“Her tofu can fool a meat-eater, and yet, it doesn’t attempt to mimic meat; rather, it’s prepared with so much care that it would never occur to you to want anything more.”

“This cake turned out great and was perfect for our holiday table, though I did make some small substitutions. My father can’t drink, so I subbed the rum in the soak with an equal amount of Robitussin which—before you say anything—he is allowed to have.”

“It is the language I learned first; it is the one in which my grandma left me her recipes. It is the only language my mother speaks.” “Es el idioma que primero aprendí; es en el que mi abuela me dejó sus recetas. Es el único idioma que habla mi madre.”

“The clandestine Belle Epoque–era anarchist propaganda of the Cointreau brothers’ day has given way to graffiti dialogues in spraypaint, wheatpasted queer art, and flyers inviting antifascist action. Today, city-sanctioned murals create a bland backdrop against which a vibrant underground art scene radiates.”

“The mirage of effortlessness and template menus in the central kitchen model is at odds with how canteen workers have long anchored a crucial domestic space that uniquely combines food labor and care work: one which inducts young Singaporeans into a collective sense of gastronomic, sociocultural self.”

“A Serbian kafana, or traditional restaurant, should have an interior so smoky it makes your eyes water, tables laden with platters, shot glasses full of rakija (the local brandy), and, on weekends, musicians with cash sticking out of their accordion ribs. Even Serbs from other regions are forced to admit that the hedonistic, gourmand city of Niš in the southeast has the best kafane. ”

“I haven’t had food or a beverage in a month, but food is ever-present. I am not hungry, but I hunger. My days pass in the future tense: what I am going to eat and when I can eat again. As I write this, no food or drink has passed through my mouth in a month. I have an obstructed bowel, along with other complications of Crohn’s disease.”

“Back at The Woolpack, the squeak of the old wood floors began to crescendo as muddy boots spilled into the country pub for the night. Eventually, that window behind the bar was fogged over as the small room filled to standing room only, with men and women, young and old alike. Spend enough time in a busy pub and it’s inevitable that you’ll talk to strangers. For me that night, it was Paul.”

“While today, popular Italian cooking is not necessarily associated with vegetarianism, Pieroni’s work reminds us once again that traditional folk-cooking is rooted in availability: the herbs were there, free and generous, in a way that meat could not be.”

“We are one of two international flights to arrive at the Plovdiv airport this morning—so says the sole, undersized arrivals board that’s written in utilitarian, monospaced, geometric block font that I think is pretty cool. The entire airport is kind of cool, with its concrete and glass, patchy plaster fixes, and burgundy and forest green pleather benches. I am shocked to find out it was built in 2009 and not 1979.”