At a nearby supermarket in Australia, they organised a Tayto sale, which only intensified my longing as an Irish exile in this foreign land. To encounter such a reminder of home on an otherwise bland Wednesday morning while you’re engaged in running errands for essentials like milk and toilet paper is quite a surprising reality.
Although exploring grocery stores worldwide can be an interesting activity, your nearby shop swiftly turns ordinary, even if it provides perfectly formed avocados for roughly €1.20 or a vibrant selection of different citrus and tropical fruits. It might take you a good few weeks to become acclimatised to different vegetable terminologies which can lead to confusion at the self-check out.
For example, in Australia a red pepper is referred as a capsicum.
Canberra, the capital of Australia, unlike Melbourne and Sydney, is not home to a significant Irish community. However, there is a large Chinese community which offers a variety of intriguing foods not readily available in Ireland. The well-rooted Italian community ensures a diverse supply in the pasta aisle, despite the geographical distance from Europe.
As an Irish immigrant to Australia, I find delight in exploring the culinary offerings of this new environment. I have no anticipation that Australia should mirror Ireland, and even in times of homesickness, I prefer to embrace the cultural disparities and adapt to my adopted country. Fortunately, Barry’s Tea is available here, which, for me, is a must-have, therefore I am content.
Yet the fast-approaching expiration date and the limited awareness or appreciation of the unmistakable scent of onion that emerges from a freshly opened bag of the crisps I used to enjoy as a child suggest that these may not be as popular here.
The notion of a discount on individual packets of Tayto crisps feels utterly alien, akin to slashing prices on air or chocolate. It’s a surreal occurrence reflective of the bizarre times we’ve found ourselves in. It’s as though reality has been turned on its head with extraordinary historical events becoming almost routine. There’s a common understanding that supermarkets tend to offer discounts on products that are approaching their expiration date or are unloved.
You occasionally stumble upon a bargain in the discount aisle, but it’s mostly filled with forlorn food items, the ones you didn’t really care for to begin with. They lie there on the shelves or in refrigerators, unattractive and neglected, accompanied by a yellow discount sticker. These items are the outcasts of food, such as egregiously flavoured sausages, synthetic-looking garlic cheese bread or yoghurt that tastes dismally bland, their demand having fallen short of expectations.
Their existence is similar to St Patrick’s Day headgear in April or Valentine’s Day cards in March – unwanted, unattractive and unnecessary. The sight of a Tayto crisps display in the local grocery store was nothing short of startling. Traditional Irish foods usually find themselves lumped together under the “UK” label in these parts. They’ve grouped Barry’s Tea alongside Bovril and one must come to terms with the fact that away from home, local tastes may not be understood. However, spotting a heap of Tayto crisps over 17,000km from home was extremely unexpected.
Seeing such a display initially felt like a surprise hug from home. However, upon closer look, I could decipher what was really going on.
This wasn’t an international display of Irish diplomatic prowess. Neither was it a corporate snack battle nor a Tayto attempt to dominate the Australian market. Rather, it was Ireland’s primary export (following Kerrygold and Botox) being quickly sold off, as its expiry date approached, due to lack of appreciation in Australia for the alluring onion aroma emanating from a freshly opened bag of my childhood crisps. They had reduced our national treasure, Mr Tayto himself, the inventor of Meanies, and his iconic red jacket and striped trouser ensemble, to a marked-down item. And there he sat, immaculately dressed, discarded and embarrassed; a somewhat tragic, carbohydrate-loaded version of Humpty-Dumpty.
Driven by a sense of patriotism, I purchased 19 bags and now had the task of consuming them within a fortnight, after which they would expire. Every time I open my kitchen cupboard, I’m face to face with the piercing, button-like gaze of an abandoned Mr Tayto, disrespectfully left to his fate on a continent far from his homeland. I favour the salt and vinegar flavour, but given the situation, it seems inappropriate, possibly even treasonous, to admit this fact.
It’s remarkable that living away from home can both deepen and flatten one’s sense of national culture. You develop an appreciation for Irishness that is often less enthusiastically cultivated back home, mainly because what’s always readily available tends to be taken for granted. Moreover, it has become trendy amongst those who wish to appear cosmopolitan to show a degree of disdain for their local culture and dialects.
However, when living overseas, you can freely celebrate these elements of Irish culture, while people back home grudgingly accept them as a part of their identity. Spotting a bag of Tayto in an unlikely place can trigger a flood of nostalgia, but it can also highlight a desperate yearning for connection to your homeland, reducing your entire culture down to 19 bags of crisps. It induces a subtle pain seeing something so cherished from home being so readily disregarded outside its usual environment.
In the grocery store aisles of Canberra, Mr Tayto seemed as familiar as any other Irish expatriate in unfamiliar land. Feeling alien. Somehow not quite assimilating into his fresh cultural milieu. Slightly overseas and still trying to ascertain his position. We’ve all experienced this sensation.