As a Muslim convert living in Mexico, where there are less than 5 thousand Muslims in the whole country, I was thrilled to have moved to Jordan for my gap year to study Arabic. About a month in, it was Ramadan and I was excited at the prospect of spending this holiday with Muslim families who would all gather to break their fast together.

I had gotten a job at a tutoring center and my boss’ wife invited me to their house for iftar (breakfast). This was my first time having iftar at an Arab Muslim household, so I expected to try traditional festive food. I was not disappointed.

The thing was that, in Mexico, you must finish everything there is in your plate, out of politeness, when you are a guest at someone’s house. So when my boss served me a huge plate of rice, lamb, salad and pastries, I surely made sure to finish it. But then, he served me again. I protested, but he insisted (as the etiquette of Arab hospitality demanded). Slowly but surely I forced myself to eat, and after I finished the second serving, I begged them not to serve more. I was stuffed. They reluctantly agreed to move to the living room to watch the Ramadan TV shows.

There, I was greeted with coffee, which I tried to decline with no success. Again, Arab etiquette of shoving stuff down your throat to prove they’re good hosts did not balance well with the Mexican way of politely refusing things you did not want once (the giver was not expected to insist), but take them offered more than once. Then came really sweet tea and, as much as I hate tea because (also a Mexican custom), we only drink tea when we are sick, while Arabs drink it almost everyday, I swallowed that damn tea and patted myself in the back for having been such a grateful guest.

I excused myself because it was already past 9 pm and my dorm’s curfew was at 10, but my boss’ wife stopped me and said she had prepared qatayef for me. Now, qatayef are sweet empanada looking dumplings that are stuffed with sweet cheese, walnuts and cinnamon or pistachio (there is also a Nutella variation that is glorious). They are then coated in honey and served hot, and their contents come oozing out of the pastry in a heavenly way. It sounds good, but not when you’ve been stuffed with lamb, rice, salad, pastries and overly sweet drinks. I tried to explain that I was already very full (their English was very poor), but the wife said that she made those from scratch and made them for me.

As the Mexican I am, I surely tasked myself with finishing the three qatayef. I could not really take it slow because I had to make it back to the dorm on time, so I had to forget about how stuffed I was and force them down my throat. I did, and I don’t think I have ever consumed more food in my entire life. I remember saying goodbye, thanking my hosts for the lovely evening and leaving the building to catch a taxi. Then I remembered feeling physically bad; dizzy, nauseated. I felt I would pass out and considered going to the hospital. Fortunately, I made it to the dorm on time, barely able to move and feeling disgusting.

The next day, I mentioned my experience to a Palestinian friend, who was obviously aware of this “stuff your guest til they explode” practice. She could not stop laughing and explained that that’s the Arab way, that what people usually do is just stop eating when they get full and leave some leftovers on their plates. She explained that when a guest has an empty plate it means that they are not full and the host must provide more food, which the guest will obviously decline at first because they are shy, which is why the host must insist until the guest complies.

That was my first culture shock and the day I almost died of a food coma.