The weather gods have not been kind to the Hudson Valley this summer. Waterways flooded, roofs ripped off, trees downed, crops flattened. Radar maps splashed with streaks of red like tomato sauce stains on an apron. Some people might be tempted to quit; then again, what is it they say about farmers being the ultimate optimists? It requires a certain resilience to grow what is meaningful to a place, let alone create a prize-winning whisky that is finally about to receive a designation of origin from the U.S. Treasury Department’s Tax and Trade Bureau. It’s the kind of game-changer that might give the old guard of the brown spirits world restless nights.

On sunnier days while driving down certain winding stretches of New York State’s Taconic Parkway, the Berkshires heave into view to the east, and then a few miles farther down the road, the Catskills appear across the Hudson, where the westerly peaks turn purple in the low light of dusk. This almost absurdly romantic backdrop enraptured mid-19^th-century landscape painters like Thomas Cole and Frederic Edwin Church, and spawned an art movement known as the Hudson River School.

Since childhood, the vista has always caught my breath. The temperate valley between these two old mountain ranges certainly catches rain clouds. The region has a long history of agriculture, dating back to early Dutch settlements in the 1660s, with first crops like wheat and rye, hops and barley, grapes and apples. An obvious byproduct was booze: applejack, hard cider, brown spirits, beer. A wealthy brewer founded the college I attended in Poughkeepsie—on Founder’s Day every year, it was customary for the president of Vassar to chug a pitcher of beer, although I hear the practice has since gone out of vogue. (Shall we say the legal drinking age was lower back then?) More recently, with the passage of state liquor laws that incentivized microbrewers and distillers to launch projects here, the Hudson Valley has seen a new boom in production of small batch beverages.

“Our whiskies and beers taste like here,” said Dennis Nesel, owner of Hudson Valley Malt, based in Germantown. A retired financial adviser with a grizzled goatee, he now favors overalls and wields an old-fashioned malt rake. “We call it re-localization. There was a time when the grains were grown here and shipped downriver by sloop, but after Prohibition all that stuff moved West, so we’re bringing it back, trying to make the supply chain grown here, harvested here, distilled here.”

That aspiration has shaped a three-way collaboration. The others include a third-generation farmer, as well as one of the newest distilleries in a pocket valley near the Massachusetts border, where the family behind Tenmile Distillery is gambling on a rising demand for American single-malt whisky. Note: no “e.” We’re not talking bourbon or rye, but closer in spirit to uisge beatha, Scotland’s original water of life.

A few weeks before the valley was swamped with torrential rains, I climbed into a utility truck with farmer Ken Migliorelli to look at one of his fields planted with winter Scala barley. “We’re about a week away from harvesting,” he said, as we parked along the rural road near his crop outside the town of Tivoli. It’s a pretty grass, with a spiky seed head on a long stem that turns from emerald green to platinum blonde as it dries in the sun. Migliorelli took to farming when he was a teenager, and eventually expanded his family’s vegetable business, adding a fruit orchard, farm stands, and weekly market stalls, including Union Square Greenmarket in Manhattan. He still grows the same variety of broccoli rabe his grandparents brought over when they emigrated from the Lazio region of Italy in the 1930s. Citing the new demand for spirit grains, the 63-year-old farmer has almost 350 acres of barley and another 50 acres of rye in cultivation, despite the challenges he faces growing these crops in the Hudson Valley.

“In 2021, that was a rough July,” he said. “It just started raining and wouldn’t stop. I lost the barley that we were combining because it pre-germinated out in the field. I could only sell it for animal feed.”

The vagaries of weather are a standard risk for any farmer; however, this spring a half-acre barn went up in a blaze, and Migliorelli lost 15 tons of barley, hay, tomato stakes, and a lot of equipment. His neighbors and loyal customers launched a fundraiser to help rebuild. He gazed out at his waves of grain, undaunted. For him, it’s one crop out of dozens during a year that starts with tender greens and crescendos with apple picking season.

When harvested, Migiolrelli’s grain heads to the malt house, less than ten miles away, for the next step in the process. “It’s a pretty tight circle from here to Dennis, and then down to Tenmile,” he said.

On a good day at Hudson Valley Malt, Nesel and his wife Jeanette Spaeth load 6,000 pounds of malted barley, rye, or wheat into a kiln. By hand. That’s the last step after the raw grain has been steeped and raked in a thin layer on a smooth concrete floor to germinate and develop the sugars that will convert to alcohol. “Floor malting is a craft and an art,” he said. “We do it old school, the way it was done in the 1850s. It’s definitely not glory work.”

Nesel and Spaeth both grew up in the Hudson Valley. After retiring from corporate life, they decided to convert their horse barn instead of downsizing. In 2015, they recognized that area distillers needed a local malting operation. (They have a hopyard as well.) “It would be too easy to go south, but we’re not snowbirds,” he said. “I was looking for a way for our farm to be more sustainable.”

The turnoff for Tenmile Distillery is a shunpike called Sinpatch. An apparent allusion to the area’s checkered past, it leads to the repurposed barn complex with a tasting room and a dining patio next to a parked vintage Airstream that belongs to Westerly Canteen, a restaurant popup serving a seasonal snack menu sourced from Hudson Valley producers. While in residence, chefs Molly Levine and Alex Kaindl celebrate summer with floral infusions, delicate crudos, and heirloom vegetables. In addition, chef Eliza Glaister of Little Egg favors wild game for her popups and occasional private tasting dinners.

When the couple delivers a load of malt, Tenmile’s master distiller Shane Fraser takes over. He walked me into the darkened cask warehouse where his single malt rests in French oak barrels that once held sherry, bourbon, and California pinot noir. (Tenmile founder John Dyson, who formerly served as New York State’s agricultural commissioner, also owns Williams Selyem Winery in Healdsburg.) Born in Aberdeen, Fraser learned his trade at several marquee distilleries, including Royal Lochnagar and Oban, before taking on the lead role at Wolfburn, a startup in the far north. Almost no one who achieves the elevated title of master distiller leaves the job security of his peat-and-heather homeland, but Tenmile presented Fraser with a challenge almost unheard of back in Scotland: creating a new brand of single malt. His first batch of fresh New Make—what we call moonshine or white dog—was barreled in January 2020. He also experimented with unorthodox cask woods, including smaller Italian cherry and chestnut barrels typically used for aging balsamic vinegars, because regulations remain fluid in the States for now. Fraser patted one on a rack. “That’s the thing with the new designation,” he said. “You have to be careful to make sure that it will be defined as American single malt. Because when those rules come out, you can’t use cherry.”

Currently, single malt producers in the States number fewer than 100, which means it’s still an exclusive club, but not the stuffy kind full of tufted leather chairs and cigar smoke. Establishing a formal standard of identity, and having that recognized at the federal level, will give distilleries here a better chance to compete against the global establishment. Single malt no longer means it has to taste like a burned-over bog.

Fraser pointed out another 140 acres of Ken Migliorelli’s ripening spring barley planted beyond a formal apple orchard and beehives. Then we entered the whitewashed brick dairy, where copper stills imported from Scotland have been installed behind a glass curtain wall in the converted great room. The bar, at the opposite end, has a full cocktail program designed around the distillery’s gin, vodka, and whisky.

Fraser and I sat down in the wood-paneled tasting room, and he poured a cask strength dram of Little Rest, Tenmile’s first edition bottling, into my tumbler.

We lifted glasses to our noses.

“I get tropical fruits coming through,” he said. “Some chocolate notes, and once it sits awhile on the tongue, there’s a bit of spice, almost like cinnamon. Every time you go back to it, you smell something different, because it’s so young and still got a bit of life to it. Some of the older whiskies, when you smell them, it’s like, well, whisky.”

I took a sip.

The Little Rest was released this April, after three years and a day in barrels, the minimum to be officially characterized as whisky. Comparably light in style, more like a subtle Speyside than a peaty Islay.

“You can see what a little rest does,” said Fraser.

He told me that someone else compared the flavor to a green Jolly Rancher, and sure enough, it did have a perky apple note. 

Rain or shine, it tasted like home.

Recipe

Paper Plane

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Clover Club Cocktail

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Tuna Crudo with Chamomile Oil, Cucumber Salad, and Pea Shoots

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Braised Rabbit with Pan-Fried Radishes and Creamy Polenta

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The post Our New Favorite Single Malt Whisky Comes From … New York? appeared first on Saveur.

When you think of Seattle, you might imagine seafood shacks and life-changing fish and chips. And while we have those, the city’s laid-back restaurant scene is better defined by the freedom it gives chefs. Take Dungeness crab, the super-tender crustacean caught off the coast, which might get curried and folded into scones, or tossed with mint and crispy fried onions in pappardelle.

This genre-bending and boundary-busting makes Seattle an unpretentious food town that harbors surprises at every turn and prioritizes flavor and function over formality. My list of essential local restaurants tells the story of a city in constant flux—and invites you to join in. Whether you wind up tucking into Lebanese tacos at an art bar or sharing an order of Ethiopian-spiced green beans at a Halal butcher shop, use this roadmap to plan your culinary adventures. Along the way, you’ll get a true taste of Seattle’s diverse communities.

Ahadu

1508 NE 117th St.
(206) 440-3399

Samuel Ephrem and Menbere Medhane’s Ethiopian restaurant evolved from a butcher shop when customers started asking if the duo could cook Halal beef. It wasn’t long before the ribeye was destined for kitfo (raw chopped beef with spiced butter) and the bone marrow for a stew called kikel. They still bring in fresh local meat and break it down themselves. But the expert butchery can’t explain why their (vegetarian) green beans—heady with caramelized red onion and floral coriander—are such a sleeper hit.

