How to Cite: Oberlaender Rojas, Lucas. "The Architecture of Eating". Dearq no. 43 (2025): 94-130. DOI: https://doi.org/10.18389/dearq43.2025.09
How to Cite: Oberlaender Rojas, Lucas. "The Architecture of Eating". Dearq no. 43 (2025): 94-130. DOI: https://doi.org/10.18389/dearq43.2025.09
Lucas Oberlaender Rojas
l.oberlaender21@uniandes.edu.co
Universidad de los Andes, Colombia
In his writings, Marco Frascari repeatedly returns to the analogy between food and architecture. His arguments rest on restoring the prominence of the senses of touch and taste within architecture, thereby establishing new connections with the world of food. Frascari challenges the formalist or purely visual approaches of the modern movement, which have regulated taste and touch to the background. For him, the products of modern and postmodern architecture "are similar to another set of products generated under the spell of modern times: the edibles produced by fast-food chains. These look like the real thing, but they have been designed to be gulped down. They are a feast for the eyes but there is no possibility, no reason, to take the time and pleasure to taste them" (1986, 3).
The arguments of this Italian theorist move in at least two directions. On the one hand, there is the analogy between the work of the cook and that of the architect. The value of these comparisons lies in reclaiming taste and touch as sources of knowledge and productive imagination (Frascari 1986, 7).
On the other hand, Frascari advances arguments that situate eating itself as a primordial architectural experience. On several occasions, he cites a passage in which Isidore of Seville seeks to defend the idea that the act of eating lies at the very origin of architecture. Although equivocal, Isidore's claim is striking for its radical stance: it frames architecture as an eminently bodily and sensorial phenomenon—something both tactile and tasty. This position becomes all the more remarkable when contrasted with those who trace the origins of architecture to the primitive hut (2017, 26).
It is worth emphasizing this idea of eating as a central activity in the experience of space. Every day, we sit down at the table two or three times. Generally, we draw on a more or less defined repertoire of recipes and flavors that shape our daily lives, tied to the places where we habitually eat and woven into our most cherished memories. Yet the way we sit down to eat also defines much of the dynamics of everyday life. Consider, for instance, how the shape, size, and orientation of a table—and even the space that contains it—can suggest hierarchies or preferences within a family: those who prefer to face the window; those who choose the head of the table, seeing it as a place of distinction; or, by contrast, those who opt for square or round tables, where hierarchies dissolve and everyone can meet each other's gaze while conversing. Beyond the table itself, there are plates, pitchers, salad bowls, napkins,1 cutlery, tablecloths, placemats—in short, the whole array of objects gathered with greater or lesser care over a lifetime, which together build the most intimate and familiar of spaces. In this regard, Xavier Monteys and Pere Fuertes observe in their book Casa Collage that "the images of domestic interiors shown in architectural publications seem to systematically shy away from the presence of people and their belongings; as if these interiors were already complete, with no need—or indeed no possibility—of being furnished and inhabited" (2014, 14).
If we shift our attention from everyday eating to special occasions, the spatial-gastronomic experience becomes more intense and acquires a certain autonomy from daily routines. In this regard, H.G. Gadamer's reflections on the notion of festivals are of particular interest. In his text The Relevance of the Beautiful, Gadamer argues that festivals constitute a fundamental experience of the work of art. According to him, the festival has at least two characteristics that are especially pertinent here. First, "a festival is an experience of community and represents community in its most perfect form. A festival is meant for everyone" (1998, 39).
Moreover, the celebration of a festival is intentional. In such a celebration, the gathering of people is never accidental; they come together in the same place because they have a desire to be there. In this sense, one need only think of the paradoxical, even melancholy character of a party in which someone celebrates alone. Second, Gadamer contrasts the time of everyday life with the time of celebration. The former may be understood as a succession of discrete moments—an empty time, a time at our disposal to be filled or spent on the various tasks that make up the day. As Gadamer reminds us, when we say we "have time for something," we are referring to this temporal experience: a time in which what we do is oriented toward a purpose, an end goal (1998, 41).
By contrast, Gadamer argues that there is "a totally different experience of time which I think is profoundly related to the kind of time characteristic of both the festival and the work of art. In contrast with the empty time that needs to be filled, I propose to call this 'fulfilled' or 'autonomous' time. We all know that the festival fulfills every moment of its duration" (1998, 42). The time of the festival is a fulfilled time, one that is complete in itself, requiring no ulterior purpose.
