Thali, a highly structured meal

In 2015, Professor of linguistics Dan Jurawksy published a book called The Language Of Food, containing a collection of essays about the ways in which food and language interact. They range from analysis of the choice of words on menus (when is it of financial interest to refer to something in French rather than English) to the origins of the term ketchup (hint: it's old). The final chapter is my firm favourite, in which Jurawksy presents a theory called "The Grammar of Cuisine". Having discussed the language used to describe food, Jurawksy argues that cuisines are languages in their own right.

Like all languages, cuisines have structure, with inherent, mathematical rules that must be followed in order to create the correct phrase or dish. Such "grammatical" rules also impact the order of dishes within the sentence of a meal. As with dialects and local slang, these rules differ from culture to culture, with minute variations appearing within a single nation. Consider, for instance, the rules governing Indian thali, where even the arrangement of dishes on the tray is crucial, with different ingredients and dishes appearing in different regions. Or compare the rules governing the order of cheese and dessert in France and the UK. The rules of preparation and where each dish should sit are firmly grounded in cultural identity, the product of thousands of years of gastronomic development.

Jurawksy asserts that a meal, like a sentence, can be analysed and broken down into an algebraic equation - a sum of parts that must be combined in the correct order to create the product. As with nouns and adjectives,  flavours must "agree" grammatically in order to create the correct, authentic taste. Thus a traditional cottage pie cannot be made with filo pastry and a Margherita pizza cannot contain cheddar - the flavours would not fully agree and would not be recognisable as the original dish. The Italian government has gone so far as to have the recipe for the Margherita protected by the EU - cementing the grammar of the dish in international legislation.

Nonetheless, there will always be cooks who purposefully subvert the instated rules. Jurawksy offers the example of bacon ice cream, a clear aberration of the usual rules governing American dessert. But, as his book highlights, it is this subversion, this introduction of new, unusual flavours and ingredients that help cuisines to develop. And the same can be said for languages; new inclusions and structural changes always reshape them for the future. In both instances the initial reaction is often horror (think of the outrage following the introduction of  "chav" into the OED, or the removal of the circumflex in certain French words) but eventually cultural appropriation takes over and nobody notices. If you weren't aware, bacon ice cream is now a thing. And as we know, many of Europe's most central ingredients are foreign imports that have quietly been absorbed into the national identity. The potato is not native to Ireland, nor the tomato to Italy; even fish and chips, that stalwart of the Great British Menu, can (according to Jurawksy) be traced back to ancient Persia.

The concept of the grammar of cuisine is also a reminder that, as much as cooking offers huge scope for creativity and experimentation, it is still highly structured and based on a founding set of cultural principles. Some of these unwritten rules go beyond the kitchen and can become a matter of national pride - just ask an Italian how they feel about ordering a cappuccino after 11am. And what are the implications if someone veers from the strictures? Even if it sparks a new wave of creativity that shapes the cuisine for the future, for many it signifies the transgression of a fundamental order around which their lives are based. Jurawksy highlights the horrified attitude of Chinese acquaintances towards salad, as, for them, the act of cooking food is seen as a sign of civilisation and culture, of exercising control over the elements. To eat raw vegetables as a dish, or even unboiled water is, for some, highly ungrammatical and even insulting.

I am completely taken with Jurawksy's theory, because it offers two new methods of studying food. Primarily, it provides a unique way of analysing the composition of meals. Each ingredient has a specific role within the phrase of a dish; mushrooms could be the noun, rice the verb, cream the adjective. Adding a twist of black pepper to a carbonara, or sprinkling almonds on a curry becomes akin to checking that your verb endings agree, or that you've added the correct accents. It reminds us that food is multi -faceted and complex, encouraging us to study in detail the flavours and techniques that best complement one another, both to understand a traditional dish and do justice to the ingredients themselves.

The theory also appeals because, by seeing food as a language, we acknowledge that it is a crucial form of communication. To cook for someone is to pass on some kind of message, and, using Jurawksy's theory, we can argue that each plate in a meal, like each word in a sentence, has meaning and subtext. Each dish is the carefully chosen expression of a certain emotion or desire, whether subconscious or not, in both the private and public sphere. Consider the importance of food in politics (as analysed in the Radio 4 Food Programme), especially at international summits. The meals served at such events are in no way separate from the diplomatic conversation, as they can reflect the arguments being made in the board room - blurring the lines between the dining and negotiating tables. At home, cooks can impregnate food with emotion, from the ingredients used to the mood of the person at the stove. Salman Rushdie gives a beautiful example of this in Midnight's Children, describing how aunties use their food to make a point, creating “the biryanis of dissension...the curries of disquiet".

Certain flavours suggest emotions more obviously than others; something bold and spicy might signal excitement, something smooth and luxurious perhaps more indicative of desire, with something plain more likely signifying comfort. As with the words we use, the dishes we choose to make for ourselves and others are indications of our personalities and intentions. This is why certain foods are appropriate at some occasions but not at others, regardless of season: hence the difference between the first meal you cook for a partner, at a birthday party, or following a death.

As eating is a fundamental element of our existence, the language of food speaks to our innermost selves. Its basic nature means it has a unique ability to alter our mood, hence why a tub of ice cream following a breakup can do more good than a stream of comforting words from a friend. We eat for strength and survival, which gives the language of food an inherently positive vibe - after all we rarely give ourselves food to make us unhappy. And cooking for another is, beyond physical touch, one of the most elemental ways of showing that you care about them.

With the multitude of recipes and ingredients at our disposal, I would argue that food is one of the richest languages of all - simultaneously primal and complex. Although steeped in rules, tradition and cultural inheritance, the language of food still offers a simplicity of message, no matter what you make, or for whom. A way to say welcome, and a way to say I love you.