Mike’s Noodle House

418 Maynard Ave St.
(206) 389-7099

The food and decór at this cash-only Chinatown-International District standby are as straightforward as its name implies. The chatter of elderly couples, the clatter of families serving up soup, and the slurps of solo diners fill the room better than any wall art could. Mike’s light, flavorful broth and needle-thin egg noodles draw lines out the door on weekends. The soup comes in almost 30 varieties, from standard wonton to house-made fish balls with beef brisket. And there are nearly as many styles of dry noodle and congee.

Wedgwood Broiler

8230 35th Ave NE.
(206) 523-1115

Stepping into the Wedgwood Broiler is like journeying back to the ‘60s, when this steakhouse opened—and the old-school booths and sassy waitresses still charm customers like they did back in the day. But my favorite part of the retro set-up comes in how they carry on the prudent custom of turning the beef trimmings into fresh burger patties and French dip sandwiches. Either pairs nicely with an equally old-fashioned martini in the wood-paneled lounge, or with a milkshake in one of the dining room’s many booths.

Situ Tacos at Jupiter Bar

2126 2nd Ave Suite A.

When the pandemic forced drummer Lupe Flores to cancel her shows, she found a new way to entertain audiences: by making them tacos like the ones her Lebanese Mexican grandmother cooked for her as a kid. Fastened shut with toothpicks, the crisp-fried tacos come filled with brown-butter beef, garlic mashed potatoes, or harissa cauliflower and cilantro chickpeas. Place your order at the stand in front of the quirky, sprawling art bar, then head over to the arcade consoles to knock out a game of pinball or Street Fighter II while you wait for your food.

Toshi’s Teriyaki Grill

16212 Bothell Everett Hwy.
(425) 225-6420

In 1976, Toshi Kasahara opened a tiny shop near Seattle Center selling his spin on the teriyaki of his childhood in Japan. Filling Styrofoam containers with piles of steamed rice and shiny, crackly-crusted chicken year after year, Kasahara honed and defined Seattle-style teriyaki. When Seattle teriyaki took off, so did Toshi, expanding and franchising until he completely burned out. Now, he’s back to his roots, with a single spot which harks back to the original: small and simple enough that he can run it himself, serving only teriyaki—no extras or ceremony.

T55 Pâtisserie

18223 Bothell Way NE.

Muhammad Fairoz Rashed shapes his pains au chocolat like flowers, dotting each petal of feather-light croissant with semi-sweet chocolate, which ups the ratio of chocolate to pastry. The same attention to detail and innovation fuels the savory specialties, such as the curry crab scones or black truffle goat cheese focaccia served in T55’s sleek, minimalist space.

Local Tide

401 N 36th St UNIT 103.
(206) 420-4685

This casual spot specializes in fun and funky seafood lunches. The bounty of the Pacific Northwest’s chilly and pristine waters shines through in dishes inspired by Seattle’s favorite foods, like the bánh mì filled with ground rockfish and pork patties. Subtle surprises also tweak familiar flavors in the house clam chowder, enriched with clam fat, the “BLT,” which swaps in crispy salmon skin for bacon, and Local Tide’s own “Filet-o-Fish” starring Dover sole.

Billiard Hoang

3220 S Hudson St.
(206) 723-2054

When this Vietnamese pool hall sprung up off Martin Luther King Jr. Way in 1986, Seattle barely knew its bánh mì from its bún thịt nướng. But today, locals line up at Billiard Hoang for both those dishes, plus soups and rice and noodle bowls. The latter come topped with tender short ribs or puffy fried tofu, which pair well with either Vietnamese coffee or beer, no matter the time of day.

Mashiko

4725 California Ave SW.
(206) 935-4339

Seattle has an outstanding sushi scene, but Mashiko stands out for being the first established sushi restaurant in the country committed to serving only sustainable seafood. Those limitations elevated the skills and resourcefulness of the chefs, who have created a thrilling menu centered on offbeat species like spot prawns, geoduck, and herring.

Mezzanotte

1210 South Bailey St.
(206) 466-6032

After flirting with fame on Bravo’s Top Chef, dabbling in Middle Eastern cuisine at Mamnoon, and briefly trying on taco cheffery at a brewery, Jason Stratton has settled back into his sweet spot: high-end, Northwest-inflected Italian cooking. In the casual low-slung brick dining room in Georgetown, expect seasonal gems such as tender asparagus cloaked in bagna cauda sauce, burrata draped over sweet grated carrots, and Dungeness crab pappardelle. Other menu stalwarts include Stratton’s signature tajarin al coltello, hand-cut noodles in rich sage butter sauce.

Salima Specialties

11805 Renton Ave S Suite C.
(206) 906-9331

When Salima’s Restaurant closed in 2009, the region’s significant Cham population lost its community gathering point—and Salima Mohamath’s bold peanut sauce. For those unfamiliar, the cuisine of these Indigenous people of Southeast Asia is a blend of local and Islamic cuisines. At the new Salima Specialties, which opened in 2022, expect Malaysian-style satay, rich lamb curry, and Vietnamese sandwiches with housemade Halal chicken “ham”—plus that killer peanut sauce.

Midnite Ramen

Seattle, WA
(425) 524-1604

Elmer Komagata made his name cooking in LA’s fine-dining restaurants in the 1980s, then spent decades running hotel kitchens in Mexico. But he always dreamed of something smaller, like the tiny ramen cart he and his wife now park outside Seattle breweries a few nights a week. The concept is modeled after yatai, the evening mobile food stands he remembers from growing up in Japan. His balanced broth is a testament to decades spent cooking and studying French, Chinese, Mexican, and Japanese cuisines; it combines Chinese preserved vegetables and ground chicken breast. The noodles are specially made for Midnite and parboiled to his specifications, so they cook in 15 seconds. That keeps the lines outside the cart for the limited number of bowls each night moving just a little bit faster.

The post Where to Eat in Seattle Right Now appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a column by SAVEUR Senior Editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

As our car wound along the coastline, I glanced at the time. It wasn’t nine in the morning yet, but the sandstone bluffs surrounding the beach at La Jolla Cove were already packed with beachgoers and birdwatchers. Sea lions sunbathed in the sand, while snorkelers bobbed in the ocean.

Growing up in Northern California, I’d been to San Diego many times. La Jolla, a community known for its golden beaches and protected marine life, always seemed to exhibit picturesque suburban life. I wondered aloud to our Uber driver, David, if mine was merely an outsider’s oversimplified perception. He told us he’d grown up in the area and raised his daughters here: “Everybody knew everybody. We didn’t knock on the door—we just walked in the house.” As we drove on, he pointed out his childhood friends’ homes. “Everything closes early at night though,” he added. “Everyone’s an early bird.”

What La Jolla may lack in nightlife, though, it makes up for in vast breakfast options. As if on cue, David dropped us off at the end of a line stretching down the sidewalk outside a local bakery. Early-to-rise La Jollans, it appeared, are zealous about their first meal.

A wait is the norm at Wayfarer Bread, a bake shop founded by Crystal White, an alumna of San Francisco’s famed Tartine. The small bakery churns out baguettes, English muffins, cinnamon buns, sweet and savory scones, and seasonally inspired croissants——black sesame and passionfruit in late summer, plum and hazelnut for autumn, and housemade marmalade and pistachio during winter. “Everyone likes to get up, seize the day here. Surf, swim, bike, run,” White told me. After relocating to San Diego to open her business, the habits of her fellow townspeople, coupled with the demands of running a daytime cafe, quickly turned her into a morning person, too.

Gripping our Americanos and a box of pastries, my boyfriend and I headed in the general direction of the ocean, until we spotted a secluded bench at the end of a cul-de-sac overlooking the water. A group of guys in flip-flops and board shorts strolled past. “That pistachio croissant is so good,” one of them said, nodding approvingly as I took a bite and brushed crumbs from my chin.

A couple blocks away, Dodo Bird Donuts opened recently as the daytime complement to the splashy new restaurant Paradisaea, in part to meet the local breakfast demand. Like Dodo Bird’s dinner-focused sister spot, the locally-owned café nods to the area’s coastal ingredients and Mexican influence. Energizing sips like sea-salt-infused mochas and lattes featuring cajeta (Mexican caramel) made with goat’s milk promise a well-fueled morning hike or dip in the ocean. A rotating donut line-up from Paradisaea’s chef Mark Welker, who previously helmed pastry at Eleven Madison Park in New York, features flavors like horchata, starring a cinnamon-scented cream filling; maple, topped with a coffee cake crumble; and matcha, with a tea-scented glaze. In the mood for something savory, I zeroed in on the breakfast sandwich roster and chose a Cubano-inspired number: rosemary-infused prosciutto, gruyere, dijonaise, bread-and-butter pickles, and eggs from a local purveyor. Washing it down with a matcha latte, I remembered that everything tastes better—and becomes breakfast-appropriate—with an egg on it.

After two morning meals, we needed a stroll, and traced the coastline back toward La Jolla Cove. I knew we were getting close when I could make out the distant sound of a lifeguard and his megaphone warning beachgoers to avoid approaching the sea lions. By the time the marine mammals were in view, we’d worked up an appetite for one more breakfast.

Brockton Villa Restaurant opened its doors in the ‘90s, after the family behind the local company Pannikin Coffee and Tea renovated the beachfront bungalow into an eatery. Megan Heine, daughter of the Pannikin family, fell in love with the storied architecture and ocean-facing hillside, and took over the restaurant in 1994—exactly a century after the property was built. Today, a menu item served since day one remains the restaurant’s most popular: Heine’s famously soft and custard-like French toast, the inimitable (and trademarked) Coast Toast. “We grill the bread first, brown it, and then we put it in the oven to order, so it poofs up like a soufflé,” said Heine, explaining how the kitchen achieves the remarkably pillowy texture.

As we ate our toast on the balcony and watched the beachgoers below, I caught snippets of conversation between patrons and waitstaff. “How was your daughter’s school year?” “The new sitter is great, thanks for asking.” Later, I told Heine how our Uber driver had enthusiastically given us an impromptu tour of the area to showcase its small-town-within-a-big-city character. “Was he wearing a bow tie?” she asked, and I nodded. “Yeah, I know him,” Heine said with a laugh. Serendipitous? Maybe—or just what one would expect in La Jolla.

