1. Have an Insalata Caprese not in Capri, but in the port in Naples where you take the ferry to the island. It’s a sleepy port, with an old man sporting a crusty beard. Wooden boats knock together, the water slowly lapping against the pier. The sun is bright, the water turquoise, the tomatoes red like flames, the mozzarella di buffala pristine white and tangy ... that perfect leaf of basil and bright green olive oil. Fragrant. Simple. Perfection.
2. Char-grilled sardines on a cliff by the Costa Brava. The bread is lightly brushed with Spanish olive oil, a kiss of garlic rubbed gently onto the crisped surface ... a hint of lemon and smattering of fresh parsley. As the sun sets over the Mediterranean, it makes dancing rainbows through your cold glass of beer.
3. Anago in Japan. I remember the place not being very charming. It was almost clinical with fluorescent lights, perhaps in a commercial building. I have snappy moments, clichés of what looked like office furniture, I was 15, and we were in Japan. The chef was behind the counter moving the delicate white flesh expertly in his hands. A quick, thin slather of sweet soy and, with no nonsense, he popped it into a moving salamander grill. Anago. The lesser-known cousin of unagi. It sat atop perfect mounds of white rice. It was like what I imagined a cloud would be like. Barely cooked, smoky-sweet comfort.
4. Ben Tanh market in Vietnam. We had ambled through busy streets. Motorcycles, bikes, cars and illegal taxis all whizzed by. The heat crept under my skin. I was sticky and hot. Ben Tanh market is noisy, bright, and colorful. Vendors push, peddle and entice. There is many an offering, so indulge. Have a bit of Bun Thit Cha Gio, noodles topped with sweetish lemongrass pork and crisp spring rolls. Immerse yourself fully in the heat and steam your face in a bowl of fragrant chicken pho. Watch, mesmerized, as a lady steams, rolls and cuts Banh Cuon in the most elegant manner. Your mouth is happy. The flavors are fresh and intense at the same time: crisp caramelized shallots, mint and long leaf, hot chilies, tangy lime, minced meat and mushroom and that ever-lingering wondrous fish sauce.
5. Roti in Chiang Mai. She is stationed in front of the Burger King in Chiang Mai. She has a young moon face, smooth and pretty, her head covered in a scarf, her arms fully clothed. She moved her hands deftly, slapping the dough in one sweeping motion; her energy ripples through stretching the thick goop into a thin, almost transparent film. The ghee is boiling hot and the roti bubbles upon immediate contact. It rises and falls in an alien-like manner, transforming into a rich, golden delight. It lasts all of two minutes. A quick drizzle of condensed milk, then she wraps it snugly like a sleeping baby in a blanket. You have to tear at the paper to take a bite. You end up chewing on some bits of bland paper, but it doesn’t matter. It’s everything you wanted in a dessert: hot, sticky and sweet, crisp and rich. Every time I have roti elsewhere, I think of her. And how no one else will compare.
6. Diwal in Bacolod. The air smells of the sea, there’s a cheesy love song from the ’80s or ’90s playing in the background. I’m in Bacolod for the first time in my life. It’s casual, and fluorescent lights can be forgiven as all melt away after a kiss of diwal. Brushed with atsuete oil and grilled or simply covered in foil and placed on coals so it steams in its own seawater ... the tender flesh of this angel-winged clam is so soft it’s obscene. It fills the mouth with beauty and grace. Neptune’s present to us commoners.
7. Myrna Segismundo’s lechon roulade. Invited graciously by our jovial host, Myrna Segismundo served to me one of the best pork dishes of my life. Her lechon roulade is a deboned suckling pig rolled, roasted and stuffed with heady lemongrass. Cut for service, my carnal instincts reached out and grabbed a piece. I bit into it like some giant savory cookie … the skin is paper-thin and auburn-crisp, the flesh is full of flavor and the juices roll down your wrist.
8. Sole meuniere in France. It had to be the most beautifully cooked fish of my life. The oysters ... ah, they were amazing. That Hemingway moveable-feast moment. I even remember the wine: a cold Quincy, mineral and apt. I had never drunk it before. But that sole. Amidst the glorious turn-of-the-century decor, the smell of the sea, of butter and the pleasant odor of dust and nostalgia, the waiter came out and served me my sole meuniere with pomp and a flourish. Sole is a fickle fish. It must be thin and delicate, the flour forming a very fine crisp casing, the center just at the point of doneness. It must be flaky and firm. Swimming in the right amount of butter and just the slightest tinge of bright lemon. It was so beautiful, I cried. The lost art of a perfectly cooked fish.
