An Italian Escape in Paris

Two dusty windows, a worn wooden door, and the faintest scent of rosemary in the air. That’s all it took for us to stop walking. My friend and I had walked past the restaurant on our exploratory mission through Paris. The old wooden door and two windows were the only details alluring to the restaurant. At a closer look, we could see the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, and unlit candles nestled on the wooden tables. We were determined to be one of the people sitting at those tables in the evening.

The restaurant, small, cozy, and brimming with the warmth only Italy can provide, was a welcome escape from the Parisian winter. The few tables in the room were crowded by guests who had felt the same as we did earlier that day. Sausages and sprigs of rosemary dangled from the ceiling like lanterns. The walls held old memories in frames, like pages from a family photo book. It felt as if the problems of the world had been left at the door, giving us a moment to breathe and rejoice while under the roof of L’alimentari.

We popped open our first bottle of red with a quiet celebration. It poured into our glasses, catching the flicker of candlelight on its surface. A pan towered with steamed mussels, fighting for the top of the hill as we raced to meet the bottom of the pot. The scent of the sea and indulgence of cream kissed our every sense as we surgically extracted the flesh from their shells.

As we discuss the adventures of the day, everything falls into place, and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. My friend’s smile is intoxicating, like the wine we’ve been enjoying. The dimmed light of the room flickers in her eyes as she tells me about her favorite parts of the city. I couldn’t help but be completely taken by her. Time was passing, yet we were stuck in a moment that could’ve lasted a lifetime.

Our evening was only enriched by the gnocchi arriving at our table. Like pillows scattered across the plate, blanketed by the rich aromas of butter and sage. This was Italian at its best: simple flavors, yet carrying itself with the confidence of tradition and ritual. The nutty and herbal notes danced around me with a taste of the red fruit lingering in my glass. I felt privileged, a kind of rich that money can’t compare to. I was here, in the presence of a beautiful woman, with good food at my table, and a glass of wine in my hand. If there’s a heaven on earth, it might look like this.

A Vietnamese Summer

The smell of broth found us before the building did. Our eyes diverted to a restaurant cropped between many others. Perhaps it was the colorful plastic tables and chairs neatly set up outside, or the faint smell of beef Pho coming from the room. We knew that this was the place for lunch. As we awkwardly place ourselves at one large table, we fight for the chair under the large fan hanging from the ceiling. Our waitress, whom we suspected was also the owner, spoke few words, using her hands and subtle grunts to guide us through the menu. We did not speak her language, and she didn't speak ours, yet here we were, communicating.

After quickly agreeing that we'd all order the same Pho, I couldn't help but divert from the path taken. Pho was safe, cheap, easy; everyone was on board. But something in me wanted more than broth and comfort. But, amidst the disorganized cluster of items on the menu, there was something that took my attention. I knew the rules: don’t be the one who strays. But there it was—pork, cooked in its own pride, unaccompanied, unapologetic. I ordered it before I could change my mind. I was intrigued. I took the chance, knowing that I had either made the mistake of the day, or that I'd be the one with the best dish.

The heat of the Vietnamese climate took a toll on our patience. Our conversation and laughter filled the room, yet it felt like the sun had slowed us, as if time had taken a break and delayed slightly. The steam from the soup pot licked the window, severing us from the kitchen, as if a mighty fog had hit only there, and we were witnessing its greatness. Through the blurred window, we saw our bowls assembled. Flecks of green and dabs of white, like an oil painting coming to life.

And there it was. Our table was filled one by one with bowls of hot soup, steaming and enveloping each of my friends with the smell of beef and fresh coriander. Then came mine. A hot stone bowl, still hissing, landed with the kind of weight that says pay attention. Pork, sliced and arranged like petals around the center, its skin glistening in a sweat of its own grease. Black pepper sauce bubbled underneath, trying to escape the sear, collapsing into the meat, caramelizing it into something primal. The aroma rose fast, thick and peppery, and hit my face like a blessing or a dare.

In Pursuit of Flavors

I Love Food, a Lot

I’d even wager that my love for food borders on obsession. Anything and everything food-related? I’m into it. This year, I made it my mission to find the best food in Amsterdam. And while I’ve had some pretty damn good meals lately, there’s this persistent itch in the back of my mind—a feeling that I haven’t truly tasted the best the world has to offer.

And no, I’m not talking about Michelin-star gastronomy that’ll blow my mind with its technical prowess. I’m chasing something raw. Unapologetic. Honest flavors you have to travel for. I dream of watching thick cuts of meat roast slowly over open flames, watching the grease drip and sizzle on the hot coals. Peeling the skin off a fish that was swimming minutes earlier, or sinking my fingers into a loaf of freshly baked bread. That’s the kind of food I want to eat—and write about.

Good food takes patience (and Google Maps)

I’m not saying Amsterdam doesn’t have good food. On the contrary—once you get past the endless rows of Argentinian steakhouses and kebab spots (shoutout to late-night shawarma, though), there’s real magic here. You just need to know where to look.

Still, even when I stumble on something amazing, that same little voice pops up. Would this taste even better in its country of origin? What would it be like cooked by the people who’ve perfected it for generations? It’s not about dismissing what’s here—it’s about curiosity. It’s about context. And sometimes, it’s about what’s missing.

The Root and the Flame

If you’ve ever spent an hour scrolling through Netflix trying to find something worth your time, you may have stumbled across Chef’s Table. For me, that series was a turning point. It’s everything I wish every food documentary was—gorgeous cinematography, incredible stories, and a deeper dive into what makes chefs tick.

Two chefs in particular changed the way I think about food: Frances Mallmann and Dan Barber. Opposite in technique, but united in one belief. Dan Barber grows vegetables on his farm, not for quantity, but for flavor. He made me wonder what vegetables taste like before they’re mass-produced and over-engineered. And then there’s Frances Mallmann—the man of fire. Watching him cook over open flames rewired something in my brain. That’s what I want from food: heat, passion, simplicity, soul.

The Final Bite

These two chefs—One grows flavor from the soil, the other pulls it from the fire. Together, they reshaped how I think about food. Inspired by them, I’ve made it my mission to chase those honest, rooted flavors—and the people who’ve mastered them.

This blog is part culinary diary, part food guide—a love letter to the world’s boldest flavors, starting right here in Amsterdam. Join me as I chase unforgettable meals and help you build your list of must-try bites in one of Europe’s most diverse food cities.