Frascari's reflections seek to foreground the tactile and flavorful dimensions present in both the making and the experience of architecture. This latter point entails thinking of space not only in terms of the walls and ceilings that enclose it, but also in relation to the meals we enjoy within it, together with the furniture, objects, and people that inhabit it. Gadamer's reflections, in turn, invite us to conceive of an architecture attuned to different temporal dimensions—an architecture that, while woven into everyday life, can also elevate that life to the level of celebration.
A striking example that synthesizes and illustrates the arguments of both Frascari and Gadamer is the dining table. A lively sobremesa—the after-dinner lingering at the table—is a clear sign that the meal has been successful. Hence the interest in the Sarah Wigglesworth's The Disorder of the Dining Table (fig.1), where three images condense the before, during, and after of a meal, while a fourth suggests how all that movement might be translated into an architectural floor plan. The celebration begins with a perfectly set table, which is then touched, handled, and disarranged, until it finally yields to apparent chaos. Yet this is an eloquent chaos, testifying that a celebration and good food have been experienced there.
Figure 1_ The Disorder of the Dining Table © Sarah Wigglesworth, 1997.
Authors: Meir Lobatón Corona + Juan Carlos Cano Aldana
Collaborators: Miguel Fermín Andrade, Juan Vásquez, Juan Carlos López Trujillo, Mariana García Hernández, Eduardo Castellanos, Julio Cavallucci, Diego Gonzales and Diana Cordero.
Structure: Grupo SAI
Illumination: Difuso
Construction: Antiparalel + Lino Construcciones
Year: 2023
Location: Centro Cultural los Pinos, CDMX, Mexico
The Cocinas Cencalli project forms part of a broader initiative to transform Los Pinos—Mexico's former presidential residence located in the Chapultepec Forest—into a cultural center open to the public. As part of this conversion, public squares or plazas were created, a historic aqueduct was restored, and several existing buildings were repurposed, including El Molino del Rey, a 16th-century structure now home to the Cencalli: Casa del Maíz y la Cultura Alimentaria (House of Maize and Food Culture Museum). The only new construction introduced during this process was the Cocinas Cencalli pavilion, built on the former site of the Presidential General Staff headquarters. This project represents both a social and spatial transformation: a former military compound, once closed and heavily guarded, has been reimagined as a public space dedicated to traditional kitchens that celebrate the diverse culinary heritage of Mexico's many communities.
The open-air pavilion includes a communal dining room for 130 people and a series of traditional cooking areas representing different regions of Mexico. Among them are five fireplaces (or smoke cookers), a comixcal (oven for toasting tortillas), a clay oven, and an earth oven used for barbecue. All of these kitchens were built by cooks from the coastal region of Guerrero.
The pavilion is sheltered by a pinewood roof supported by round columns made from repurposed pine telephone poles. These columns act like umbrellas, holding up a modular roof grid. Their irregular placement allows for a dynamic spatial experience, evoking the feeling of walking and dining in a forest. Perpendicular to the pavilion is a stone structure that houses restrooms, cleaning facilities, storage areas, and a receiving dock. Externally, the roof is topped with brick flooring. This structure was designed to provide a striking interior space while simultaneously receding into the landscape. Surrounded by a garden that conceals it, only the modest roof deck is visible, subtly connected to the surrounding buildings. The design seeks to achieve a careful balance between the landscape and existing architecture—placing the rituals of cooking and sharing food at the center.
Each week, the Cocinas Cencalli welcome communities from across Mexico, who arrive with their ingredients, share their recipes, and prepare meals on-site. Festivals and culinary competitions are hosted regularly and are open to everyone. Beyond the symbolic gesture of opening the presidential complex to both the city and the Chapultepec Forest, the kitchens embody the spirit of exchange typical of a tianguis or regional market. Here, the kitchen becomes a living hub of knowledge and cultural transmission—completely transforming the function of a once-restricted site into one of Mexico City's largest and most visited cultural spaces.
