I have this food fantasy. In my decades of travel in more than 80 countries, I have had my share of amazing meals, and I don’t mean fancy Michelin-type restaurants. These food moments were made memorable either by the food alone or in part by the setting, the experience, and the people around me.
In nostalgic moments, I’ve often pondered, “If I had the ways and means, where would I fly in my private jet just to eat that one amazing thing?” I couldn’t possibly count them all, but these are the first that came to mind.
Managua, Nicaragua: Churrasco
During my time in Central America, I traveled by long-range Galgos (“Greyhound” in Spanish) bus from Guatemala City to Panama City. It was a 3 1/2-day trip at the time, and we had to stop for the evening in both Costa Rica and Nicaragua, as it wasn’t advisable to travel at night. In Managua, the bus station wasn’t close to much, and I just took a basic room next to the station. In search of street food, I went around the other side of the block, where I found a family literally opening up their home—lifting a gate and folding back the front wall of the cinderblock house—and moving tables from their living room partly onto the front patio. Intrigued, I inquired about the menu. They served only grilled beef—churrasco.
There weren’t any special seasonings beyond a bit of salt, but it was incredibly tender, smoky, and nicely charred. Did it help that I was tired and hungry? Sure. But the atmosphere, almost like dinner at a friend’s house, and the complete unlikeliness of such quality food in an unassuming residence in a bus-station neighborhood made it unforgettable.
I ate there on a couple of trips that year, and this is where I first had the thought, “If I were a rock star, I would fly in my private jet all the way to Nicaragua just to eat here for the night.”
Sadly, I can find neither hide nor hair of the place on maps.
Chiang Mai, Thailand: Khao Soi
Khai soi, originating in the north of Thailand, is a yellowish curry soup served with thin egg noodles and a chicken leg, and garnished with bits of shallots, pickled mustard leaves, crunchy fried noodle pieces, and lime juice. The sauce is basically red curry paste tempered with turmeric and curry powder, and it’s my favorite of all Thai curries—a dish from the north.
I found this place down a side street about a 20-minute walk from the moat-encircled Old City, in Thailand’s second city and street-foodie capital of Chiang Mai. Several years ago, with my wife and good friends, we put on loose pants and spent the afternoon hitting the five best khao soi joints in town. Khao Soi Maesai remains at the top of my list. Affordable, casual, flavorful, and highly consumable—just ask me about the yellow spatter stains on my shirts.
Panama City: Ceviche
I taught English at two Panamanian universities for a year and found that my apartment was one block away from a popular corner store, Bodega Mi Amiga.
Each day, fresh ceviche arrived in take-out-style plastic tubs, without any label or brand name. It’s made with a particular lime, a local pepper, some onions, and corvina. I translate “corvina” as sea bass, but in both English and Spanish the actual species of “sea bass” is elusive. Just call it a whitefish.
The cubes of raw fish are “cooked” by the acidic juice, giving them a firmer texture. You eat this (and I do mean the whole 16-ounce tub!) with a sleeve of Saltine crackers.
Runner-up: a ginger cookie at the neighborhood bakery, now lost to time. Ten cents, light-colored, not dark brown, and after you ate it, you’d pick the tiny threads of real ginger out of your teeth.
San Sebastián, Spain: Basque Cheesecake
La Viña, a pintxos bar (pinchos, similar to tapas), started baking cheesecake—Philly cheese and all—back in the 1980s. But they made it without a crust or toppings and baked it until it showed some caramelized char on the outside while remaining soft on the very inside—so soft that if you cut it with a knife, it leaves a smear on the blade.
When all the seats fill up inside, customers stand in the street at night, washing down slices with local cider and beer. If you really get crazy about the stuff, there is a local cooking class that teaches how to make this as well as other regional dishes. Ask me how I know.
Bruges, Belgium: Tripel
I am a beer guy, even a beer author, but I was never a huge fan of the Belgian tripel (craft beer geeks, please don’t judge!). When I asked the collective mind on Facebook what I should do in Bruges, several folks from The Great Dane Pub & Brewing in Madison all chimed in: Drink the tripel at De Garre.
Google Maps put me in front of two storefronts that were not taverns or restaurants. I stood stupidly on the cobblestones, fearing I had failed in the mission, but then noticed an empty doorway that opened into a narrow alley just wide enough for one person to pass. Sure enough, De Garre occupied a rustic tavern at the center of the block of buildings: two tiny floors and a tight staircase. We ordered some great stinky cheese and a round of tripels, and I became an instant convert. The head was so fine and creamy and survived to the very end of the beer. That’s not a milk moustache in my photos!