Though many of the community’s longtime families have stuck around, she told us, the everyone-knows-everyone vibe is evolving. “I have seen decades of change,” said Heine, who also owns Beaumont’s, a dinner spot in La Jolla, with her husband. “The downtown La Jolla that I knew growing up was all locally owned single stores—everything from children’s clothing stores, to the drugstore.” Over time, as San Diego’s economy, population, and real estate costs grew, some of the locally owned businesses that once dotted the main thoroughfares of Prospect Street and Girard Avenue closed up shop, and chains like Banana Republic moved in. However, many of these big-name stores wound up closing, too. “The cost of the rent, and maybe the seasonality of the town—they weren’t able to survive like they do in a mall setting,” Heine speculated.

Yet, amid the ebb and flow of growth and change, many longtime family-owned eateries never left. The third-generation breakfast haunt Harry’s Coffee Shop, dating back to 1960, bills itself as “La Jolla’s oldest diner,” dishing up morning classics like oatmeal pancakes and carne asada breakfast burritos. The Cottage, established in 1992, continues to draw weekend crowds with coastal California brunch fare: crispy crab cakes sandwiched between sourdough, shrimp omelets with poblano peppers, and Mexican-inspired eggs Benedict topped with chorizo and cotija cheese.

Today, though the downtown area is still home to some chain stores, Heine said she feels as though the neighborhood is gradually returning to its former character. “It seems like it’s going back to a bit more unique stores and smaller businesses,” she noted, listing off some of her favorites. “Wayfarer is fantastic. Crystal, the woman who owns it, does a really great job.” When I admitted that I’d visited earlier for my first of three breakfasts that day, Heine’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you were already there? Yeah, I love that pistachio croissant! I walk there from my house to get it.”

After a lifetime in La Jolla, Heine said she can’t imagine living anywhere else. I don’t blame her—Brockton Villa’s balcony boasts one of the neighborhood’s nicest views, overlooking La Jolla Cove with an exceptional front-row seat to nightly sunsets. “We joke that it’s sort of like the Nature Channel. You can just watch everything right here,” she said.

It’s hard not to dream idyllic suburban dreams in a place like this. During another weekend getaway to San Diego back in 2020, we drove to La Jolla to watch the sunset. Half of the city, it seemed, had done the same. After finally hunting down a parking spot, we navigated on foot through socially distanced picnic blankets and sat down in an unoccupied patch of grass. As the red sun inched toward the ocean, the crowd’s chatter fell to a hush. Finally, the star creeped its way below the horizon, leaving a flare of iridescent clouds, fuchsia and lavender, streaked across the sky.

San Diego surely has awe-inspiring sunsets, but they’re matched by an equally arresting phenomenon on the flip side. Back before Wayfarer had a brick-and-mortar location, White would frequently spend the whole night baking, then bring the pastries to pop-up locations as the sun was coming up. One spot was by the beach, so she’d take a break there and watch the sunrise on Ocean Beach Pier. “I remember one sunrise was so gorgeous that everyone in the water started cheering and clapping,” said White, recalling how amazed she felt that this was her home. “It was breathtaking.”

Recipe

Custardy French Toast

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The post The Coastal Village That Runs on Breakfast appeared first on Saveur.

Bangkok smells like exhaust mixed with noodle stalls, the gasoline-tinged smoke of tuk-tuks mingling with simmering meat, dried spices, and herbs. Even if it’s not exactly your thing, the Thai capital’s signature scent is pretty much impossible to avoid. It’s also indicative of Bangkok’s relentless energy—and its obsession with food. 

Yet the city isn’t only grilled meats and stir-fried noodles. Although street food gets all the press, there are countless ways to eat in this sprawling metropolis of 10 million people. Today, air-conditioned malls have as much pull as street stalls. And for an increasing number of Thais, fancy restaurants or reservations-only supperclubs are now attainable indulgences, not remote fantasies. 

Since moving to Bangkok 1999, I’ve watched the city blossom into an ever more vibrant—and trendy—food town. Many of my favorite haunts are decades-old standbys, while others are newcomers that only a plugged-in local would know about. If you follow my recommendations, you’ll leave the city with a good sense of the local food scene—yes, there’s a must-stop street stall in the mix, but there’s also a restaurant housed in a 19th-century home and a chichi fine dining spot offering sophisticated wine pairings.

Kuaytiaw Khua Kai Suan Mali

260 Soi Thewi Worayat 
+66 82 056 6999

This hard-to-locate stall down a back alleyway specializes in a single dish: kuaytiaw khua kai, a salty, smoky tangle of wide rice noodles wok-fried with chicken, preserved squid, and egg. The ingredients are nothing out of the ordinary, but the fact that the dish is fried in lard over coals lends it a luxurious richness. The plastic stools, the wok smoke, and the sweat pouring down your forehead is bucket list Bangkok.

Aksorn

1266 Thanon Charoen Krung
+66 2 116 8662

With the city’s residents earning more money and wealthy foreigners piling in, fine dining is having a moment in Bangkok. Yet Aksorn, despite its price point, manages to feel homey, thanks to food served family style in delicate, floral-themed crockery. Australian chef David Thompson has dusted off old Thai cookbooks and unearthed recipes that haven’t seen the light of day in decades. With dishes more subtle in flavor and heat than most you’ll find in Bangkok—think Chinese ash gourd steamed with salted fish and pork, or a relish of santol and cashew nuts—the restaurant will make you question everything you thought you knew about Thai food. 

Khun Yah Cuisine

89/2 Thanon Tri Mit
+66 2 222 0912

Khun Yah Cuisine, hiding in the compound of a Buddhist temple, is one of a dwindling number of old-school Bangkok-style curry stalls remaining in the city. The format is straightforward: Curries, stir-fries, soups, and Thai-style dips are made in advance and displayed in stainless steel bowls and trays. Your job is to point to the one that looks the tastiest—their pleasantly mild green curry, perhaps, or the “one plate” special—so the vendor knows what to ladle over a plate of rice before thrusting it your way. 

Som Tam Jay So

Soi Phiphat 2
+66 85 999 4225

Bangkok experienced a population boom in the 1980s and ‘90s as tens of thousands of rural northeasterners flocked to the city to work as laborers. Over the subsequent decades, stalls and restaurants specializing in that region’s unabashedly spicy, often grilled dishes have become integral to the Bangkok repertoire. Jay So, a chaotic shack at the edge of Bangkok’s financial district, is typical of the genre. Obligatory here is som tam, a tart, spicy, and funky salad of green papaya strips bruised in a mortar with chiles, lime juice and fish sauce. They also make fantastic grilled chicken wings and a memorably smoky herb-stuffed catfish.

Khao Tom 100 Pi

547 Thanon Phlap Phla Chai
+66 2 223 9592

In many ways, Bangkok is a Chinese city, a fact often reflected in its cuisine. One of the most beloved Chinese-style restaurant types is khaao tom kui, with kitchens consisting of a couple of wok burners and a bunch of trays piled high with meat, seafood, and vegetables. At this popular establishment, point to whatever looks good—some clams, maybe, or a clutch of Chinese kale—and a cook will fry it up to order alongside a bowl of soupy rice. As its name suggests, the Chinatown restaurant has supposedly been around for a century, and generations of locals know, seemingly instinctively, to order the savory minced pork stir-fried with Chinese olive, or the spicy, tart dried fish salad.

Bangkok Bold Kitchen

Basement, Central Embassy, 1031 Thanon Phloen Chit
+66 91 424 4292

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Bangkok residents bemoan the city’s “Singaporization,” but that doesn’t make malls any less a part of the city’s cultural—and culinary—landscape. Head to just about any food court, and you can find a cheap, tasty meal, but at Bangkok Bold Kitchen, the food tastes straight out of a rural home. Try the crab and pumpkin stir-fry, given a fragrant boost by the addition of lemon basil, and be sure to sample the rich, lon, or central Thai-style soupy dip, that brings together coconut milk and salted duck egg.

Ban Wannakovit

64 Thanon Tanao
+66 81 922 6611

You may not get the chance to eat in a Thai home, but a meal at Ban Wannakovit is the next best thing. Not only does it occupy a renovated 19th-century Ratanakosin Style home, but it also grants access to old-timey dishes seldom found on restaurant menus, such as rice tossed with shrimp paste and garnished with green mango, thin strips of omelet, and pork braised in palm sugar. I often spring for the thin, round rice noodles drizzled with coconut milk and topped with fish dumplings, fresh chile, and slices of pineapple.

Yen Ta Fo J.C.

Soi Phiphat 2
+66 97 263 5456

You can’t leave Bangkok without slurping down some noodles, and the city’s most beloved bowl is yen ta fo. It consists of rice noodles, crunchy greens, and a variety of pork, shrimp and fished-based dumplings, all bobbing in a broth tinged red from the fermented tofu. The dish exemplifies the slightly sweet, overtly Chinese, seafood-loving palate of the city. Yen Ta Fo J.C. serves a terrific rendition—just beware of the owner, Bangkok’s de facto Soup Nazi, who’s known for complicated seating and ordering rules only clear to him.

Samrub Samrub Thai

39/11 Soi Yommarat
+66 99 651 7292

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I don’t entirely understand how Thai Chef Prin Polsuk manages to run a restaurant, as he appears to spend most of his time combing Thailand’s countryside for dishes and ingredients. The ever-changing menu at Samrub Samrub Thai reflects this relentless curiosity, and past themes have featured the sugary, meat-forward dishes of Thailand’s Muslim deep south, and the little-known cuisine of the communities living along the banks of the Mekong River. Unfolding in a small, intimate space, the result is an experience in which Prin is less chef and more culinary tour guide, escorting diners on a journey through Thailand’s fascinating gastronomic landscape.

