A new archaeological study has shaken up what we thought we knew about ancient Roman dining, revealing that the “fast food” culture of the empire went well beyond bread and olives. Recent excavations in Spain have shown that ordinary Romans, not just the elite, frequently enjoyed fried songbirds—especially thrushes—at bustling roadside eateries, according to a study in the International Journal of Osteoarchaeology (The Independent).
The finding comes from a detailed analysis of ancient animal bones excavated from a cesspit in the city of Pollentia on Mallorca, dating to the period spanning the first century BC to the first century AD. Archaeologists uncovered the remains of mammals, fish, reptiles, and, most notably, a significant number of small thrush bones discarded at the site of a commercial district. These culinary scraps provide a surprisingly intimate glimpse into the eating habits of Roman commoners and challenge the notion that such delicacies were reserved solely for the wealthy.
Why does this matter to readers in Thailand and the broader world? Fast food is often considered a modern phenomenon, especially in rapidly urbanizing societies. But the evidence from Pollentia suggests these on-the-go meals—served in popinae and tabernae, the Roman ancestor to modern street food stalls—were ingrained in urban Roman life centuries ago. The similarities to Thailand’s thriving street food scene, where vendors offer quick, affordable bites to all social classes, are striking. Rome’s popinae provided not only food but also a vital social space, much as markets and food courts do today.
Leading the excavation, the archaeological team found the thrush bones in what was once an underground drainage system linking shops and a forum. Of 165 songbird bones identified, the majority were thrushes—small birds that ancient sources, such as works by Pliny the Elder, once described as delicacies fattened on figs and roasted with exotic sauces for the upper classes. However, the setting of the bones’ discovery—amid everyday refuse in the city’s commercial quarter—points to these birds being a favored snack for ordinary citizens as well.
“We used to think of thrushes and other small birds as luxury items served at elite banquets,” the team wrote, “but here, at Pollentia, the evidence shows they were a regular menu item available to townsfolk and travelers alike.” The researchers also noted that the preparation methods, such as removing the bird’s sternum before pan-frying, were optimized for speed and efficiency—essential for busy roadside vendors catering to on-the-go customers. This technique allowed the small birds to cook quickly while retaining moisture, making them especially suitable for fast service in bustling urban environments.
The study’s findings suggest not only a democratization of certain foods but also an early adoption of “standardized approaches” to food preparation—what we might today call a fast-food model. By tracking the seasonal migratory cycles of thrushes, urban vendors could offer diverse and economically viable menu choices throughout the year, further stabilizing the city’s food economy.
These discoveries shed new light on the social dynamics of Roman cities. Food, often a marker of class in the ancient world, proved more accessible at certain times and places than has been previously believed. The evidence for commercial processing and mass-sale of songbirds also raises questions about sustainability, market demand, and cultural preferences, issues still relevant in the context of contemporary food industries across Asia and the world.
Roman eating practices hold a mirror to modern-day street food culture in Thailand, where food has evolved to suit the rhythms of busy, urban lifestyles. Just as Roman popinae once contributed to city life, street-side vendors line Bangkok’s roads today, offering snacks and meals catering to a wide spectrum of social backgrounds. The new research urges us to reconsider our assumptions about what “fast food” represents—both then and now.
Looking ahead, archaeologists hope to investigate similar trash pits and market stalls in other Roman towns. They believe that further research may reveal even more widespread consumption of so-called luxury foods by ordinary people. Comparative studies could also illuminate the role of environmental factors, trade networks, and culinary innovations in shaping not only Roman foodways but global urban eating habits.
For Thai readers, this story offers both a fascinating historical parallel and a reminder: our beloved street food, while a point of national pride and UNESCO recognition, is part of a global and ancient human tradition. The joy of quick, shared meals—whether it’s fried chicken, grilled skewers, or fried songbirds—connects us to centuries of urban life and culinary creativity.
Food lovers, history fans, and policy makers alike can draw actionable lessons from this research. Urban planning should continue to allow space for local food vendors, recognizing their deep cultural and economic roots. Preservationists and educators can use ancient foodways to inspire respect for Thailand’s own culinary heritage, while also fostering innovation and sustainability as our food systems evolve. Meanwhile, conscious consumers can appreciate each bite of street-side gai yang or moo ping as not just a daily ritual, but as a tradition with echoes spanning continents and millennia.
For those interested in the full study, further reading, and illustrations of the archaeological findings, see the original study in the International Journal of Osteoarchaeology and reporting from The Independent.