The shared table: Asia’s communal dining traditions and why they endure

In an era of solo dining counters, meal-prepped bento boxes and algorithm-fed taste, there’s something increasingly radical about sitting elbow-to-elbow with family (or even strangers) and eating from the same plate. Communal dining in Asia isn’t some TikTok throwback or foodie novelty. It’s infrastructure. Ritual. Social glue. You could even call it a worldview: food is only as good as the people you share it with.

From the spinning lacquered wheels of Chinese banquets to the banana-leaf brawls of Filipino boodle fights, communal dining isn't just about feeding stomachs. It's about families, hierarchies and collective memory. So let’s clear the table and look at the flavours—and politics—of eating together.

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The Lazy Susan is a power play

At a Chinese banquet, the Lazy Susan symbolises equality in theory—but hierarchy still rules the table. (Photo: Change C.C/Pexels)

Where: China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Singapore

Origin: Mid-20th-century America may have coined the term, but the concept is older and deeply Confucian.

You might think the Lazy Susan was invented to keep couples from bickering over the last dumpling. Cute and sweet. In a Chinese banquet, though, it’s not so much about diplomacy as it is about display. The round table says equality; the rotating tray performs it. No one gets to hog the roast pork. In theory.

In practice? Whole other story. One spin and yes, everyone can reach the Peking duck, the steamed grouper, the garlic-drenched broccoli—but placement is everything. The closer the dish lands to you, the more the universe is saying you matter. Seating is a seating chart of power: elders and VIPs command the throne (read: head of the table), make the first toast and subtly direct the meal’s rhythm. You might all be slurping the same shark fin soup, but don’t mistake that for a classless utopia. The Lazy Susan might spin, but the hierarchy stays put.

The Filipino boodle fight is organised chaos

The boodle fight, once a military mess hall tradition, is now a Filipino favourite for big gatherings. (Photo: Cesan Escuadro/Pexels)

Where: The Philippines

Origin: Philippine military mess halls, likely mid-20th century

Start with banana leaves so big they could double as sailcloth. Lay them flat like a green runway. Now throw in the rice: white, steamy and unapologetically sticky. Crown it with grilled tilapia, glistening pork belly (or lechon if it is that kind of occasion), salted egg halves, green mango strips, chili-laced vinegar, lumpia still warm from the fryer and maybe a crab or two tossed in for chaos. No forks, no spoons; just hands, heat and a don’t-flinch attitude.

The boodle fight was born in Philippine military camps, where time was short and hierarchy got left at the mess hall door. “Boodle” was army slang for loot, and “fight” implied that it was plunder to be eaten fast, shoulder-to-shoulder, no questions asked. These days, it’s migrated into backyards and beach resorts, becoming part spectacle, part edible group therapy. Even upscale restaurants like Toyo Eatery have co-opted the concept. In this type of communal dining, everyone digs in. Everyone gets messy. Everyone leaves a little more connected, a little more full.

A boodle fight is not just a meal—it’s a free-for-all of trust and timing. A performance of bayanihan, the Filipino spirit of shared burden, sweaty joy and passing the shrimp paste without shame.

See more: Food worth fighting for: how to set up your own boodle fight, according to chefs

Indian thali and platter politics

With roots in Ayurvedic principles, the thali offers balanced nutrition and a feast of regional flavours. (Photo: Yan Krukau/Pexels)

Where: India, Nepal, Sri Lanka

Origin: Centuries-old Ayurvedic and regional food systems

You don’t eat a thali. You commit to it. A giant metal platter, or sometimes a banana leaf, is ringed with small bowls of lentils, vegetables, chutneys, yoghurt and sweets. Rice or roti is the edible anchor to the meal.

What seems like maximalist abundance is actually structured nutrition. Thalis are designed with Ayurvedic principles, complete with a balance of sweet, sour, salty, bitter, pungent, astringent. But there’s also hierarchy. In caste-rigid societies, who served whom mattered. Today, urban India is remixing the thali with regional varieties, such as a predominantly sweet and savoury thali in Gujarat, or fiery, rice-based ones in the south served on a banana leaf. But the essence remains: one plate, many flavours, always shared.

Korean banchan means side dishes with Main Character Energy

Banchan brings generosity to the Korean table—communal by default, refillable by tradition. (Photo: Mizzu Cho/Pexels)

Where: South Korea

Origin: Royal Joseon-era table customs

In Korea, side dishes are everything. A meal might feature grilled meat or rice, but it’s the banchan—a few or so small dishes of fermented cabbage like kimchi, seasoned vegetables, pickled fish and glass noodles like japchae—that define the meal. They arrive before you order. You don’t ask for them. They just appear. And yes, oftentimes, they’re refillable. This is a sign of a host's hospitality and generosity.

Rooted in Korean royal court cuisine, the banchan ritual democratised over time. Even at roadside diners in Busan, the humble anchovy may sit beside lotus root and aged kimchi like royalty. Banchan is communal by default: everyone digs in.

See more: The history of banchan, the heart of Korean dining

Japanese izakaya and communal dining as poetry

In izakaya culture, pouring drinks for others and sharing small plates embody the spirit of omotenashi. (Photo: Gül Işık/Pexels)

Where: Japan

Origin: Edo-era sake shops turned snack spots

In an izakaya, everything is built for sharing. Beer? Get the pitcher. Sake? A flask and tiny ceramic cups, because pouring for others—never for yourself—is a love language. Instead, you notice when a friend’s drink is low and you refill it before they have to ask. It’s a small gesture, but a meaningful one. A nod to omotenashi, Japan’s quiet, attentive form of hospitality.

Grilled skewers of yakitori, soy-glazed eggplant, oden, golden karaage and pristine sashimi arrive in waves. It’s a rolling meal of shared plates and many chopsticks, perfect for lingering conversation and second (or third) rounds.

This rhythm of eating stems from the concept of “ichigo ichie”, which means “one time, one meeting”. The idea that every encounter is unique, fleeting and worthy of your full presence. Izakaya aren’t precious or pristine. They’re casual but soulful, where the clatter of dishes and laughter merge with the buzz of neon.

It’s where office workers cry after a hard day. Where lovers share secrets across plates of grilled squid. Where new friendships are born over cups of warm sake. This communal dining concept is less about ceremony, more about connection. Fluid, unfiltered and lubricated by alcohol, soft lighting and the comfort of small dishes that keep coming.

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