to all social strata (though they often drank different qualities of beverages and did not mingle). For example, Orthodox Jews take the Purim mandate to drink to intoxication quite seriously—to the point of blurring the line between good and evil. Meanwhile, in ancient Greece, during grand festivals, officials known as oinoptai were tasked with ensuring that—in the spirit of Athenian democracy—participants drank evenly, aiming for a uniform level of inebriation.
In the ancient Sumerian city of Uruk, the largest metropolis of its era, beer was strictly regulated in terms of how and where it was drunk. Here, communal drinking sessions were held, likely similar to Greek symposia, where participants lay down and sipped beer through long straws (of course, staying strictly within their own social circles). For the Sumerians, beer was not only a staple of entertainment but also deemed appropriate for offerings to the gods, thus intertwining celebration with sacredness. This link is evident in the Epic of Gilgamesh, in which water is routine but beer flows freely during feasts—notably during the akitu, the New Year celebrations. Libations (or liquid offerings) in honor of the god Marduk had to be performed with wine, but in the streets all manner of drinks were consumed.
“I slaughtered bullocks / I killed sheep upon sheep every day, / Beer, ale, oil, and wine / I gave out to the workers like river water / They made a feast as on New Year’s Day,” states the Epic of Gilgamesh (Tablet XI, trans. B.R Forester), reflecting the integral role of alcohol in ancient festivities. The Egyptians, to celebrate the inebriation of Hathor, would get themselves drunk (like the goddess herself) on red wine (the color of her dress). The Romans celebrated two wine festivals a year: one in April, for the common people who were drinking last year’s young wine; another in August, which was associated with the grape harvest. In the Romans’ Vinalia festivals, there was no trace of the stern anti-alcohol rules of the republic, which stipulated that wine was almost exclusively for offerings, and that women could not drink it at all. Festivity justifies excess (in line with Huizinga’s observations).
Prepare a Table Before Me
One of the embroidered commentaries on the famous Bayeux Tapestry—the words above the feast scene—states: “And here the bishop blesses the food and drink.” This banquet took place in Pevensey before the Battle of Hastings on October 14, 1066. William, Duke of Normandy, who was soon to earn himself the moniker “the Conqueror,” is depicted seated at the table, encircled by barons and joined by his half-brother, Bishop Odo. The cleric, who would become famous for wielding a massive club in the battle (a scene also captured on the tapestry), is seen performing the very act described in the inscription. While three of the four barons appear unconcerned and absorbed in their drinking, William, his hand resting on a plate or perhaps a bowl, is not eating but instead is gazing at his brother. Before him lies a fish, a symbol of Christ, underscoring the sacred nature of England’s conquest. A servant kneels, offering some food; yet, apart from the fish, the table is devoid of any other food, even though it is fully set. Nevertheless, this is indeed a holy feast, subtly hinted at by the tapestry’s artist. A glance to the side hints at what will soon be served. The celebration’s layout is meticulously hierarchical—the main table’s esteemed guests are praying, while the nearby knights are already dining. The Pevensey Castle feast appears to have been a bit like a modern-day outdoor grill (the month of October must have seen quite favorable weather in 1066). At a secondary table, guests enjoy chicken skewers, servants deliver grilled food on shields, and a large pot (containing soup or stewed meat?) simmers over an open flame. The imminent battle looms the next day. Momentous occasions call for grand celebrations. This Pevensey feast, vividly captured in the Bayeux Tapestry, is portrayed as an event of equal importance to the other milestones in England’s conquest—to both the battle itself and the subsequent victory.
