A culinary travel journal where recipes are mapped to place, season, and memory. Each dish is a ritual, carried home as a postcard.
Atlantic light, ironed linen, grilled salt.
Steam, cedar, morning market hush.
Spice shadows, terracotta, evening calls.
Laneway steam, flat white rituals.
Stone ovens, wild basil, dusk glow.
On the Tagus, we ate from paper trays and let the salt stay on our fingers. The smoke tasted like a good-bye.
A bowl that arrives like a prayer. Steam curled into the street as bicycles passed the temple gates.
The market called in colour and the tagine held the night — warm, spiced, and slow.
The café windows fogged over, and the city moved slowly. A flat white felt like belonging.
Thin crust, loud streets, and the smell of basil in the warm air. We tore slices by hand.
Sea-grilled sardines with lemon. A ritual for leaving ports softly.
Morning miso soup, a map of quiet streets and temple bells.
Tagine simmering while lanterns appear in the souk.
Flat white ritual, warmed hands, and a notebook of plans.
Pizza with basil and sea salt, eaten in the glow of dusk.