Why does no never mean no in a Persian family? A British wife’s guide to taarof

There’s a problem when two Persians arrive at the gym door together. Neither will go through first. One holds it open, the other insists they go ahead, and before long they’re arguing over who has the greater right to be polite. Meanwhile, I’m wondering whether any of us will make it to Blaze in time before the warm-up finishes.

Being British, I thought I understood manners. We apologise when somebody stands on our foot, thank people for their dreadful cups of tea and spend far too long ending telephone conversations. But if somebody holds a door open, I walk through it and say thank you. Then I met H, who is Persian, and discovered taarof. Apparently, I’d been treating politeness as a straightforward exchange when it was sometimes only the opening round.

In Britain, a refusal is generally taken at face value. However, with Persian taarof, you sometimes need to understand what sits behind the words.

Taarof is a Persian form of etiquette involving courtesy, modesty, hospitality and a great deal of offering and refusing. An initial no may be a polite gesture, but probably not a final answer. Knowing the difference takes practice, especially when you’ve grown up in Britain, where saying you’re full generally means you’ve eaten enough.

Take dinner for example. Somebody offers more rice, I decline politely. They insist I’ve hardly eaten and another spoonful appears on my plate, followed by stew. In Britain, somebody might ask once more before accepting that you’re full. I know it’s kindness, but my British brain thinks I’ve already answered the question.

In Britain, if somebody offers to pay for dinner, there might be a brief conversation before somebody says, “That’s very kind of you,” and puts their purse away. With our Persian friends, the bill arrives and everybody produces a credit card, whether they want to pay or not. We line them up, argue about whose turn it is and insist the waiter take ours first. I have seen H sneak off to pay for meals in advance to avoid this very funny back-and-forth.

The poor waiter just wants to settle the bill and doesn’t care who pays, while we’re fighting for the privilege of spending money. You can’t just sit back and let somebody else pay without risking looking ungenerous. It’s the only competition where winning means losing money. Of course, my British side would happily accept a free meal and send a thank-you message afterwards.

When I first met H, I thought complimenting somebody’s possessions was simply good manners. In Britain, you admire a cushion, somebody tells you where they bought it, and that’s the end of it. In Persian culture, there’s an expression, ghabel nadareh, roughly meaning something isn’t worthy of you. Sometimes the person you’ve complimented will offer you the very thing you admired.

I’ve come home with rooshoor, pickles, goat’s cheese and shirini because I liked them a little too much. When we visited Iran, I admired H’s mum’s silk pillow filled with feathers. She made sure it was packed in my suitcase. I was genuinely touched, but in Britain that conversation would probably have ended with the name of a shop.

Cyrus is now under strict instructions not to admire anything in somebody else’s house if they are Persian. He’s just allowed to enjoy the hospitality, but not eat very much, and I don’t want him announcing how much he loves the furniture. One enthusiastic compliment too many and we’ll need a bigger car to get home.

Invitations are another problem. You’ve planned a quiet Saturday, somebody invites you round and you explain you’re tired. They insist you must come, so you agree to pop in briefly. Four hours later, you’ve eaten, drunk several cups of tea and announced you’re leaving, only for somebody to put the kettle on again. In Britain, we hover near the front door with our coats on. However, a Persian goodbye can become another social gathering at the door.

I love the generosity behind it, and not every Persian family practises taarof in exactly the same way. But when everybody is determined to be polite, it’s easy to agree to something you didn’t intend. We’ve already experienced the funny side of Persian hospitality meeting British expectations, particularly when a fruit bowl caused confusion at Halloween.

I’ve always struggled to decline invitations, even before meeting H. Since becoming a mum at 40, I’m more conscious of my time. Between work, the school run and everything else, there’s little left over. Research commissioned by the National Charity Partnership in September 2017 found that 46% of 2,000 UK adults surveyed struggled to find time for exercise, while 40% hardly ever or never did what they wanted in their spare time.

I recognise that feeling. I love the gym, writing my morning pages and drinking coffee after the school run without rushing anywhere. I’ve also started appreciating JOMO, the joy of missing out. It’s a daft acronym, but staying home because I want to sounds appealing. As I’ve explored in our British-Persian family stories, sometimes two sets of customs make ordinary family life unexpectedly complicated.

I wouldn’t change Persian hospitality. I love how welcome people make you feel, even when they’re trying to feed you for the fourth time. But I’m learning that appreciating somebody’s kindness doesn’t mean accepting every invitation or another plate of rice. Sometimes I really am full, and sometimes I’d rather stay home.

Cyrus is learning to keep his admiration for household objects under control. I’m learning to decline invitations without offering three excuses and another date. And next time somebody holds the gym door open for me, I’m going to try walking through it without starting another argument about who should go first. Although, being British, I’ll probably say sorry.

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.