There is a time and place for every meal. Like at the end of a day full of suckage, in the middle of a heartbreak, when I’m homesick, and especially when I’m sick of home, absolutely nothing sets my world right like a bowl of Maggi noodles.
There have been trysts with the likes of Spuntino, Bombay Canteen & M. Wells on the days when nothing could go wrong. And travels for one that led me to adventures in Café Jardin Majorelle, Los Salones del Piano Nobile and Joseph Leonard. I’ve spent afternoons at Dishoom and Bar Termini and been transported to another place and feeling.
From the very first table for one at Viajante, to my first rodeo with Michelin dining on my own at Daniel, the right meal always came along when I needed to break through a (usually self-imposed) barrier.
Over the past six years, these meals have been a witness to my life. I fasted and feasted through stories, patching up old wounds and documenting new ones, with my writing always keeping me safe, like a trusty Band-Aid. I never quite had the courage to check if the wounds were still open; or worse still, if they had actually begun to heal.
But there is a time and place for everything. As I bring in the last of my 30s in the city where they began, it seems to be the right time to rip off the bandage.
This is the time to say goodbye.
p.s. Life is too short for a bad meal and old bandages.