Haawm

290 Soi 25, Thanon On Nut
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Chefs and food writers alike can’t stop singing the praises of Haawm, “a speakeasy with reservations,” in the words of one friend (even if supperclub is the proper term). The raucous, informal meals take place in chef Dylan Eitharong’s suburban Bangkok shophouse, where dishes such as Pattani-style white curry with beef and pickled grilled green chiles draw on both influences from every corner of Thailand and a certain American playfulness informed by the chef’s background. This borderless approach is propelling Bangkok’s food scene to its next stop, wherever that may be.

The post 10 Must-Try Restaurants in Bangkok appeared first on Saveur.

In Tbilisi at this very moment, someone is pounding walnuts and garlic for bazhe, spooning cilantro-flecked filling into dumpling dough for khinkali, and dipping long strands of walnuts into saperavi syrup to make the prehistoric confection called churchkhela. 

Food ambushes you in the Georgian capital—in the best sense imaginable. One minute, you’re overtaken by the smell of sweet, buttery khachapuri wafting up from a basement bakery. The next, you’re haggling with street vendors over cherries and tarragon and sour green plums. Turn down one street, and smoke clouds your vision as pork kebabs crackle on a streetside grill. Walk up another, and the sound of glasses clinking on a restaurant patio reminds you that you’re mere miles from the birthplace of wine. 

Tbilisi is easy to love but tricky to navigate when it comes to food. Newcomers often wonder, what are the must-try dishes, and where can great versions be found? Last spring, I spent a month trying to answer those questions, letting my stomach guide my feet. Here’s where I netted out.

Cucumber and Tomato Salad at Khasheria

3 Vekua St. (Inside the Orbeliani Food Hall), +995 595 89 29 25

If there’s one thing you can bank on in Georgia, it’s that no matter where you are—city or countryside, fancy restaurant or greasy spoon—cucumber tomato salad will be on the table. At its simplest, the dish is a cool, crunchy foil to whatever hearty mains are on offer, often just sliced tomatoes and cucumbers sprinkled with parsley. More memorable versions—like the one served at star chef Tekuna Gachechiladze’s casual outpost, Khasheria—are drizzled with unrefined Kakhetian sunflower oil and add ground walnuts, sliced green chiles, and torn fresh herbs like cilantro and purple basil.

Pkhali at Shavi Lomi

28 Zurab Kvlividze St., +995 32 296 09 56

Georgia’s greatest gift to plant-based cooking is pkhali, the family of colorful vegetable spreads made with everything from spinach to leeks to beets to carrots. If it’s kicking around your vegetable drawer, you can probably pkhali [verb] it. At Shavi Lomi, a candlelit Tbilisi institution where the floorboards creak and cats roam the courtyard, you get the full pkhali experience: multiple spreads rainbowed alongside one another, plus all the traditional accoutrements (cheese, corncakes, and pickled bladderwort blossoms called jonjoli). The pkhali arrive in a gobi, or big wooden bowl, and after savoring the thrilling textures and flavors with your dinner companions, you’ll understand why gobi is the root word of megobari, or “friend.”

Tolma at Sulico Wine Bar

27 Mikheil Zandukeli St., +995 511 10 27 27

Tolma—vegetables filled with meats, grains, or a combination of the two—are a staple throughout the Caucasus region. (Controversially, in 2017 UNESCO linked the tradition to the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Azerbaijan.) In Georgia, it’s no surprise that stuffed grape leaves are the most popular variant, given the country’s outsize wine production. The tolma at Sulico are outstanding—juicy, featherlight bundles of spiced ground meat enrobed in tender (never fibrous!) grape leaves. Pan-fried just before serving until the edges are singed and wispy, they come with yogurt sauce and cinnamon sugar for sprinkling.

Khachapuri at Gunda

5 Besiki Square, +995 551 50 00 40

Khachapuri, Georgia’s indomitable cheese bread, is so ubiquitous that its average price is a national bellwether for inflation. Even gas stations sell decent khachapuri, but to wrap your mind around all the fascinating variations (historians have counted 47), head to Gunda, a new khachapuri-only restaurant that’s reviving ancient ingredients and techniques. Gunda is the sole restaurant in Tbilisi that brings in rare regional cheeses and uses only endemic Georgian flours (as opposed to the Russian or Ukrainian all-purpose stuff) in its doughs. One of those flours, made from an Imeretian wheat strain called makha, was extinct in Georgia until the owners recovered it from a Danish seed bank. Come decision time, the egg-topped, boat-shaped Adjaruli is the most ‘grammable of the lot, but don’t sleep on kotori, the little-known Tushetian flatbread filled with sheep’s-milk cottage cheese and painted with melted butter.

Beef Kharcho at Salobie Bia

17 Shota Rustaveli Ave., +995 551 92 77 22

Kharcho, a meat stew spiked with Georgia’s favorite chile condiment, ajika, is such a crowd-pleaser that it was adopted by cooks across the former Soviet Union, where it remains a mainstay from St. Petersburg to Samarkand. Some kharchos are brothy and flecked with rice, while others, like my favorite rendition served at Salobie Bia, are ultra-thick and all about the ground walnuts and spices. In a basement dining room beneath Rustaveli Avenue, Tbilisi’s maple-lined main artery, Chef Giorgi Iosava spoons the braise over creamed foxtail millet akin to polenta. The brisket and silky porridge are so delightfully soft that the combo ought to be prescribed after wisdom tooth surgery.

Lobio at Salobie (Mtskheta)

7 David Aghmashenebeli St., +995 555 67 19 77

You don’t expect to reach life-altering bean nirvana at a highway rest stop on the outskirts of town, but there I was, staring down at some of the finest Brown Food I’d ever tasted at a picnic table at Salobie. As I’d later learn, Salobie’s success is built almost entirely on beans: Day in, day out, cooks ladle the spicy stewed kidney beans into individual clay urns, topping each with a disc of homemade mchadi (griddled cornbread) that fits snugly inside the rim. Salobie’s lobio recipe is under lock and key, but in every spoonful you can taste the cilantro, marigold petals, chiles, and heaps of sweet sautéed onions.  

Khinkali at Cafe Daphna

29 Atoneli St., +995 595 69 00 11 

The only upside of the Mongols’ bloody conquest of Georgia in the 13th century is that they left behind a dumpling-making tradition that continues to this day. Khinkali are primo mountain food—caloric, hot, and deeply satisfying—but they’re also popular down in Tbilisi, where everyone has their favorite sakhinkle (dumpling and beer house). Mine is Daphna, a newcomer by the Dry Bridge flea market with inviting picture windows and millennial-pink plates. Their cilantro-forward “kalakuri” dumplings get my vote for their supple hand-rolled dough and well-spiced pork and beef filling.  

Shkmeruli at Craft Wine Restaurant

54 Egnate Ninoshvili St., +995 599 66 33 00

Fried chicken is great, but have you ever tried shkmeruli? There’s no definitive formula for the down-home Rachan dish, but the throughline is garlic—an entire head of it, in fact, cooked in butter with the chicken’s juices to make a rich, soppable sauce for the crisp poultry. Most shkmeruli recipes call for tremendous amounts of whole milk or cream, but the cooks at Craft Wine go creamless (per the original recipe, according to them) to give the chicken the spotlight. I love that they debone the bird for you, a cheffy flex that you (and your shirt) will appreciate. 

Bazhe at Ninia’s Garden

97 Dimitri Uznadze St., +995 32 219 66 69

Bazhe is a velvety, coriander-scented walnut sauce that’s a staple of Georgian home cooking. Traditionally served alongside cold boiled chicken, the condiment also plays well with grilled vegetables, meats, and fish. At hot-spot restaurant Ninia’s Garden, chef Meriko Gubeladze spoons the sauce over grilled baby eggplants and serves them as an appetizer with crusty bread. Her bazhe recipe has become my go-to—it’s lighter and tangier than most, thanks to the double whammy of acid in the form of white wine vinegar and fresh pomegranate juice. 

Ajika Ribs and Ghomi at Amra

Lisi Lake, +995 568 39 34 30

Tbilisi is such a vibrant melting pot that you can taste dishes from regions as far flung as Samegrelo on the Black Sea coast, which is known for its fiery, assertively spiced dishes like kuchmachi (offal stew), kharcho (see above), and ajika-rubbed meats. At Amra, which occupies a charming pavilion on the banks of Lisi Lake, the ajika veal ribs are a must. They come sizzling in their sauce, which you should absolutely swirl into a side order of ghomi (corn grits) or elarji.  

Chakapuli at Sasadilo Coca-Cola Dining Room

114 Akaki Tsereteli Ave.

They don’t make restaurants like Sasadilo anymore. Hiding among the bodyshops, factories, and warehouses by Didube bus terminal, this proletarian canteen has the feel of a Soviet-era stolovaya: Construction workers hunch over steaming bowls of soup, off-duty cops sip tarragon soda while leafing through the paper, and aproned waitresses zigzag around the room carrying enormous trays of grub. Based on appearances alone, you’d think the food would be mediocre at best—but then, you’d be wrong. On a recent lunch with my friend and food tour guide Paul Rimple, I couldn’t believe my taste buds when I tried Sasadilo’s chakapuli. The meat (usually lamb or beef) stew can be gristly and bland, but here it was downright invigorating, enlivened with tart green plums and a garden’s-worth of tarragon. Beware, the staff don’t speak English, and payment is cash only.  

Ajapsandali at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan

Stamba Dead End, +995 592 68 11 66

Not unlike ratatouille, ajapsandali is a spicy, rib-sticking vegetable stew made with eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. It’s kind of a culinary free-for-all—in fact, Georgians use the word ajapsandali to call something a “mess.” Though the dish is occasionally served hot, I like it better chilled, scooped onto crusty tonispuri bread and drizzled with good olive or sunflower oil. That precise combo makes an ideal light lunch at Sofia Melnikova’s Fantastic Douqan, an indoor-outdoor restaurant with a charmingly overgrown yard that plays Soundcloud techno sets as background music. 

