Wherever in the world she is, Clarissa Wei rarely takes the last piece of food for herself.  

Wei, a journalist, cookbook author, and Serious Eats contributor from Los Angeles who currently lives in Taipei, grew up sharing abundant meals with her parents and younger brother. “There was always a vegetable, a fish, a protein, a meat, fruit,” she says. “It would be way too much for just four people.”

Her parents, Taiwanese immigrants who came to the United States in the 1980s while Taiwan was in the midst of an economic boom—a.k.a the Taiwan Miracle—“didn’t have any money at all” growing up, says Wei. The abundant meals of Wei’s childhood were, she feels, a way of overcompensating for that still-fresh memory of scarcity. 

“When you’re cooking a meal for people in Taiwanese and Chinese culture, or among the Chinese diaspora, most people overcook—especially in this day and age when we have so much abundance,” says Wei. In these cultures, “a hospitable [host] is someone who gives you more food than you can handle.” The best solution to leftover food, says Wei, is not to eat it yourself, but to offer it to each individual guest. But at the same time, eating the last piece risks offending the host, Wei explains—insinuating that you’re still hungry and that the host hasn’t provided enough food.

This oft-unspoken rule is about as universal as it gets when it comes to food related etiquette. In parts of Spain, that last morsel is known as la/el de la vergüenza; in Germany, it’s das Anstandsstück, or das Anstandsrest; schaambrokje in the Netherlands; trivselbit in Sweden; and so on, with the phrase itself usually translating to some version of “the decency piece” or “the shame.” Just as often, however, there’s no name for it at all—such as in Minnesota, where comically small bites of food will often go uneaten for politeness’ sake.

So how exactly does one reconcile the fact that this rule exists in so many cultures—especially ones so geographically and culturally distant from one another?

Krishnendu Ray, scholar and director of the New York University Food Studies PhD program, offers a couple of theories—one of which ties directly to his own life. Growing up in a middle-class family in India, Ray lived “in very close proximity to people who are hungry,” he says. As a result, “one of the rules of etiquette was you never take the last morsel, because you don’t know who else is hungry,” he explains.

Ray, who has spent years living abroad in countries like Italy, theorizes that in cultures decimated by war, colonialism, or other major social upheaval, taking the last piece can feel like a major transgression. His close European friends—as well as their parents or grandparents—“always have a proximate memory of hunger,” says Ray, which he attributes to the enduring impact and generational trauma of two World Wars. In contrast, Ray says, his son—who has had a comfortable upbringing in New York, with “no identifiable sense of scarcity”—will take the last piece without hesitating.

In some cases, the rule of the last morsel may harken back even further than World War I. In her book, Beyond Bratwurst: A History of Food in Germany, food historian Ursula Heinzelmann writes, “Until the mid-twelfth century, serving enormous amounts of food and entertaining large groups was an indication of elevated social rank. Thereafter, possibly because the lower classes could increasingly afford enough to satisfy their hunger, overly hearty eating was frowned upon by the aristocracy.”

Heinzelmann, who was born in West Berlin in 1963, was herself raised never to take das Anstandsstück. “With a decent upbringing, you know not to grab, greedily, for the last piece of cake, or whatever there is on the table,” she says. It’s something that “anyone with a ‘good’ family background and upbringing would have experienced, almost like not to fart or belch.”

In Italy, Fabio Parasecoli, author and professor of food studies at NYU’s Steinhardt School, learned a similar system of etiquette from his parents and grandparents. Parasecoli grew up in the 1960s, during Italy’s “economic miracle”—a period of rapid economic growth similar to the one Wei’s parents witnessed in Taiwan. During this period, Parasecoli writes in his book Al Dente: A History of Food in Italy, many Italians experienced financial stability for the very first time. This included access to affordable and abundant food—much of it available at supermarkets, an American innovation that was introduced to Italy in 1957.

Even amidst this abundance, wasting even a bite of food still felt unthinkable to people like Parasecoli’s grandmother. “Why aren’t you eating all of your food?” Parasecoli recalls his grandmother—who lived through both World Wars—asking. “Are you leaving la creanza?”­ 

La creanza—literally, “the good manners”—refers to that last piece on the plate. This was done, Parasecoli says, “fare una bella figura,” or to leave a good impression and show that you’re not worried about going hungry, he­ explains. ­The unspoken rule of leaving the last piece remains even now, when hunger is far less prevalent than it was during wartime, says Parasecoli. “It’s sort of a leftover of a past where scarcity was a reality.” Still, he explains, “there is always a tension—especially for people of older generations—between the desire of appearing polite, and the avoidance of waste.”

