I can be a bit of a burper from time to time. When a good meal or a cold drink hits the spot, there are moments when nothing feels quite as honest as letting out a deep, contented belch.
My sister, Jo, has never been a fan.
Over the years, Jo cultivated a particular facial expression reserved exclusively for my domestic transgressions: "The Look." It was a masterpiece of cold, withering disapproval designed to keep her older brother in line, and growing up, I found it genuinely formidable. The Look was instantly deployed for the cardinal sins of bodily noise—belching at the table, theatrical flatulence, and the unpardonable crime of failing to wash my hands after using the toilet.
Her childhood bedroom shared a wall with the loo, turning her into an involuntary acoustic auditor. She would sit in silence, listening intently for the telltale sequence of sounds. If the roar of the flush was not immediately followed by the distinct hiss of running tap water, her voice would pierce the drywall with absolute authority: "Wash your hands!"
Yet despite Jo’s vigilant policing, my gastrointestinal expressiveness was practically preordained. It is hard not to be a burper when you descend from an unbroken dynasty of them.
Dad was an unapologetic burper, particularly after cracking open a cold beer. Whenever he let one loose, it was never aggressive or uncouth; it was delivered with an aura of pure, unadulterated contentment. It was simply the sound of a relaxed man feeling entirely at peace in his own home, and it was one of his many quiet quirks that I found completely endearing.
The habit went back another generation. Dad got it directly from his mother—my beloved Granny.
Every Sunday, Jo and I would head over to Granny and Grandpa’s flat for a traditional roast chicken lunch, piled high with vegetables and followed by dishes of junket, a sweet, milky dessert I absolutely adored. Granny was otherwise the quintessential portrait of quiet, refined, ladylike decorum. Yet without fail, once the plates were cleared and the roast was settled, this gentle matriarch would let out a surprisingly robust, uncharacteristic belch.
Before anyone could raise an eyebrow, Granny would look around the table with absolute composure and offer her standard cultural defense: in Russia, she would explain, a hearty belch after a feast is not an insult at all. It is customary—an essential, implicit compliment to the chef signaling that the meal was thoroughly enjoyed.
Armed with that impeccable heritage, what chance did I ever have?
Society has an odd, squeamish relationship with the harmless noises of human biology. We treat burps and passing wind as catastrophic social breaches, despite the fact that digestion is a universal, non-negotiable process that clearly demands pressure relief. Clamping down on basic biology in the name of polite etiquette has always seemed slightly backwards to me.
As Granny knew, and as Dad so effortlessly demonstrated from his armchair: far better out than in.
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