Badrijani Nigvzit at Pictograma

31 Atoneli St., +995 595 85 71 87

Badrijani nigvzit, fried eggplant slices spread with walnut paste, is a fixture of the supra table. It’s always good, but it’s rarely great—the eggplant is easy to over- or undercook, and if you’re not careful with the spices and garlic, you’ll quickly overpower the walnuts’ delicate flavor. At Pictograma, Tbilisi’s only restaurant devoted to the cuisine of Khevsureti in northeast Georgia, let’s just say they know what they’re doing. The eggplant is meaty and melty all at once, and the walnut paste, redolent of khmeli suneli, is so fluffy it verges on a mousse. A generous flick of pomegranate seeds brings the whole dish together, adding sweetness, bite, and crunch.   

Wine at Vino Underground

15 Galaktion Tabidze St., +995 599 08 09 84 

One of the most defining features of Tbilisi’s skyline is Mother Georgia, 65-foot statue of a woman holding a sword in one hand and a cup of wine in the other—as if to say, “welcome to town, but do not mess with us.” Wine is so central to Georgian culture that even in Tbilisi, grapevines furl around apartment balconies and become homemade garage wine. But many visitors are surprised to learn that the bulk of Georgian wine is not the sublime, kvevri-fermented “amber” stuff sold in trendy wine shops around the U.S., but rather boring European-style plonk. To drink your fill of those oddball wines you won’t find anywhere else, pay a visit to Georgia’s most legendary natural wine bar, Vino Underground, which stocks cult (and often unlabeled) bottles from the country’s most experimental vintners. Keep an eye on the bar’s Instagram for winemaker-led tastings and events.   

Abkhazura at Kaklebi

Tskneti Highway, +995 557 76 00 66

It’s worth the cab ride up to Kaklebi—a hilltop restaurant with cascading terraces and multiple dining rooms—for the abkhazura alone. This meatball dish is the culinary star of the Black Sea region of Abkhazia, and it’s phenomenally fragrant with coriander, summer savory, garlic, and fenugreek. At Kaklebi, the patties come studded with barberries, whose cranberry-like acidity cuts through the richness. Before being tossed on the grill, chef Meriko Gubeladze (of Shavi Lomi and Ninia’s Garden above) wraps the abkhazura in a web of caul fat, which crisps up like bacon as the meatballs cook in the flames.  

Tkemali at Dezerter’s Bazaar (Meet Me Here Tbilisi)

5 Abastumani St., +995 593 969 985  

You can snap up all sorts of edible souvenirs at Dezerter’s Bazaar, Tbilisi’s main market—wine, chacha (brandy), spice blends, a decapitated pig’s head … But half the time, you won’t know what you’re looking at as you roam the stalls—unless you book a market tour with Tbilisi journalist and culinary tour guide Paul Rimple (whom we met at Sasadilo). Paul introduced me to Tina Nugzarashvili, who makes such killer tkemali that I always bring a bottle home. Tkemali is a puckering plum condiment that’s so ubiquitous in this part of the world that you could call it Georgian ketchup. Brimming with garlic and ground spices, it goes on everything, from fried potatoes to baked trout to mtsvadi (pork shashlik; try it at Kakhlebi). Nugzarashvili’s tkemali stands out for its kick of heat from fresh chiles and its mentholated bite from fresh pennyroyal leaves. 

Churchkhela at Badagi

4 Roman Miminoshvili St., +995 597 11 10 22

Georgians aren’t big on dessert, but if there’s one sweet that binds the nation, it’s churchkhela, a primordial power bar of sorts that’s made by repeatedly dipping strands of walnuts (or in West Georgia, hazelnuts) into thickened grape juice. After hanging to dry for a few days, the churchkhela are hardy enough to take into battle—as they historically were. Don’t trust the churchkhela sold at the airport or souvenir shops; instead, pay a visit to Badagi, a confectionery that keeps things old-school (no artificial colors or flavors). Not only does churchkhela make a striking and affordable gift for friends—sliced into coins, it also looks gorgeous on a cheese board.

Muslim Georgia: A Journey to the Hidden Kitchens of the Kists

The Walnut Whisperers of Georgia

The post The 17 Essential Dishes of Tbilisi—And Where to Eat Them appeared first on Saveur.

Rise & Dine is a SAVEUR column by Senior Editor Megan Zhang, an aspiring early riser who seeks to explore the culture of mornings and rituals of breakfast around the world.

After catching a pre-dawn flight from Medellín and doing some early-morning trekking around the high-elevation Colombian capital of Bogotá, all my tired friends and I could think about was breakfast. As we waited in line outside La Puerta Falsa—a historic establishment that’s been serving traditional homestyle Colombian fare since the early 1800s—the smells of its famous tamales (masa, chicken, and other ingredients wrapped in banana leaves), ajiaco (a hearty chicken-and-potato stew), and chocolate completo wafted out into the street.

When we finally piled into seats on the second floor of the tiny wood-paneled restaurant, it didn’t take long for us to make our selections from the short menu. The scents that had simultaneously tortured and tantalized us were the restaurant’s can’t-miss classics, according to advice that a few Bogotana friends had shared with me before the trip.

But, just as a server was climbing the narrow stairs to take our order, I spotted something else on the menu. Last year, after I read Mariana Velasquez’s cookbook Colombiana ahead of a previous trip to Colombia, one recipe in particular stayed with me. Changua, a milky soup featuring eggs, cheese, scallion, cilantro, and hunks of bread, seemed like exactly the kind of morning meal I’d devour: a soupy, belly-warming breakfast in a bowl that requires minimal cooking effort beyond some quiet stirring. In the recipe headnote, Velasquez likens the dish to a breakfast I know well: “Changua is to Colombians what congee is to the Chinese: a comforting, soothing, and savory broth.” Though the dishes have decidedly different ingredients, I could see the common thread, and was sold.

When our spread finally arrived, the steaming-hot tamales and slurpable ajiaco were just the stick-to-your-ribs revitalization we needed. But the milky, allium-rich changua, with slices of cheese and bread fanned out across the surface and a generous portion of chopped herbs sprinkled on top, was the dish we talked about for the rest of the day.

Before tasting changua for the first time, we had little frame of reference for what a dairy-rich soup with cheese and dough soaking in it would taste like—would it be creamy? Vegetal? Like a savory cereal? As we ate spoon after spoonful, diverse textures and bold flavors made up each interesting bite, with the crisp, pungent scallions, the jammy eggs, and the chewy, milky cheese sparring for flavor dominance. We tried to draw similarities to dishes familiar to us, but none felt nearly like an adequate comparison—changua is more layered than porridge, more watery than chowder, and more textured than cereal with milk. We cleaned our bowls, all the while dunking in more bread between bites to sop up the soup. Later in the day, when hunger pangs kicked in again as we hiked down Monserrate, my friend JJ brought the conversation back to that memorable soup. “I think that changua was my favorite,” he said wistfully, and we all echoed agreement.

Bogotana chef Alejandra Cubillos González, whom I met when she was helming the kitchen at Sofitel Barú Calablanca‘s Bahía Restaurant in Isla Barú, attributes her home city’s association with soups like changua and ajiaco to the relatively chilly climate and high elevation (about 8,660 feet above sea level). Across the country’s mountainous Andean departments like Santander, Boyacá, and Cundinamarca, she says, changua is usually considered breakfast. Whenever Velasquez, who was also born and raised there, cooks and eats the dish, “it reminds me of dewy, cold mornings in Bogotá.”

It seems what often kindles affection for changua is the breakfast coming to one’s rescue on frigid days. Chef and cookbook author J. Kenji López-Alt had his first taste at a restaurant near Lake Tota in Boyacá. “It was a very cold morning in the mountains, by a fireplace,” he recalls. As he slurped down the warming bowl of changua, “I thought it was the perfect thing.” On the other hand, López-Alt’s wife, who is Colombian, grimaced and teasingly made faces while he finished his soup. “She grew up with it and never liked it,” he says.

As a group that unanimously enjoys changua, my friends and I might be something of an anomaly. “Some people love it, and others hate it,” says Velasquez of the divisive dish. So, many home cooks freely adapt the ingredients to their liking: some families add potatoes, while others choose to skip the cheese. Some place the bread into the serving bowls first before pouring the soup on top, while others leave the bread on the side and dunk it in as they eat. “Every house has their own version,” says Maria Delgado, the chef behind Cartagena’s Caffé Lunático, who recalls that her grandfather, like many, served changua with calados, a variety of stale bread. Other families might choose almojábanas or pandebono—two other Colombian bread varieties made with cheese—or a simple crusty white loaf instead.

Since returning home from Bogotá, I’ve experimented with cooking different versions of changua, especially on blustery mornings in Boston. Yet, I always go back to craving the more-is-more version La Puerta Falsa served us: lots of cheese, bread in the bowl with extra on the side for dunking, and a heap of punchy, aromatic herbs. That’s what I, a member of the pro-changua club, would call breakfast luxury.

Recipe

Changua (Milky Colombian Soup)

Get the recipe >

The post This Milky, Eggy, Cheesy Soup Comes to the Rescue on Chilly Mornings appeared first on Saveur.

At the tip of Cape Cod, on a narrow strip of land 60 miles out to sea, lies Provincetown, Massachusetts—the end of the world (or, at least, New England), and the place I’ve called home for close to two years. Locals might call me a “washashore,” but I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

That’s because Ptown is (per capita) the queerest town in the country and one of the most sought-out vacation spots for anyone on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum. It’s a place of extraordinary natural beauty (the dunes! the beaches! the gardens! the architecture!) as well as a playground for freedom and pride. The main drag, Commercial Street, runs the length of the town along the bay side and is home to the majority of the restaurants, clubs, shops, and galleries. During the summer, it overflows with people of all flavors of gender expression, kink, and sexuality.  