This last little piece is almost never thrown away, however. In Ray’s case, particularly when he would eat dinner with his family in Delhi, he said, “everyone kind of avoided taking the last bit, so much so that basically, in the refrigerator you have these little bowls of food leftover.” 

At Chinese and Taiwanese dinner tables, Wei explained, the best move is not to eat the last piece yourself, but to offer it to each individual guest. “Say there’s one piece of chicken left–you offer it to your friend, you offer it to whomever is at the table.” To do otherwise would be “incredibly rude,” says Wei. 

Gender also plays a role in this unspoken rule of table etiquette. Author and food scholar Darra Goldstein says that an old American belief taught girls never to take the last piece, lest they wind up unmarried—i.e., become an old maid. To Goldstein, this belief likely speaks to both the particular scrutiny placed on a girl’s behavior, and to “parents’ deeper fears about their child’s future.” 

In Italy, “women would leave more food for their kids and for the man,” says Parasecoli. While this behavior hasn’t completely disappeared, he explains, the abundance of food now available in Italy—at least compared to pre-economic miracle days—has made it far less prevalent. 

Anita Mannur, Director of Asia, Pacific, and Diaspora Studies at American University, grew up privy to a similar set of gender rules. Among her extended family in India, where Mannur spent a portion of her childhood, “the women would always eat second, and the men and the kids would eat first,” she says. In Mannur’s own house, however, these rules were slightly subverted. Mannur’s mother, who grew up in India, insisted that the last piece go to the youngest, no matter the gender. “She was like, ‘I want you to think about other people, have humility, but not because you’re a girl.’” 

In the Philippines, where writer and historian Adrian De Leon lived before immigrating to Toronto at age six, anyone taking the last piece without asking others may invite the Tagalog pejorative “walang hiya”—translating, roughly, to “you have no shame.” According to a TikTok video posted by the Philippines-based online publication, When in Manila, “Taking it means that you’re inconsiderate, you don’t share, and that you don’t respect anyone else in the room.” While the video comes off as slightly hyperbolic, De Leon says it rings true. “I’ve never heard it called that, but I know exactly what he’s talking about.”

Walang hiya also extends into nearly all spheres of public Filipino, especially Tagalog, life. De Leon was taught that whatever he did outside the home reflected how his parents—particularly his father—raised him. “When I started going to therapy, it was actually very shameful—it was walang hiya,” says De Leon. “‘Are you not ashamed that somebody will know our secrets?’” he remembers his father asking him. A person might also be called walang hiya if they openly express queer or trans identity, or, as De Leon explains, if they somehow act “extra”—overly loud or expressive—in public.

As for the last morsel, it could be something as coveted as the fish head—one of De Leon’s favorites—or as basic as the “sliver of rice” that his mother would often leave on her plate. Choosing whether to take it is a constant struggle—especially as an adult, De Leon explains. “I look at that piece of fish, and I’m like ‘I want to finish that!’” he says. “[But] I will still find myself not wanting to do it [around family].”

Wei feels a similar ambivalence: “I have this internal battle sometimes where it’s like my American side vs. my Taiwanese side, where sometimes I’ll just take the last piece, and be like ‘you know what, I don’t care!’” she says. When dining with all Taiwanese people, however, “I definitely do not take the last piece.” 

Some people, on the other hand, never even encounter this rule. Amy Besa—co-owner of the longtime Brooklyn restaurant Purple Yam, which closed during the summer of 2024 due to Besa and her husband’s retirement—grew up in the Philippines prior to the country’s period of martial law, which ran from 1972 to 1981. Besa never had any hiya (shame) around food while growing up. “That seems so negative!” says Besa.

In Besa’s case, it may have something to do with family size, she theorizes. Her older brothers moved out when she was young, so it was usually just her and her parents at the dinner table, with little need for rationing; food was mainly a source of joy. “For me, eating is such a happy way of communing with people, right?” she says. “So if somebody wants to eat a lot, then hey, great!”

In so many ways, that last bite of food symbolizes the rich, complex, often paradoxical dynamics at play when we eat with others. Food, Parasecoli explains, “is where you negotiate your identity, your social relations, your status, your memories.” The dinner table is a place where Mannur’s mother can choose to subvert inscribed gender rules and give the last piece of food to her youngest daughter; it’s where Wei can decide to give the last piece of fruit to her son “out of love,” rather than a sense of internalized shame, she says. 

Despite these constant negotiations, eating dinner with a group doesn’t need to feel fraught. Whenever De Leon’s family goes to dinner with their close family friends, “We know that Tita makes hella food,” he says, using the Tagalog word for aunt or auntie. “And we’re going to freaking enjoy it no matter what. And we’re going to take some home if we don’t finish it.”