Uncle Hasan the Elder – Part 13: “The Art of Polite Insults”

Every family has a character, someone whose presence makes gatherings more colorful, whose words you replay in your head on the drive home, and whose brand of honesty feels like a gentle slap followed by a polite hug. In our family, that legend is Uncle Hasan.

Now, don’t misunderstand, Uncle Hasan is no villain. He’s friendly, thoughtful, always the first to arrive with a box of sweets and the last to leave with a full belly. He just happens to be a master of compliments that insult, insults that teach, and advice that sounds like riddles.

At first, no one noticed. His words were so wrapped in politeness, they passed as genuine flattery. But gradually, people began to spot the pattern. That’s when it became a game. A ritual. People started listening to him with one ear for what he said and the other ear for what he really meant.

Take one classic dinner party.

The host had clearly gone all out: table set like a wedding reception, candles lit, appetizers laid out like it was a cooking show. At the end of the meal, with everyone groaning happily, Uncle Hasan stood, smiled warmly, and said:

“Thank you for the lovely evening. Always keep it this simple, it’s the simplicity that makes us want to come again and again.”

Silence.

Even the spoons looked confused. The host blinked twice. Because the message underneath was clear:

“You tried really hard, but don’t. Keep it basic next time.”

One cousin whispered to me, “He just told her she overdid it, didn’t he?”

I nodded. Auntie started collecting the fancy plates like they betrayed her.

And then there was the time we offered to drive him to a family gathering.

“Don’t bring your car, Uncle. We’ll pick you up.”

Most people?

“Really? That’s so kind of you. Thank you!”

Uncle Hasan?

“It’s fine. The route’s short, and you were heading that way anyway.”

Oof.

Delivered politely. But it was the kind of response that made you wonder if you were being thanked or dismissed like a GPS instruction.

But the real crown jewel—his Mona Lisa of mild burns—came when my dad treated him to a fancy dinner. Big restaurant. Cloth napkins. Waiters who say “allow me.” My dad footed the bill with a smile and said, “So, what do you think, Hasan?”

Uncle Hasan leaned back, wiped his mouth, and said:

“It was good. Missed out on your wife’s cooking, though. But at least it didn’t cost too much.”

Boom. Three hits in one:

1. Your wife cooks better than this restaurant.

2. This place wasn’t worth missing a home meal for.

3. Luckily, it didn’t bankrupt you.

Delivered with a warm pat on the back and a genuine grin.

You’d think we’d be offended. But that’s the thing, we’re not. Because at some point, every single member of the family has heard a “Hasan Special.” And instead of getting upset, we laugh. We now have a rule: if someone compliments you and you’re not sure if it was actually an insult, we say, “Was that an Uncle Hasan?”

Even he laughs at that. He knows. He definitely knows.

He once pulled me aside and said:

“You should speak in a way that, even when you strike someone, they feel like you just tucked them into bed.”

Only he could say something like that and make it sound like philosophy.