I landed in Ptown after 20 years in professional kitchens ended in epic burnout. In 2021, mid-pandemic, I sold Willa Jean, my restaurant in New Orleans, and headed north. Love was waiting, as was eventual heartbreak and, ultimately, recovery and healing in Ptown. 

I’m not sure if it was the sunset G&Ts with friends on the beach, the impromptu clambakes, or the slices of pizza I devoured in the street after raucous nights out, but eating my way through the city has taught me that to be a queer person in Ptown is to be part of a community. Every restaurant and bar contributes to this spirit, and these are some of my favorite places.

Nor’East Beer Garden

206 Commercial Street

The Nor’East Beer Garden is an unassuming outdoor space on Commercial Street that serves some of the best food and cocktails in Ptown. That’s because you never get bored: The culinary “theme” changes each season; this summer, it’s “light Italian,” which means you can savor dishes like mushroom pâté, burrata with fried dough, and minty brown-butter mussels. 

Sal’s Place

99 Commercial Street

Sal’s is by the water in the West End, which makes for spectacular views. Cash-only and often difficult to reach by phone, Sal’s is worth the trouble of getting a reservation, whether you’re booking dinner with friends or a date. Don’t skip the cauliflower Caesar with baby romaine, which I love to order alongside the charred octopus with garbanzo beans and smoked chile oil.  

Relish

93 Commercial Street

This inviting little bakery in the West End makes a variety of breakfast and lunch sandwiches—great for a handheld meal while strolling about, or as beach picnic fare—but I always go for the pastries. Spring for a wedge of key lime tart, or grab a cookie or a slice of coffee cake.  

Tea Dance at the Boatslip Resort

161 Commercial Street

Shirtless muscle gays, margarita-sipping drag queens, straight vacationers who love to party—Ptowners of all stripes congregate every afternoon at the ultimate pregame called Tea Dance (or just “Tea”), held at the Boatslip Resort from 4 to 7 p.m. The legendary bartender Maria reigns over the right side of the bar, the end closest to the water, and will happily start you off with the Planter’s Punch, their official cocktail. 

Strangers & Saints

404 Commercial Street

After Tea, many revelers flock to Strangers & Saints, housed in an incredible 1850’s Greek Revival homestead. The Ken Fulk-designed interior, and well-made cocktails make for a dependably enjoyable second stop. The food goes well beyond basic bar snacks with dishes like meatballs with salsa verde and cucumber kimchi (my go-to dish), which pair nicely with the charred shishito peppers or spicy Moroccan carrots. Eating at Strangers & Saints feels like being welcomed into the home of someone with impeccable taste who loves throwing dinner parties.

The Mayflower

300 Commercial Street

Long before Provincetown was an LGBT+ mecca, it was a Portuguese fishing village. Remnants of that past can be found at the Mayflower, where traditional Portuguese flavors endure in dishes like the Portuguese kale soup, made with spicy linguica sausage and red beans. Its obligatory sidekick is an order of garlic bread, and if you’re still feeling peckish, a dozen steamers, a Cape classic of brothy soft-shell clams that you dunk one by one in melted butter. Family-run with a no-reservations policy, the Mayflower has an old-school diner feel with a down-home friendliness to match. They also happen to make the best Manhattans in town.  

Irie Eats

70 Shank Painter Road

Provincetown has a large, vibrant Jamaican population—many first arrived as seasonal workers and wound up making Ptown a year-round home. A little off the beaten path is Irie Eats, which offers spicy Jamaican food that fuels my summer season. My favorite dishes in the regular rotation are the curry goat, jerk chicken or pork, salt fish, and oxtails—all of which come with rice and red beans, and slaw. It’s a grab-and-go vibe, but they do have a small outdoor seating area to soak in the sun (and the flavor). 

Pop + Dutch

147 Commercial Street

My personal “best sandwich shop” award goes to Pop + Dutch. Their slogan is “Sandwiches. Salads. Lube,” and their tiny market selling vintage, often slightly titillating textiles and art only adds to the appeal. The shop carries everything you need for a day at the beach or pool, including sunscreen and, yes, lube. The fridges are stocked with fresh potato salad, pimento cheese, chicken salad, dolmas, and a variety of drinks including a great Arnold Palmer. But the sandwiches are the main event (lately, I’ve been loving specials like turkey topped with Cool Ranch Doritos and ranch-flavored mayo). In the morning, they make a mean scrambled egg sandwich on brioche, but slugabeds be warned: It’s only available from 9 to 10:30 a.m.

Crown & Anchor

247 Commercial Street 

The grande dame of Ptown is Crown & Anchor, an entertainment venue that sits in the center of town. Housing six bars and entertainment venues, a restaurant, a pool club, and a hotel, it caters to visitors and locals of all types. In 2021, it got new owners who were determined to turn the complex into a safe (and profitable!) space for queer artists, musicians, and chefs, among others. The restaurant concept changes daily, while the oyster bar is open seven days a week. Brunch (Thursday through Sunday) is hosted by yours truly and features a New Orleans-meets-New England menu. Expect my famous biscuits and gravy, plus live drag performances fueled by talent and fantasy. 

Lobster Pot

321 Commercial Street

The bright neon lobster sign, one of the Cape’s most recognizable images since 1979, welcomes stampedes of seafood lovers to the Lobster Pot. Tanks of fresh lobsters? Check. Ocean views? check. Consistently friendly service? Check.

The plan of action here is to venture upstairs to the “top of the pot,” snag a seat at the bar, and kick things off with a perfect bloody mary. Then, it’s lobster rolls all around—or, for the lobster-averse, a wide-reaching menu of all sorts of fish and shellfish that you can order pan-roasted, grilled, stuffed, baked, blackened, fried, and more. There are also to-go dishes around the corner at Lobster Pot Express (5 Ryder Street). 

The Red Inn

15 Commercial Street 

Happy hour at the Red Inn is peak Ptown. From 2 to 4 p.m. daily, you can enjoy a raw bar menu, cocktails, and wine specials—all on a deck overlooking the beach that’s blessed with the best natural light in town. If oysters won’t cut it, chase them with heartier dishes like panko-crusted shrimp with sweet chili sauce, bacon-wrapped oysters, or shrimp remoulade salad. 

Helltown Kitchen

338 Commercial Street, Unit 3

Legend has it that Provincetown, because of its remote location, used to be a hideaway for smugglers and pirates. That’s why Puritans began calling it Helltown, a nickname that inspired the name of this restaurant that blends international flavors with New England ingredients. There’s truffle-scented, South American-spiced lobster risotto studded with peas and mushrooms. And if lobster isn’t it for you, Helltown does an incredible pork vindaloo that comes with mango chutney, basmati rice, and naan to sop it all up. 

Provincetown Brewing Company

141 Bradford Street 

Provincetown Brewing Company is fueled by community activism, and its business model reflects that. Not only does the brewery donate 15 percent of proceeds to LGBTQIA+ and Outer Cape causes; it also buys from queer-owned businesses and farmers. I’m big on their artichoke-cheese dip and jerk chicken sandwich, which I wash down with a flight of whatever PBC beers happen to be on tap. Keep an eye out for themed parties, trivia nights, “fag-out Fridays,” women’s night, and even a “yappy hour” for dogs. 

Atlantic House

6 Masonic Place

If Tea is where the party starts in Ptown, the Atlantic House (aka “A House”) is where it ends (or at least where last call happens). Most patrons have no idea that the establishment is a contender for the oldest gay bar in America, having been in continuous operation for over two centuries. It draws the biggest crowd of any bar in Ptown and has three spaces: little bar, macho bar, and the dance floor, where the lights are low, the music is loud, and little by little the clothes seem to disappear. 

Spiritus Pizza

190 Commercial Street

Spiritus pizza is an old faithful and has become the staple stop between the party and the after party—so much so that the hour from 1 to 2 a.m. is called “pizza dance.” Spiritus is the only late food option in town, and after last call at the bars, the pizzeria fills up with hungry crowds, who overflow onto Commercial Street to revel in what’s essentially a nightly pizza party. There are three New York-style slices: cheese, pepperoni, or Greek (cash only!).  

Chalice at the Land’s End Inn

22 Commercial Street

Chalice is a new favorite wine and beer bar on the manicured lawn of the Land’s End Inn, which sits atop the tallest point at the end of the Cape. Complete with a fire pit and stunning views of Provincetown and beyond, it makes an ideal pitstop on your way to Tea or pre-dinner cocktails.  Look out for the pink martini flag: If you see it flying, then Chalice is open and well worth the uphill walk.

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This feature was originally published in our May/June 1998 issue.

Miso, that elemental paste of fermented soybeans, was once made in most Japanese homes, both in the cities and in the countryside. Recipes and procedures were well-guarded family secrets, the process took months, and no two batches of miso would ever taste the same—due to varying proportions of salt to soybeans, the common (but not essential) addition of rice or barley, and the length of fermentation. Even the soil in which the soybeans were grown could make a difference. Miso, as a result, became a source of great family pride. “Temae miso desuga,” one would say—meaning “I don’t want to boast about my miso, but…”

Though my own family did not make miso at home, it was indispensable to us nonetheless, as it was (and still is) in all Japanese kitchens. Misoshiru, or miso soup, is served almost every day—either with rice and pickled vegetables as a complete (if frugal) meal, or on its own as the standard breakfast. I use miso as a base for all kinds of sauces and dressings, and like many people, I believe it to be essential when braising or grilling fish, especially strong-flavored mackerel. And I wouldn’t cook beef without it.