Author: Junya Ishigami
Year: 2005
Location: Tokio, Japan
The project explores architectural proportion through the form of a table, with legs designed as columns and the tabletop as a roof. The result is an extraordinarily large table, conceived as a piece of a small-scale architecture—monumental in size, yet remarkably thin. Measuring 9.5m (L) x 2.6m (W) x 1.1m (H), with a horizontal surface just 3mm thick, the table is constructed entirely from aluminum. At such dimensions, a conventional construction approach would result in bending. Thus, the project engages in a kind of architectural analysis: the structural logic is derived from calculations of bending curvature. By introducing a pre-defined upward curvature opposite to the direction of gravitational deflection, the table achieves a horizontal equilibrium when subjected to its own weight. Though weighing 700kg, the table functions as a delicate structural system—resembling the lightness and precision derived from paper folding techniques.
Author: Antonio Bermúdez Obregón
Collaborator: Inés Obregón
Team: Valentina Díaz and Juan David Martínez
Construction: Ricardo Montoya
Construction worker: Alex Berrío
Year: 2022
Location: Santa Marta, Colombia
Situated on a picturesque Caribbean beach, this house occupies the footprint and reuses the foundations of a previous structure, which was nearly destroyed by the instability of the sand and the harsh conditions of the marine environment. The new platform rises above the beach and sand, supported by these restored stone foundations.
The central living space is defined by a flat roof: a solid concrete slab cast with metal formworks, supported by seven slender walls of polished concrete. The main roof shelters the main living areas, while the service areas are grouped in an independent, lower-height volume that overlaps with the roof. The resulting gap between the roof and the bathroom, entrance, and pantry volume promotes natural cross ventilation.
From the sea, the house blends with the sandy, rocky surroundings. A detached room, set approximately 15 meters away, is tucked between rocks and trees.
The warm, dry climate allows for daily life to unfold primarily outdoors. Social life centers on the terrace, around a large outdoor table shaded by a retractable awning made of fique. Seating up to 15 people, the table was built entirely from leftover, imperfect, and unpolished travertine marble slabs sourced from the now-closed Villa de Leyva quarry. Its construction entirely in stone ensures durability and low maintenance in the face of the intense weather and salty atmosphere. It appears as though the table was always there—and the house was built beside it.
Proximity to the Caribbean and constant exposure to salty winds were crucial in selecting construction materials. Custom-cast aluminum fittings and railings were made using hand-crafted sand molds, while 316-grade stainless steel hinges—engineered for coastal and maritime conditions—were chosen to ensure long-term resistance to corrosion.
The presence of sand is echoed in the textures of the aluminum, polished concrete, shot-peened pink precast floors, and white terrazzo countertops. The terrace and table adopt the organic forms of the surrounding granite outcrops, while the pool takes advantage of the natural contours of these massive rocks, occupying the former site of a runoff channel.
Author: Cesar Portela
Year: 1998 — 2001
Location: Pontevedra, Spain
In rural Galicia, the scattered nature of the population—and the isolation and solitude that came with it—was often countered by three characteristic gathering places. These spaces allowed neighbors to meet, share news, exchange affection, and, at times, disagreements. One was the lavadoiro, the communal wash house, where women would gather to do laundry before washing machines existed, and talk as they worked. Another was the taberna, the tavern where men, while taking a break and enjoying one, two, or sometimes three glasses of wine, or playing cards, would also engage in conversation. And the third was the table—la mesa—where families, and often guests, would sit together several times a day. Over breakfast, lunch, or dinner, they would talk, share opinions, or celebrate a special occasion.
I wanted the table I designed for Manolo Neira at his estate in Corredoira to be a table that stands apart. I wanted it to be a table where his family could gather, eat, and connect, along with the many friends that Manolo and Raquel have made throughout their lives. A stone table, 11 meters long and 2.5 meters wide. I wanted its shape to allow everyone seated—25 or 30 people—to see each other's faces. And I wanted those friends, as they stood up from the table and said goodbye until next time, to feel even more connected than when they had first sat down. A table with a strong personality—not just another table. Not a mere piece of furniture, not just one more object in a house, but something with real presence.
And then came the table in Lalín. It is also made of stone and elliptical in form, measuring 33 meters long by 3.5 meters wide, surrounded by a bench of the same material. Seated on those benches and gathered around that table, the residents of each of Lalín's parishes will come together to experience festive and leisurely yantares, or get-togethers, where people eat, drink, talk, and sing. These gatherings, central to local life and vital to the community, build bonds and deepen the sense of camaraderie. They help strengthen and improve relations among neighbors and families, and they preserve—and pass on—the historical memory of a people, generation after generation.
