I’ve always been a steak man. Ribeyes sizzling on a hot Weber grill, marbled New York strips kissed with mesquite smoke, thick sirloins seared rare—those are my happy places. For years, I considered grilling not just a cooking method, but a way of life.
My name is Clara. I’m seventeen years old and from São Paulo, Brazil. Ever since I was little, I’ve loved helping my mom in the kitchen—peeling garlic, mixing cake batter, and watching her hands move like magic. One day, I told her, “Mãe, eu quero ser chef.”
I came to Beijing for business, but I left with something more—a taste memory that will stay with me for a long time. As a Nigerian man who has tasted suya in Sokoto and pepper soup in Port Harcourt, I didn’t expect one bowl of Chinese noodles—men mian—to catch me like this.
I remember the first time I tasted Peking Duck like it was yesterday. I was 24, jet-lagged, and standing in the middle of Beijing’s bustling Wangfujing district with a tiny paper map and an appetite far too large for my backpack. I had just arrived from culinary school in upstate New York
I am not a chef, nor do I claim to be an expert in Vietnamese cuisine. I am a professor of history from Utrecht, with a fondness for old books, slow travel, and long conversations with strangers. My wife, Marijke, and I had planned our trip to Vietnam
I am not a food critic, nor a chef. I’m a 68-year-old retired school teacher from Lübeck, Germany, who never truly imagined she’d one day find herself under a flurry of pink sakura petals, wandering through Japan with three of her closest friends from the old teaching days.
Three months ago, I packed my bags in Bangalore, India, and moved to Tokyo, Japan, for a new role as an IT professional. At 27, I was both thrilled and nervous to immerse myself in a new culture, language, and work environment. Between debugging code and navigating the dizzying Tokyo subway
When I first booked my summer backpacking trip to Japan, I had a rough plan — Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka — the classics. I didn’t know I’d arrive in Kyoto right in the middle of Gion Matsuri, one of Japan’s oldest and grandest festivals
When I first came to Osaka from Accra to study business development, I thought I was ready for everything. The people were nice, the trains came on time (like magic!), and everything was clean clean. But one thing that shocked me proper was the food.
As a Norwegian father with a deep love for food, family, and travel, I thought I had tasted most of what the world had to offer. Seafood, in particular, runs in our blood — herring, cod, mackerel — all familiar flavors from my coastal upbringing in Bergen. But nothing, absolutely nothing