The emphasis on the sanctity of the pre-battle feast is well-founded. There were, after all, many ill-fated feasts, too—recounted in ancient literature as well as in both Jewish and Christian traditions. For example, during a banquet, a writing hand that spells out “mene, tekel, parsin,” foretells King Belshazzar of Babylon’s downfall (Daniel 5:1-30). Similarly, it’s during a feast that Salome brings Herod the head of John the Baptist on a platter (Matthew 14:1-12). Feasting, meanwhile, is a pious activity. When Abraham is visited by mysterious guests, one of whom is God himself, the patriarch recognizes it as a sacred occasion (Genesis 18:1-16). He instructs his wife to prepare cakes from “three seahs of fine flour.” He then slaughters “a calf, tender and good,” and serves it all up together with curds and milk. This event takes place in an oak grove, but “the heat of the day” is intense. Abraham seats his guests in the shade, brings water to wash their feet, and feeds them generously. A whole calf for four diners (excluding Sarah) is quite an extravagance, as is bread from three seahs of flour (scholars vary in their estimates, but agree it’s at least five gallons). Thus, under these oaks, a true display of philoxenia—meaning “the love of strangers”—unfolds. It’s a grand feast, unmatched by anything locally available. Such conduct is a measure of love and respect.
Say It with Food
Feasts are demonstrations of the highest honor for guests, and, as Lévi-Strauss suggests, cooking is a universally understood language. The Jews in the Bible, skilled in this culinary language, criticized Jesus for dining with Levi, a tax collector and thus a social outcast (Mark 2:13–17). Hence, the art of cooking and feasting acts as a comprehensible, two-way medium. By hosting a feast, we honor our guests. By accepting an invitation, we honor our hosts. And, as with Abraham’s encounter, the mere opportunity to meet can be a celebration in itself, fulfilling all the criteria of sociological definitions.
Historically, the most spectacular feasts are primarily celebrations of the meeting itself. They have their official motivations and often conceal (usually political) agendas, but above all, they transform secular time into a festive interval, suspending “ordinary life.” The grandest French banquet, hosted in 1378 by Charles V, took place on the Feast of the Epiphany. It was meant to honor Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV of Luxembourg, who had come to visit Paris with his son Wenceslas, the King of Germany and Bohemia.
Lavish feasting which lasted over two weeks also occurred at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, a meeting place for the rulers of France and England in 1520. The host, King Francis I of France, intended to charm Henry VIII, or at least dissuade him from aligning with the Habsburgs in a looming conflict. Francis might have overindulged in the extravagance, as Henry VIII, unsettled by this display of power, promptly allied with the Habsburgs. Nonetheless, the event was celebrated for seventeen days—during which ordinary life indeed did come to a standstill.
The potent and universal language of feasting could also be used to send messages from afar. In 1454, Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, held the Feast of the Pheasant. Though he himself was not present, the event conveyed a message from him to the King of France. Ostensibly a celebration of his son’s marriage, it was actually a carefully orchestrated event to promote the idea of launching a crusade against the Ottomans, who had taken Constantinople the previous year. The crusade never materialized, but the feast and its activities aimed to bolster Philip’s stature vis-à-vis the King of France—showing that it was Philip who was the leader of the Christian world.
While the hierarchies and messages evolved over time, the language itself remained constant. During the French Revolution, there was vehement opposition to the hierarchy of celebration. Just days after the storming of the Bastille, Marquis de Villette, a well-known writer and politician, proposed: “I would like for all the Bourgeois of the good City of Paris to set up their tables in public and take their meals in front of their houses. The rich and the poor would be united, and all classes would be merged” (trans. D.J. Sax). These “tables of brotherhood” laden with “bread of equality” were meant to serve as a constant celebration of the new reality, the victory of the revolution, and the birth of the republic. So, once again, everything was meant to revolve around communication.
However, a true festival of the republic of this sort did actually occur in 1900, with the famous Mayors’ Banquet. During the Paris World Exposition—a grand celebration of modernity—the French President invited all the mayors of the country to attend a huge feast. Around twenty-three thousand officials gathered, seated at seven hundred long tables, of course deliberately disregarding the precedence rule—President Émile Loubet had the republican idea of equality firmly in mind.
History does record various attempts to distort or falsify this universal language of celebration (like in socialist Poland, where it was jokingly explained that “champagne is the drink of the working class—eagerly sipped by its representatives”). Nevertheless, reading any description of a pig slaughtering (such as in Bohumil Hrabal’s Cutting It Short or Jean-Claude Carrière’s Le Vin Bourru) reveals the extraordinary power and remarkable experience that can be felt when the combination of a special occasion; exceptional food in terms of quality, quantity, and preparation; the social hierarchy of a gathering; and the sharing of food all come together—perhaps also with just a dash of wanton excess.
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