I wanted these tables to honor the land they sit on. To appear as if they had always been there. Even when empty, I wanted them to evoke the ritualistic meaning of celebration. What celebration? The kind that invites you to celebrate being together, and to reflect—a practice we need now more than ever—not just to talk. And to celebrate this with a good glass of wine among the trees that surround the tables: the carballeira, or oak grove. All of it bathed in that baroque light that filters downward through the branches and leaves of the oaks, forming a vault—also baroque—that shelters and protects them.
Authors: Alberto Pérez-Gómez, Jason Crow, Paul Homquist and Maria Elisa Navarro Morales
Collaborators: Natacha Boucher, Marc-Antoine Chartier-Primeau, Diana Cheng, Andrew Chung, Azin Dilmaghani, Negin Djavaherian, Anya Domlesky, Michael Faciejew, Ron Jelaco, Ksenia Kagner, Per Kefgen, Lilia Koleva, Thi Phuong-Trâm Nguyen, Angela Maria Navarro Morales, Lucas Oberlaeder, Marcelo Sanchez, Angeliki Sioli, Linda Swanson and Julia Webster.
Year: 2010
Location: Location: Montreal, Canada
MXT was an ephemeral architecture project that formed a part of Alberto Pérez-Gómez's Social Sciences and Humanities Research Creation project, AutoCAD Ballet, funded by the Canadian government and completed in September of 2010. As an event, MXT offered an immersive environment in which digital media, objects, performance, and architectural fabrication heightened sensory experience and aimed to enable a participatory, imaginative experience of the city of Montreal. Central to its staging was the question: how can digital technologies and new media serve a meaningful and ethical role in the architecture of the city? Through the construction of MXT we argued that digital technologies acquire ethical and meaningful force only through play. Paraphrasing Hans-Georg Gadamer, play is the mode of being of the work of art. Only within the world constituted by the mediated play of objects, digital media, and ourselves can we truly recognize our communal being as present in the work of architecture and the city.
The event sought to celebrate the city as an imaginative experience of the city—one staged within the fleeting, self-contained world of an ephemeral architectural encounter. By situating digital technologies within the sensory interplay of touch, taste, and vision, a poetic image of the city could emerge—one in which we encounter others and ourselves, and in doing so, recognize the truth of that encounter. The collaborative game of playing with the city and with others becomes, in this sense, a form of playing city—the essential experience of the city. MXT, like the broader project it belonged to, aimed to enable an understanding of this kind of play to take place, and to point toward how a mediated architecture can create the conditions for community.
Drawing from the descriptions in Pérez-Gómez's novel, Polyphilo, or The Dark Forest Revisited, the notions of the intimate and the pornographic served as conceptual guides in adapting the production of digital projections to the material conditions of the project's main constructed space, a fuselage inspired by the novel's aircraft imagery. In this context, the intimate is defined as the quality of the distance maintained between two touching bodies, whereas the pornographic is experienced as an explicit vision in which immediacy dissolves all distance between bodies. These two conditions were interpreted as a spectrum—a general palette of tactile and visual characteristics—that could be mixed together in play within the fuselage environment.
Sensory qualities such as softness, roughness, warmth and coolness were interpreted as intensifying the sense of the intimate. Though not tactile in themselves, visual characteristics like translucency, diffusion, and obscurity operated in a similarly intimate register. In contrast, optical clarity, distinction, and lucidity heightened the sense of the pornographic. Material properties such as transparency, hardness, and smoothness resisted tactility, effectively denying the presence of the body. These characteristics shaped how participants encountered one other in and through the fuselage, producing interactions imbued with and reflective of a particular erotic sensibility.
Importantly, the intimate and the pornographic were not experienced as fixed or absolute states. Rather, by blending their respective qualities, the atmosphere of the event could be shifted to reveal the presence of a community, a being-there that, though spatially distanced, was nonetheless affectively and experientially present to the participants. In this sense, the atmosphere of MXT was understood as an attunement to an erotic condition—one that discloses our being-together in the world.
1 By the way, it is worth recalling the delightful text Leonardo's Kitchen Notebooks (1989), which, among other things, recounts the Renaissance genius's invention of the napkin and the salad bowl.