Live to love and eat well

Unlike the spice-rubbed, sauce-laden barbecue, Argentine asado is an ode to simplicity—just salt, fire, and patience. While beef is the undisputed star, ribs, organs, chorizo, and morcilla are all arranged on the parrilla like a mosaic of meats over glowing embers. Larger cuts or whole animals are slow-roasted on cross-shaped racks for hours until the flesh turns tender, infused with a smoky depth. The griller is an artist, expertly reading the coals, knowing precisely when to sear, when to turn, when to rest. Too much heat, and the meat is tough; too little, and the fat refuses to render.

Beyond a method of cooking to eat well, asado is a cultural institution, a national emblem, and a mark of respect for food. Today, it has become something even greater—an event. A reason for families and friends to gather, often on a Sunday, sometimes on a holiday, always with celebration in mind.

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And if, like me, you find yourself a visitor in Argentina, you can still claim your place at a crowded restaurant table, sharing a bottle of Malbec with a friend. Close your eyes as that first bite of sirloin melts away—the richness of the fat, the succulence of the meat, the depth of its smoky char. The chimichurri, vibrant and herbaceous, bursts forth like a final flourish. There is no pretence here, no unnecessary embellishment—just asado, unfiltered and unapologetically real.

And there I sat, wrapped in the laughter that spilled across the wooden table, plates passing from hand to hand, midnight conversations unfurling as long as the wine held out. Smoke clung to my clothes, my stomach protested its fullness in its drive to eat well. I swore I’d never eat asado again—until, inevitably, another platter arrived the very next day.

If love had a scent, it would be the warm, buttery aroma of a freshly baked croissant. If romance had a texture, it would be the crisp, honeycombed layers of its pastry. And if passion had a sound, it would be the delicate crunch as a croissant shatters in your hand.

La Maison d’Isabelle claimed the coveted title of Best Croissant in Paris in 2018—a distinction they proudly proclaim on a black awning outside their shop. Yet, stepping inside the unassuming, sparsely decorated bakery was almost a surprise. Perhaps that title was the only adornment the place truly needed.

While the display held an array of tempting pastries to eat well, my eyes never strayed from the croissant counter. Each pastry gleamed with a golden sheen, its delicate layers forming an intricate, spongy surface. The first bite left me momentarily speechless—the crust crackled and crumbled, showering me in golden flakes, just as a perfect croissant should. Beneath the crisp exterior lay an airy, honeycombed centre, impossibly light yet deeply satisfying.

This was, without doubt, the finest croissant in Paris. A delicate chew, a masterful technique, a rich yet ethereal indulgence. Made with the highest quality French butter, it was decadent without being heavy, leaving a lingering, luxurious richness on the palate. The bakers at La Maison d’Isabelle had achieved the elusive balance between crispness and fluffiness—a feat of true craftsmanship. Biting into it was like tasting a cloud, if clouds were spun from butter and dreams.

Every morning in Paris, I found myself joining the queue of locals outside a bakery, drawn by the promise of that first warm, buttery mouthful. The moment a freshly baked croissant was slipped into a paper bag, its rich aroma escaping into the crisp air, I could never resist an immediate bite.

But a croissant is never a meal to be rushed. It is not mere sustenance, not something to be devoured on the go. Eating a croissant properly means savouring every layer, letting the crisp shards melt between your fingers, appreciating the care and precision woven into its folds. Golden, impossibly flaky, soft at its core, and perfumed with the scent of fine butter, it is more than just a morning indulgence—it is a celebration of artisanal baking, an everyday love affair. Taking that first bite, while the world hums past, is a moment of simple, undeniable joy—one that belongs to anyone who finds themselves in the heart of Paris.

For some, the thought of this Tuy Hoa delicacy is enough to make them shudder. For others, it is a dish of unexpected delight.

Seated at Ba Tam restaurant in the heart of Tuy Hoa, I watched as the steaming hot pot arrived, cradling a single, glistening tuna eye—almost the size of a chicken egg. Rich and gelatinous, it floated in a fragrant broth, its surface shimmering with a layer of golden fat. A handful of finely chopped green cabbage and perilla leaves, dipped into the simmering pot, added a fresh contrast.

The first spoonful revealed a complex medley of flavours to eat well. The unctuous tuna eye, with its delicate marine essence, melded with the broth’s natural sweetness—deepened by Chinese herbs like jujube and wolfberry, lifted by a whisper of spice from mustard greens. A single pot, yet layered with enough depth to conjure the murmuring tides of the distant ocean, right before me.

The dish was unexpectedly warm. The tuna eye retained its firm texture on the outside, yet inside, it melted into something rich and buttery. Lifting a piece of the fish, I savoured the contrast—the deep, salty flesh against the silky, jelly-like fat—before taking a sip of the fragrant broth. The freshness of green mustard and perilla cut through the richness, their bright notes adding balance. Each bite was a delight, the gentle chew of the fat giving way to the tender sweetness of the meat.

A humble dish, yet one that holds a piece of Phu Yen’s soul—generous, unpretentious, and quietly beautiful. It taught me that love, like food, sometimes appears in the most unexpected places. Elsewhere, tuna eyes might be discarded. Here, they are treasured, transformed into something remarkable.

So if you find yourself in Phu Yen, don’t hesitate. Order a steaming bowl of tuna eyes, taste it not just with your palate but with an open heart. Eat well. Who knows? You might just discover a new kind of love—one that lingers long after the last spoonful.

It seems like an unassuming dish—until you taste it at the legendary Koshary Abou Tarek in Cairo. Nestled in the heart of the capital’s frenetic streets, this restaurant is a constant whirlwind of movement, packed to the brim despite its multiple floors.

Like any first-time visitor, I was puzzled when my koshary arrived. A jumble of rice, lentils, pasta, and chickpeas, all buried under a golden crown of crisp-fried onions and doused in a rich tomato sauce with a fiery splash of chilli vinegar—how had this become Egypt’s most beloved dish?

And yet, one spoonful in, I understood. Somehow, this humble street food managed to feel like love on a plate—deeply satisfying, unexpectedly exciting, and undeniably comforting. I don’t know how Egyptians have perfected such an extraordinary balance, but they have.

The tomato and garlic sauce is the beating heart of koshary, binding the dish together as it winds through the grains and legumes. The lentils and pasta bring substance, the chickpeas add a satisfying crunch, and the fried onions—golden, sweet, and crisp—create a contrast that elevates every bite. The flavours are bold yet familiar, the textures layered yet effortless.

But what makes koshary so special is that it transcends time, culture, and class. From the bustling streets of Cairo to quiet countryside homes, from the labourer stretching his last coins to the high-flying executive, this dish is universally adored.

I love koshary for its simplicity, for the way it turns the most ordinary ingredients into something extraordinary. Like love, it doesn’t need to be complicated to be profound. It’s genuine, warm, and deeply satisfying—wrapping me in flavours that speak straight to the soul.

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