Seattle: Crab Legs
After a full day out on the San Juan Islands back in 1993, I got back to the city late and hungry. The first place I could find that was still open was nearly under the University Bridge. I ordered the king crab legs cooked over alderwood. I had a big bloody mary while I waited, and when the food arrived, I was loose, uninhibited, and ravenous. A short while later, the most delicious crab I’ve ever had was nothing but shells, and I had melted butter (and perhaps bits of shell) all over my face and hands. Thank heavens we had no camera phones and social media back then.
I can’t find the place on a map, so I am afraid by the time I become a famous rock star, I won’t be able to return there.
Tokyo: Stand-Up Sushi
Uogashi Niihon-Ichi serves sushi for the person on the go—there are no seats, just room for about a dozen people to stand at a C-shaped counter along a glass deli cabinet that contains a variety of fresh, raw seafood.
Right across the narrow alley from the Shinjuku post office, this hole in the wall requires you to squeeze past customers if the only open spot is at the other end. Two chefs stand at the middle and assemble whatever you ask for, reaching over and setting it down on the counter before you.
This is where I first had ebi mayo (shrimp with mayonnaise). After having read an internet commenter bloviate about how Japanese food with mayo is not really Japanese, I watched as the itamae—sushi chef—laid out a piece with a shrimp and topped it with a squirt of Kewpie (the Japanese national brand of mayo, founded in 1925), and then hit it with the kitchen torch to scorch the mayo a bit and give it a touch of smoke.
On annual business trips years ago, I went here most nights of every trip.
Istanbul: Black Sea Pide
I lived in Turkey for a year (see my 2006 book “The Yogurt Man Cometh: Tales of an American Teacher in Turkey”), and during that time, I even traveled to the Black Sea region. Yet somehow, I never had Karadeniz (Black Sea) pide. Unlike the long, almost pizza-like open flatbread that tapers at each end, this pide is typically made with a crust over the toppings and incorporates a lot of butter. Hasan Kaya, my Turkish friend whom I like to call our fixer because he has an answer to everything and takes us everywhere, introduced us to Temel Reis (Popeye the Sailor), a restaurant in Uskudar, the Asian side of the city, which serves this pide, kuymak (melted cheese and butter with cornmeal), and other Black Sea specialties. It’s become internet-famous. We go back every time we are in Istanbul, which is never often enough, and are welcomed like old friends.
Chios, Greece: Beef Stew
I arrived on Chios, the alleged home of Homer (the “Odyssey” one, not the Simpson), on the short ferry ride from Cesme, Turkey. But I had arrived in the middle of the afternoon during mesimeri, the Greek version of the siesta. Not a single restaurant was open, but one place, with its chairs stacked outside along the harborside promenade, showed an open door. I poked in from the bright sun and heard the owner before I could see him as my eyes adjusted. I asked, in English, if he was open. He told me that they didn’t open for another hour, but please, take a seat.
“Want to sit outside? You see, in America, if you come one minute before they open, they tell you, ‘No, we are closed!’ But in Greece? We are relaxed! We are friendly!” He shrugged and smiled. “I have some stew that is ready. It is delicious.”
He brought me a bowl and some bread. He wasn’t lying. I asked for the recipe, and he said the gravy contained apples and fresh orange juice. The next day he picked me up on his Vespa and took me to his cousin’s farewell party at a tavern along the coast. Relaxed and friendly indeed.
Amman, Jordan: Hummus
At the end of a backpacking trip through Jordan, James Clark, a fellow travel writer, and I checked out Hashem Restaurant. “Even the King eats there!” we were told.
Almost cafeteria-like in its casual, partly open-air setting, the hummus and falafel joint bustled with locals. The hummus was perfectly smooth and rich, drizzled with quality olive oil, and served with crispy falafel (their actual specialty) and tomato with herbs and raw onions.
I’ve pored over the internet to find recipes that allegedly have cloned the hummus. While none of these matches this hummus that nearly brought me to tears, I’ve found a couple that are in the ballpark—if you count the off-ramp from the expressway outside the parking lot of a stadium as part of a ballpark. I’ll take what I can get!