9. Escaroles in Mexico. “Vivi en un rancho grande ... habia una rancheritaaaaa...” Three mariachis serenaded the room with some borderline-lascivious lyrics. Lively fun music, replicated paintings of Diego Rivera and Frieda Kahlo. Everything was colorful. My chair, their costumes, the walls, the tablecloth ... heck, even my molé was green. Escaroles are ant eggs, considered to be Mexican caviar. Fried up in some butter, garlic and cilantro, you cuddle them in little flour tortillas with some guacamole and hot chili sauce. Small and white, not far from beans, they were buttery and a tad nutty. A hodgepodge of flavors — grassy, tangy, smoky, and a sexy, fiery spice that makes your lips sting and burn with a masochistic desire for more.
10. Five-way lechon in Claude and Mary Anne Tayag’s Bale Dutung. Not one detail was forgotten, lechon cooked and used in ways I had never seen before. Lechon belly used in sinigang; the skin eaten alone, charred and crackled, dipped into a homemade liver sauce; deep-fried lechon belly strips wrapped with some kimchi in a tortilla... My mother who never eats meat asked for seconds. Enough said.
11. Roasted free-range lamb. Imagine a whole young lamb, fresh from the farm, living the happiest of lives on an open range. Injected with pineapple juice and slow-roasted over an open fire, the flesh is sweet, falling off the bone. The skin is the color of cherry wood. No sauce. No frills. The perfect roast.
12. Sweetbreads at Atelier de Joel Robuchon. I was feeling adventurous. All my readings had described sweetbreads and I felt so much in the dark. I was out of the club ... MFK Fisher and all the rest had been babbling on about this wretched ris de veau I had never tasted. We were in Atelier de Joel Robuchon, what better moment than now? They had cut it into tiny bite-sized morsels, crusty on the outside and deliciously yielding inside. Surrounding the beauties were little chanterelles, deceivingly dainty yet deliriously potent. It was like being one with the earth. Like how God intended food to be.
13. Betty’s Fromagerie in Toulouse makes the best Truffled Brie in the world. An entire wheel of young brie is sliced and filled with a heavenly melange of fresh cheese and fresh slices of black truffles. It is then closed and left to age a teensy bit. The results are spectacular. An aged brie “fait comme il faut,” a little runny, a slight crunch through the creamy center. It’s like a chocolate praline except it’s cheese. The scent is intoxicating. The more you chew, the more earthy flavors you release. The brie is velvety on the tongue and the experience is mind-blowing.
14. Fresh porcini. It’s rare to find fresh porcini mushrooms. Cepes in French, porcini in Italian, steinpilze in German ... they all have their seasonal moment of glory. Summer is ending, the leaves are slowly turning the palest shade of gold, the markets are full of these large knobs of flavor. Never washed, just scrubbed and pared then cooked simply in olive oil, butter, a clove of garlic and small butt of parsley. The flavors of the earth intensify as the butter browns, little bits of soil still mingling in there ... the texture, the mouth-filling sensation. This is what they meant when they came up with the word umami — indescribable palatable glory.
15. Caviar. Yes, please do. One day, save up and buy some caviar. Real caviar. Sturgeon sevruga, oscetra or beluga. I like to eat it casually, without the frou-frou, some hot blinis, a tinge of lemon or straight from the tin. I like to eat in on the floor, wearing pajamas, drinking something equally special like champagne out of a mug. I was about five, my parents had a party and someone had gifted them with some smuggled black gold. I remember my mom saying, “Stephanie, open and try.” The lights were hazy and my dad was smiling, amused at my adventurous mouth. The mother-of-pearl spoon was cold and smooth; the caviar, grainy and salty. Little pops of pearls in my mouth. It was unlike anything I’d ever had before, mineral and rich all at once. Like butter from the sea.
16. A meal at Arzak. We students in Paris splurged on the most lavish and long lunch of my life, a combination of tradition, bold flavor and masterful genius. Jose Mari Arzak is a genius. His molecular gastronomy adds a touch of humor to Basque cuisine. One dish is better than the next. To help pay for our meal, we stayed in a 14-euro-a-night hostel run by a really fun lady. I can’t remember if she was Irish or English, but I’ll never forget her comment: “There goes Arzak down the drain!” to my friend who drank himself silly the night before.