Like tofu (soybean curd), miso is high in protein. Unlike tofu, whose greatest selling point is its ability to soak up the flavor of whatever else it is cooked with, each kind of miso has its own rich, complex flavor and its own purpose—whether it be to enrich a broth or stock, to season a sauce or marinade, to work as a pickling agent or preservative, or to stand on its own, spread on vegetables or layered into casseroles. Miso is healthy and versatile and simple in composition, but its real magic comes from the fact that it has the ability to transform—even to elevate—other ingredients onto a different level altogether. That’s what puts miso at the heart of Japanese cuisine.

Unfortunately, miso can be confusing for anyone who hasn’t grown up with it. The problem is twofold: First of all, it has no Western counterpart, either in composition or versatility, so the average non-Japanese cook has no frame of reference for it. The second problem is that there are several types of miso—the three basic categories being komemiso, mugimiso, and mamemiso (rice, barley, and straight soybean miso, respectively), and each encompasses several different varieties.

Japan’s miso tradition began around the seventh century a.d. Miso seems to have evolved from both chiang, a soybean paste that Buddhist monks brought from China, and jang, a similar soybean product that Korean farmers introduced into Japan’s countryside. With the exception of a rustic farmhouse version, miso was made just for the nobility (and solely by monks) until the tenth century. Gradually, soybeans became more widely available, and the making of miso slowly spread to all levels of society. Though it had reached staple status throughout Japan by the 1300s, miso continued to be produced at home until the 18th century, when samurai families, once employed by now-disenfranchised feudal lords, founded the miso-making industry.

Today, much of the miso made in Japan comes from giant factories. According to Eddie Fujima, a consultant for Marubeni America Corporation in New York City—which exports American soybeans to Japan—some 50 of Japan’s 1,355 miso makers control 90 percent of the market. Most of these use soybeans imported either from the United States or from China. Miso connoisseurs, who are adept at detecting an inferior product, seek out small miso breweries—the kind that are painstakingly preserving old-fashioned techniques and regional miso styles.

Late last year, I took the train from Tokyo to Honjō, about 75 mils northwest of the city. From there, I caught a bus to the tiny village of Kamiizumi-mura, and specifically to Yamaki Jōzō—a miso factory that functions, at least in part, i the traditionally manner. (Yama means “mountain,” as in a mountain of soybeans or miso; ki stands for Kitani, the name of the family that owns the company; and jōzō means “brewery.”) Kazuhiko Morita, the brewery’s director, neatly attired in a starched white work jacket and white hat, greeted me with a deep bow and a smile at the brewery door. Immediately, he launched into a passionate explanation of the company’s history, informing me that it had been making miso (the three basic types as well as a few specialty styles), soy sauce, and tofu since 1902. In the 1960s, the organization had switched to using raw materials most of them grown domestically. And though the company’s philosophy had remained traditional, he added, production had become partially automated in the mid-1980s. When he stopped to take a breath, I interrupted and asked to se how miso is made. “Okay!” he agreed, and we were off.

Yamaki is a small brewery—its annual output is about 400 tons—and only one type of miso is made at a time. I turned up on the third day of akamiso (red miso, which in this case refers to a type of rice miso) production. On the first day, rice had been soaked, steamed, and then inoculated with kōjikin, a spore of mold (Aspergillus oryzae) that triggers fermentation. It had been fermenting for about 48 hours since then, producing enzymes that would later help break down the soybeans.

The first room we visited was devoted to the soybeans. We stood on a high platform along one of two gigantic steel pressure cookers. When we opened the lid, a vigorous swirl of steam filled the entire room. Once the steam, had evaporated, my guide scooped up a lovely. yellow mound of soft soybeans. “cooked beans should be cooled quickly,” he explained, as he pushed a few burtons commanding the cooker to turn and empty all 5,300 pounds of its contents onto a conveyor belt. Next, we peeked into the hot, humid rice room, where eight inches of fuzzy kōji, or inoculated rice, covered the floor. Two conveyor belts, one carrying the cooled steamed soybeans, the other transporting the kōji, come together in a third room. There, the grain and beans are mixed with sea salt and spring water, then pressed through a big machine resembling a meat mincer. Next the mixture is packed into huge cedar barrels. A plastic sheet is stretched over the top and weighted with stones to force excess liquid to the top and help create a safe, airtight environment. Then the miso is left to ferment until the summer.

In June or July, Morita-san told me, the miso is moved to another set of barrels—exposure to oxygen enhances fermentation—and allowed to develop for a few more months. In November, the miso is stirred and transferred yet again so that the light brown color will be evenly distributed. Shortly after that, Morita-san tastes the miso to determine how much longer it should be left to mature. He looks for a dark brown color and a mild flavor; if it’s too salty at this point, eh said, it is not ready. Morita-san claims to have ruined a batch of miso only three times in 20 years, but he also told me that his loyal (and picky) customers have no qualms about pointing out even the slightest changes. Yamaki’s miso is neither dosed with alcohol to stop the fermentation process nor passteurized (as many misos are). Instead, when Morita-san believes his miso to be ready, he packs it into refrigerated steel vats. This way, all its natural yeasts and lactic acids (which are believed to aid in digestion) remain active, resulting not only in a more nutritious miso, but in one more complex in flavor.

At the end of my tour, Morita-san packed me a container of one of the brewery’s specialty misos—genmai-namamiso, which is made with brown rice instead of the usual white.

A week later, after I’d written him a letter thanking him for his hospitality, he offered me an even better gift: “Would you like to make your own miso at home?” he inquired by fax. Upon receiving my enthusiastic reply, he sent me two pounds of kōji and detailed instructions. I bought the finest soybeans I could find, a five-quart enamel container with a fitted lid, and four pounds of stone weights. I soaked and cooked my soybeans, mixed them with Morita-san’s kōji, then mashed them with sea salt and water. I packed it all into the pot, set it in my basement, and prayed for the growth of “good” miso bacteria. Four months later, I cautiously opened the lid. At once, I recognized the sweet rice fragrance that had permeated the brewery. The miso’s surface had acquired a lush dark brown hue, and to my relief, there were no “bad” bacteria. I stirred up my miso, then set it aside again. In November, Morita-san called, asked me how my miso was behaving, and suggested that it was probably ready. With that, I gathered some small containers, made a mental list of the lucky few I would share my miso with, and returned to the basement. I gave my miso several big stirs to even out the color, then I had a taste. “Temae miso desuga…”

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The table was halfway through polishing off a platter of thieboudienne, a hearty Senegalese one-pot number with fish and rice, when our host Cherif Mbodji asked what home meant to each of us. We all munched silently, considering the question. Someone responded that home was wherever family was; another said it was a sense of security that he carried with him. Though Mbodji himself never answered, I wondered if being here, back in his home country of Senegal after three years away, had spurred this introspection. 

Mbodji and his close friend and business partner, chef Aaron Bludorn, had been talking about someday traveling to Senegal since their days working together at New York City’s Café Boulud, where they met in 2014. Today, the two live with their families in Houston, where they relocated in 2020 to launch Bludorn, a restaurant serving Gulf Coast-inspired fare cooked with French-influenced techniques. As joint partners, chef Bludorn helms the kitchen while Mbodji directs front-of-house and business operations. They followed that restaurant’s acclaim with the seafood-driven Navy Blue in 2022, and a third restaurant is slated to open later this year. Though entrepreneurship has made their lives busier than ever, the duo’s Senegal plans only seemed more paramount the more their business grew: not only was the country responsible for instilling Mbodji’s early notions of hospitality, it was also the original source of countless culinary traditions beloved throughout the South, including their now-home on the Gulf Coast.

That connection became vividly clear as we helped ourselves to more thieboudienne, Senegal’s national dish. Mbodji mentioned how much it reminded him of Gullah red rice, which is common in the Lowcountry and American South. Around the table, flickers of familiarity crystallized into unmistakable recognition. Of course—there were obvious shadows of each dish in the other, from the savory broth that cooks the grains to the sweet acid of the tomatoes. It began to sink in that what we were tasting was the trunk of a family tree. Thieboudienne is also an ancestor of jambalaya, another dish familiar to longtime southerners—including former NFL champions Michael and Martellus Bennett. The brothers were joining us on this trip, having become friendly with the Bludorn team after dining at the restaurant, and the two were curious to learn more about their Senegalese ancestry. “There are a lot of things that we did subliminally that we didn’t understand why we did them,” Michael pondered, reflecting on cooking customs that are commonplace in the Black community. Martellus nodded, adding, “There’s no bridge back to Africa to tell the stories of what happened.”

Though enslaved people played an outsized role in creating countless American staples—from gumbo to hoppin’ John—credit for centuries of culinary innovations has long lagged behind enjoyment of the dishes themselves. After Mbodji arrived in Michigan at age 20 on an academic scholarship, it took him years to realize the undeniable shared DNA between West African and American food. One day in 2006, he was flipping through an Edna Lewis cookbook at Barnes & Noble when he stumbled on a bean fritter recipe, and dormant neurons began firing. “I know this dish,” he recalled realizing: the snack was clearly a cousin of akara, black-eyed pea fritters eaten throughout West Africa. When he relocated his family to Houston to open Bludorn, American cuisine’s West African roots became even more apparent. In gumbo, he tasted evidence of soupou kandja, a Senegalese stew that similarly uses okra as a thickener. “You see okra everywhere here in the summer. It’s one of the ingredients that can grow locally and thrive in the Texas heat,” said Mbodji. “It’s the same thing in Senegal—okra is one of the most abundant ingredients.” 

The origin of these culinary parallels lays bare poignant truths we confronted during a visit to the island of Gorée. A short boat ride off the coastal capital of Dakar, the island was a slave-trading post from where ships carrying enslaved West Africans departed between the 15th and 19th centuries. Gorée has become a pilgrimage destination for people across the African diaspora to both confront and reconcile with the scars and devastation that dark period left on humanity. Our local guide Abdoulaye Mamadou Ba, who has been giving visitors tours of Gorée for almost 20 years, accompanied us around the island and pointed out the stark contrast between the former slaves’ quarters and the opulent homes in which slave traders once lived. While we stood in the House of Slaves memorial, Mbodji told me he had been to Gorée before, and that “coming here doesn’t get easier.” 

