There is something about the taste of certain foods that brings us back to specific moments in time. A meal is never just sustenance; it is an experience, a moment of connection, a fragment of a memory that lingers long after the last bite. I have lived many lives, walked many roads, but some meals have shaped my understanding of the world in ways I never expected.
I remember the best steak I ever had. It wasn’t in a fine dining restaurant in New York or a Michelin-starred establishment in Europe. It was in Guadalajara, Mexico, in a small restaurant with a logo reminiscent of Johnny Walker Blue Label. I had just come into a bit of money, and instead of saving it, I decided to treat myself. A steak, asparagus, and a bottle of wine—fifteen dollars for the best meal of my life. Not because it was the most expensive or extravagant, but because it was perfect in its simplicity. The meat was tender, the asparagus carried the perfect bitterness to balance the dish, and the wine added depth to the entire experience. It was more than food; it was a moment in time, a reflection of where I was and who I had become.
Food has a way of anchoring us to the past. When I think of my childhood, I remember eggs. I hated them unless they were sunny-side up or over-easy. The yolk had to be runny, or I couldn’t eat them. It wasn’t just about preference; it was about control. When I made them myself, I liked them. When someone else did, they never quite tasted right. That’s the thing about food—it is deeply personal. It carries our expectations, our traditions, our small rituals that shape our days.
Breakfast has always been a moment of contemplation for me. Some mornings, a fresh juice—carrot, beetroot, and orange—is all I need to feel awake and alive. Other days, I want the weight of a bacon, egg, and cheese wrap in my hands, something substantial, something that gives the day a sense of fullness. And then, there are mornings when only coffee and a cigarette will do. The ritual of the first sip, the first inhale—it is not just about caffeine or nicotine; it is about the pause, the silence before the day begins.
Travel has taught me that food is the ultimate form of cultural exchange. It is how we share our histories, our identities, our way of seeing the world. A simple discussion about taste led me to explain the word “bitter” in Spanish—”amargo.” It was a moment of learning, of connecting through language, through shared experience. It is in these small exchanges that we truly understand each other.
The simplest meals are often the best. A perfectly cooked piece of meat, fresh vegetables, bread with olive oil—these are the things that satisfy. The things that remind us that good food does not need to be complicated. It needs to be honest. Authenticity matters, in meals and in life.
I have walked through cities where food was nothing more than a means of survival, and I have sat at tables where a meal was a celebration of life itself. The contrast is stark, but it teaches an important lesson—food is what we make of it. It can be rushed, mechanical, unmemorable, or it can be something more. A pause, a ritual, a moment to appreciate where we are and who we share it with.
Some of my best conversations have happened over meals. Some of my strongest memories are tied to flavors. And some of my deepest realizations about life have come from understanding the way people eat.
Life is a collection of moments, and the ones that stay with us are often the ones we least expect. A meal in a forgotten restaurant. A cup of coffee on a cold morning. A conversation over a plate of food, where words are as nourishing as the meal itself.
I will always seek out these moments. I will always sit down to eat with an open mind, knowing that food is more than just fuel—it is connection, it is culture, it is memory.
