Ask any third-, fourth- or fifth-generation Asian American how they celebrate their heritage, and invariably they describe with delight their love of bulgogi, pancit or pho. Long after we lose the ability to speak the mother tongue, and ancient traditions such as foot-binding have become utterly distastefully, our appreciation for food lingers. We savor occasions when grandmothers and mothers lovingly prepare our favorite dishes, re-establishing our connection with ancestors who ate the same delicacies in distant lands.

More than anything, food also brings together people from disparate backgrounds. Even President Bill Clinton’s introduction to Asian America began innocently in Little Rock, Ark., with visits to Fu Lin, his favorite Chinese restaurant. While chowing on sweet-and-sour pork and kung-pao chicken, the then governor of Arkansas sealed his friendship with owner Yah Lin “Charlie” Trie -- at least until he felt the political repercussions of building relations with Asians.

In San Francisco, residents often say the best thing about the city is its diversity. It seems they really mean the diversity of ethnic restaurants. After all, in San Francisco, one can have a Japanese breakfast (grilled fish and raw egg over rice) at the Sheraton Palace, do Italian tramezzini (cocktail sandwiches) at Tavolino in North Beach, and get pupusas until 3 a.m. in the Mission.

But perhaps the eagerness to flaunt this multicultural aptitude is superficial. We are more driven by the need to satisfy our stomachs than we are moved by our desire for real discussion with different communities whose food we so enjoy. The same people who view the Central Freeway controversy as an “us-vs.-Chinese in the Richmond” issue probably frequent the nearby Szechuan or Hunan restaurant and may even claim the owner as their friend.

Still, a person knowledgeable of different cuisines is infinitely more sensitive than one who is ignorant of them. In general, an intolerant man might never try to eat anything other than meat and potatoes. He is easily led to believe Chinese eat monkey brains, Japanese eat raw fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Vietnamese catch dogs for supper.

In fact, the ugly face of racism often reveals itself through attitudes toward food. In the late 1970s, Southeast Asians were accused of eating neighborhood dogs almost as soon as they set foot into the United States. Unfounded claims were made real by newspaper accounts. Back then, few reporters bothered to interview the refugees themselves, and Asian Americans of all ethnicities were hit with “you eat dog” jokes.

Older Japanese Americans talk about the shame they felt during World War II because of their race. Some recall being taunted because their lunch box contained rice and fish rather than the all-American peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. And yet their yearning for traditional Japanese food never died.

Today, San Francisco’s Japanese American leaders are trying to revitalize Japantown as a cultural hub. However, as those activists lament the loss of interest in Japanese traditions and a sense of community, young people -- who don’t necessarily speak Japanese or feel compelled to socialize with other Japanese Americans -- continue to patronize Japantown’s restaurants.

As long as there’s May’s Coffee Shop, which serves Japanese American specialties like Spam Sushi and Oriental Omelets; as long as Mifune continues to offer cold soba for warm summer days; as long as Maki prepares steamed wappa meshi; and On the Bridge dishes up its homemade curry, Japantown will survive as a cultural center.

Min Paek, a Korean American who sits on the board of the Japantown Planning, Preservation and Development Task Force, recently said she thought Japanese American leaders were a little paranoid.

“There will always be a Japantown,” she said. “Everyone likes sushi.” Let’s hope she’s right.