17. Xiao long bao. Little pockets of soupy goodness. The first time I had it was in New York. The lights were blinding white and the bamboo basket was steaming. I was instructed to pour some vinegar and add some ginger. I excitedly ate and burnt my tongue, but kept going. How genius are the Chinese to have soup on the go? Hundreds of years of human evolution, empires and the great wall have boiled down to that perfect moment when the temperature is just right and that thin skin gives way to all the beautiful comfort inside.
18. Fish and chips in London. The wind was bitingly cold as it funneled through the Thames. The Tower of London not far behind us, we stopped at a stall for some fish and chips. Flaky fish in the crispest lightest beer batter, doused in some pungently strong malt vinegar ... chips that are crunchy and mushy all at the same time. You stare down as you ponder which fry to munch on and try to read the story on the newspaper that wraps it all up.
19. The perfect hamburger. Everyone’s got a favorite joint. And no one can tell you what to put on it. A perfect burger has to have the right thickness, a bun that isn’t too crisp but not too soggy ... I don’t care much for all that Wagyu hoo-ha, the excess fat just soaks right through the bread. I like it charred. I think we’ve established that I like smoky things. I like it still slightly rare in the middle, with mustard, ketchup, gooey melted cheese, a bit of onion and really, really crispy bacon. The first bite is never the best. It’s always the third or fourth. When everything becomes the one-bite heaven.
20. Beer and sausage in Hamburg. In this small plaza in Hamburg, a bunch of little food stalls were put up — a nice little beer garden. There were these giant round grills hanging precariously from a tripod. Above the glowing hot coals sat sausages of all shapes and sizes, crisping up, their skin cracking and bursting as the flesh released its juices. A little hot mustard, some sautéed onions nestled in crusty bread and washed down with a nice blond. The fries are crunchy. The sausages are as savory as can be. The beer is icy cold.
21. Italian food in Siena. In this little trattoria in Siena called Papei, we had the epitome of Italian cooking at its finest. Simple but worthy ingredients. A perfectly cooked homemade pasta finished off in butter, cracked black pepper and aged Parmesan.
22. Chili crab in Singapore. I was never really a fan because I never really “got it” till one evening, Dr. Leslie Tay showed me the ropes at a Singaporean food village. By the breezy East Coast Lagoon, I chose my defiant crab — one that looked like a warrior. He was then served up to me swimming in a bowl of red-hot syrupy chili sauce. It was thick, a bit of tang, floating bits of spice and egg, the crab flesh white and fluffy. The freshly fried man tou bun with a bit of crunch and chewiness dunked into the sizzling, fiery sauce. It’s lip-smacking, finger-licking, get-your-hands-to-your-elbows-dirty good.
23. Indian food from Swagat. It’s raining, my nose is clogged and I just want to feel loved. A really tongue-numbing chicken makhanwala, buttery palak paneer and some sunny, citrusy lemon rice from Swagat will do the trick. Get your own. I won’t share.
24. The truffle hazelnut macaron at Pierre Hermé. It’s almost like a ritual. I walk over and queue at the Pierre Hermé store on Rue Bonaparte in Paris. I stare at all the beautiful colors, like shimmering jewels in a high-end bijouterie. There is one that stands out: cream-colored, pearly sheen, dusted with shimmering powder. The truffle hazelnut macaron. Oh, yes. It is precious. Only during the winter months do they serve this precious morsel. I buy one. Just one. I sit on a bench and watch the pigeons fly about the fountain in front of the Saint Sulpice church. One bite and the world slowly melts away.
25. Octopus in Lisbon. The sun was scorching. All those darn “charming” stairs were grueling. But a small respite in Lisbon is the beautiful way they cook their octopus. Tinged in red with peri-peri spices from Africa, tender in the garlic and olive oil, and cold, barely fizzy vinho verde.
26. The Kouing Aman at Brasserie Ciçou. It was a night of revelation. The most amazing wine I had ever had and a dessert to end all desserts: chef Cyrille Soenen’s Kouing Aman. A golden pastry dripping in butter, flaky and crisp, just like how your Freudian id would imagine a croissant to be. Over the top. Sweet and savory all at the same time. I wanted to take it home, place it in a box beside my bed, only to nibble and bite at it throughout the night, relishing each indulgent mouthful.