Uncle Hasan the Elder – The Secret to Surviving a Proposal Dinner

In every family, there’s that one character — the one who never means to be funny, but somehow always delivers pure comedy gold. For us, that person is Uncle Hasan the Elder.

Uncle Hasan wasn’t just older in age; he was older in spirit. Imagine a man who treats rice like sacred currency, considers conversation during meals a personal insult to the food, and believes that good digestion is the foundation of any good marriage. That’s Uncle Hasan.

So let me tell you about the time I was about to attend my own proposal dinner , you know, one of those classic setups where two families meet under extreme politeness, judgmental smiles, and an unspoken war over social status, table manners, and dessert quality.

I was already nervous. My mom had ironed my shirt three times. My dad reminded me not to talk too much. But then, just as we were heading out, my phone rang.

Guess who?

Uncle Hasan the Elder.

I stepped aside and answered.

“Where are you going looking like a bank manager?” he barked. “You didn’t tell me it was the dinner!”

I laughed nervously. “Uncle, it’s not that serious...”

“Not serious? Are you mad?! This dinner will decide your stomach’s future! Now listen, I’m going to tell you how to survive it.”

He paused for dramatic effect, then launched into full uncle-philosopher mode.

“Rule one: Don’t eat like a polite idiot.”

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“You heard me. If you take a baby portion like you’re on a diet, they’ll assume that’s how you always eat. And then for the rest of your life, they’ll give you decorative servings! You’ll be hungry forever! Even if you’re full—tonight, eat like you haven’t seen food since the 90s.”

I choked back laughter. “Okay, eat more. Got it.”

“Rule two: Say something smart about the food. Not just ‘Thank you, it’s good.’ That’s what amateurs say. You need to act like your tongue has a PhD.”

He continued, “Even if you don’t know what’s in the food, pretend! Say, ‘This stew… did you use cardamom? There’s a warm depth I can’t quite place.’ It doesn’t matter if it’s just salt. You’ll sound cultured.”

I promised I’d try.

He wasn’t done.

“Rule three: Compliment the rice. Always. Even if it’s average. Why? Because if the rice is bad, the whole house knows. If you praise it, it’s like praising the mother-in-law’s soul. Say something like, ‘This rice separates like velvet — what brand do you use?’ You’ll earn eternal respect.”

I asked him, “Uncle, is this really necessary?”

He replied, “Listen, boy. In our family, the marriage begins with the spoon, and it ends with the spoon. Now go in there and eat your future into a better tomorrow.”

So, I followed his advice.

At the dinner, I took two full servings. I complimented the rice like it was fine art. I asked questions about spices like I was hosting a cooking show.

Everyone smiled. The mood lightened. Even the bride-to-be whispered to her cousin, “At least he appreciates food.”

Fast-forward ten years.

Every time we visit my in-laws, my mother-in-law personally brings me two plates.

“This one has dried lime. That one has a touch of cinnamon. Tell me which you prefer,” she says with pride.

And every time, I hear Uncle Hasan’s voice in my head:

“Compliment the rice, and the door to her heart—and kitchen—will always be open.”

Honestly, I don’t remember a single thing anyone told me about love, communication, or conflict resolution.

But Uncle Hasan’s advice? That’s forever.