The transatlantic slave trade targeted West Africans in large part for their agricultural know-how, culinary historian Adrian Miller, the author of Soul Food, told me later over the phone, noting that it was enslaved people’s knowledge of rice cultivation which jumpstarted the crop’s production in America. In Black Rice, Judith A. Carney writes: “The only people in South Carolina possessing this familiarity were Carolina slaves who originated in the rice region of West Africa,” which included Senegal, Gambia, and Sierra Leone. In addition to enslaved peoples’ agrarian expertise, West African ingredients like okra, watermelon, and black-eyed peas also made their way across the Atlantic through the transatlantic slave trade—eventually becoming staple foods throughout the Southern United States.

For many enslaved people, food offered a link back to their homeland. Seeds they planted in personal garden plots allowed them to cook familiar dishes, which they often adapted with available ingredients. Today, the West African roots of staple American dishes are tangible evidence of, as Miller put it, “both the tragedy and triumph” of enslaved people. During our visit to Gorée, Ba told us that, however grim and tragic a symbol it may be, the island is also a reminder of Senegal and Africa’s resilience. “Enslaved people who made it to the Americas fought for their survival—and laid the foundation for future generations of Black Americans.”

In the African diaspora today, food often remains a vehicle for connecting with one’s ancestry. “I feel like I’ve found a part of my history that was missing, with them,” Mbodji told me of the Bennett brothers, as he watched them try foods like grilled thiof, a popular Senegalese grouper dish, for the first time. Introducing his friends to native flavors and seeing them find connection in it fortified their shared lineage. And though their genealogy diverged into different paths, food is a bridge which can always bond the diaspora with their ancestral homeland.

Though Mbodji has now lived in the United States longer than he did in Senegal, his demeanor unwaveringly reflects his native country’s famous hospitality. When we sat down to lunch on Ngor, a small island off the coast of Dakar (and the westernmost point of Africa), Mbodji helped us order enough plates of Burbot fish skewers and grilled thiof to ensure we all got to sample generous portions of the local specialties. He and the server spent several minutes assembling the optimal order, the server’s patient generosity mirroring Mbodji’s.

Senegal’s celebrated hospitality, a deeply rooted cultural notion known as teranga, not only echoes through Mbodji’s personal interactions; it has also profoundly informed his approach to his career in the restaurant industry. “Just knowing what a phenomenal human being he is,” said Bludorn, “I was curious to know more about what part of the world created that. It’s obviously here. Locals welcome you not only into their homes, but also into their hearts. It opens you up, and makes you want to pay that forward.”

The importance of treating people with generosity and decency was instilled in Mbodji early. “My dad used to tell us that there is nothing in our lives that will matter more than people,” he told me later. “Whatever we do, we need to make sure that we are impacting people in a good way.” When he looks back, it’s clear his father’s values planted seeds which led Mbodji to a lifetime in hospitality. While studying business management at Western Michigan University, he found work as a busboy in restaurants, where the energetic environment reminded him of the lively household he’d grown up in. “Whether it’s lunch or dinner, it felt like a party all the time,” he said of his family of 11. “The moment I stepped foot in a restaurant, I knew this is a place that I want to stay.” After graduating, he worked his way up the front-of-house, holding positions at iconic institutions like Michael Mina, the now-closed Bouley, and eventually, Café Boulud.

In the American world of upscale restaurants, most of the food was and still is Eurocentric. That West African culinary influences are rarely displayed and celebrated overtly was a reality Mbodji accepted. One day in 2015, he and Bludorn were grabbing a bite in Harlem’s Little Senegal when Bludorn suggested the two conceptualize some dishes that paid homage to Mbodji’s native country for Café Boulud’s Le Voyage, a rotating menu that explored global cuisines through French techniques. Mbodji couldn’t imagine how the dishes he grew up with could possibly fit into white-tableclothed surroundings. “I could not see the connection of those two worlds,” he recalled. Bludorn, though, was already pulling out a pen and drawing on a napkin. “I could see a light go off in his eyes,” said Mbodji. “He was so excited.” Bludorn quickly sketched a plate that had mafe, a peanut-based stew, on one side and dibi, or skewered grilled meat, on the other—a duo showcasing the flavors and fragrance of Senegalese cooking. Then he drew a reimagined thieboudienne, deconstructed to highlight the individual components of rice, fish, and sauce. A few months later, working alongside Senegalese American chef Pierre Thiam and chef-owner Boulud, Bludorn and Mbodji brought those hand-drawn visions to life.

The project was a gesture of friendship that not only reinforced Mbodji’s pride in his cultural identity, but also opened up an avenue for him to ponder and reframe how he thinks about fine dining in the U.S. “It gave me the courage to continue to have conversations about the connections that exist with West African cuisine, how food travels across borders and connects back to our history,” he reflected. Why shouldn’t Senegalese cuisine be recognized in fine-dining settings more often—served proudly, with dignity and care—particularly when it is so clearly an ancestor to so many American dishes?

Though West African cuisines continue to be underrepresented in the U.S. restaurant scene, particularly in fine dining, chefs of Senegalese origin are working to change that. A national movement of what Miller calls “diasporic dining experiences” examines West Africa’s past and celebrates its present. At Dakar NOLA in New Orleans, chef Serigne Mbaye serves a tasting menu that draws inspiration from Senegalese and Creole fare, producing courses like the “Last Meal,” a black-eyed pea soup that echoes what enslaved Africans were fed ahead of their forced transatlantic journeys. “We have been stepped on, walked over, disrespected. It’s time now to let us have our flowers,” said Mbaye. “My goal is to let people know that West Africa belongs.” Thiam has a similar mission at his African-inspired restaurant Teranga, where the menu teems with homestyle Senegalese fare like ndambe, a hearty and comforting black-eyed pea stew, and yassa poulet, grilled chicken in a tangy caramelized onion sauce. With his food brand Yolélé, Thiam is also connecting farmers in Africa with international markets to spotlight sustainably grown local ingredients like fonio. At Boston’s new Comfort Kitchen, helmed by chef Kwasi Kwaa and managing partner Biplaw Rai, dishes trace the flavors of the African diaspora by way of the international spice trade; the menu features innovative creations like tender jerk roasted duck and smoky za’atar-spiced trout.

As more chefs raise awareness of their heritage cuisines, they are rewriting the narrative of American food—and reclaiming West Africa’s role in creating it. Documentaries like High on the Hog and books like Bryant Terry’s Black Food and Michael Twitty’s The Cooking Gene are also educating eaters while paying long-overdue homage to the culinary innovations of enslaved people in America. “Eventually, the truth rises,” said Thiam. “It was just a matter of time.” For many Black Americans like the Bennett brothers, interested in researching their family trees and identifying their cultural roots, that time is now.

After we all went our separate ways and returned home to the States, Mbodji and I caught up over the phone. He mentioned that whenever he brings guests to Senegal, the days leading up to the trip are tinged with some apprehension. “It’s difficult to describe what Senegal looks like to someone who’s never been there. I always wonder how people will react—will they be comfortable? Will they understand? Will they connect with it?” This trip, though, reinforced to him that the country has a way of embracing outsiders and emphasizing their commonalities rather than their differences.

To this, I brought up the question he had posed to us back in Dakar: what did home mean to him? He thought for a moment before telling me that, after he and his family moved to Houston, he felt remarkably at ease. The competitiveness of New York City’s high-stakes restaurant scene all but receded into the backdrop in Texas. “The amount of support that people show you, and the genuine love and care that they have for you and your business—they want your business to succeed,” he said of Houstonians, whose neighborliness and community spirit reminded Mbodji of Senegal’s ever-present hospitality. “I don’t know that there’s a better way to make somebody feel at home than that.”

What’s more, for Mbodji, Houston feels like a place where anyone can fit in while still staying connected to their cultural roots. Immigration has made The Bayou City not only the fourth most populated metropolitan in the U.S. but also one of the most diverse—a multiculturality that is reflected in a thriving restaurant scene which embraces global flavors. “It’s a city where I feel that I have a place. I feel that I belong. I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s a genuine feeling.”

Though the restaurant is named for its Minneapolis-born chef (which was Mbodji’s suggestion), Bludorn insists that Mbodji’s role in the restaurant runs just as deep. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without him,” said Bludorn. “In many ways, he is almost a bigger face of the restaurant than I am today.” On the menu, a crowd favorite is the crab rice that Bludorn cooks in the style of jollof rice, which he learned to make from Mbodji. The chef then smothers the rice in crab étouffée as a nod to the French flavors present in both Senegal and the Gulf Coast. While the rest of the menu changes seasonally, the crab rice always stays—a tribute to Mbodji’s indispensable leadership at the restaurant, and a celebration of West African ancestry in Southern cooking. 

Now, there’s an equally permanent expression of Senegal at Navy Blue: during our trip, the group selected a local fishing boat—painted red, yellow, and green, the colors of the nation’s flag—to ship across the Atlantic back home to Texas. The vessel, now hanging high on the wall behind the bar, is adorned with Mbodji’s late father’s name, Mam Mor.

For those who don’t recognize the vessel’s origins, it could simply be a nod to the restaurant’s emphasis on seafood. To Mbodji, it’s a piece of his old home, now ever-present in his new one.

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This Cioppino recipe is undeniably a San Francisco original, made famous in the 1850s by Genoese immigrant Giuseppe Bazzuro at his eponymous restaurant. Derived from the traditional ciuppin—which means “little soup” in the Genoese dialect—the tomato-based seafood stew was originally a purée of cooked vegetables and leftover fish scraps. Over the years, Bay Area chefs transformed it into a more luxurious dish using local delicacies such as Dungeness crab, as in this version from the city’s legendary Tadich Grill.

This recipe originally ran alongside Thomas McNamee’s 2001 article, “Big Soup.”

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