Foodie

I’m blinking through floor-to-ceiling windows that perfectly frame a pristine view of Edinburgh Castle, standing magnificent against an improbably cloudless Scottish sky. The elegant writing desk in the Archibald Signature Suite at 100 Princes Street hotel has all the makings of an elevated “work-from-home” set up, but the scenery – and the collection of aged single malt I know to be upstairs – make concentration an uphill battle. This luxury townhouse right on, you guessed it, iconic Princes Street was made for luxuriating, not hunching over laptops. Ducking into the entrance on Princes Street feels exclusive, like knowing a secret.

“You just missed Chris Hoy. He was here leading cycle rides over the summer,” the Peligoni Club’s receptionist informed me breezily as he lugged my suitcase down the gravel path to my villa. Lively Greek music drifted on the (non-existent) breeze, thick air seeming to press down on us despite the late hour.  I’d come to Zakynthos seeking some solo restoration — and sure, even self-improvement. I hadn’t pictured puffing up a rock-strewn hill behind a six-time Olympic gold-medal-winning medalist, in 90-degree heat. But that’s how they roll, here; this family-run, members-only beach club regularly flies in experts to add star quality to the pared-back, luxurious spaces.

Asked how best to get to know new cultures, travel luminary Anthony Bourdain once said: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” This series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, wherever I’ve washed up. Fast-paced, cacophonous, always surprising; if Mumbai is the hub of India’s creative scene, Soho House Mumbai is the home of its creative set. The eleven-story townhouse stands out in studiously hip Juhu, flanked by contemporary galleries, boutiques, fine-dining spots and a stretch of beach (though the water’s not for swimming).  Inside I was fascinated by 200 pieces of art, 85 percent of which is by artists based in India, or of Indian descent.

There’s more to Morjim than offshore gambling and trance parties “North Goa or South Goa?” Ahead of a last-minute January trip, I found myself pestering every friend and acquaintance I could recall having traveled near or by West India, in between consulting YouTube, Instagram, articles and forums.  Advice was echoed across the board. “Head south to relax, and north if you want to go home miserable, with impaired hearing.”  As much as trance music is distinctly Not My Thing, I still wanted to see its birthplace. North Goa is one of those storied, almost ethereal places intrinsically linked to a time before traveling was inextricable from viral Instagram videos and well-worn guidebook recommendations.

With my Customs Declaration Form in hand and Japanese customs handbook in my pocket, I touched down in Tokyo for the first time, from Mumbai. I was wearing flip flops in February, but feeling as ready as I ever would. “Don’t point your chopsticks.” “Never raise your voice.” “No talking on public transport.” “Try to arrive early.” “Take your garbage home with you.” “Meetings should not be canceled.” “Make sure you slurp your noodles.” “Jaywalking is punishable with up to three months in prison.” There was a lot to remember. I was determined not to follow the trodden path, to find spots nobody else had. Then I got off the train in central Tokyo.

Strong, old pine tree branches cutting through a cloudless cerulean sky — a sight I find hard to beat. Throwing open the curtains at Pine Cliffs Resort in the Algarve, I wondered why I’d been away from Portugal so long.  Bleary-eyed, I reflexively photographed my first glimpse of the Atlantic from my Junior Ocean Suite’s balcony, seagulls cinematically swooping into the frame. Another vain attempt to capture the colors that always keep me coming back; the pictures somehow never as good as the real thing. I’d posted up from Tokyo gone dinnertime the previous night, just outfoxed by Japan’s famed pink sakura (2024’s late bloom meant I missed them by twenty-four hours). Waking up deathly early, I soaked away grizzly jet lag in my spacious room’s egg-shaped tub.

Setting an early alarm while on vacation never comes easily to me, but making time to wander Babylonstoren’s fruit and vegetable garden before the day’s searing heat took hold was no problem. One of the oldest Cape Dutch farms, set at the foot of Simonsberg in Cape Town’s Franschhoek wine valley, it’s a sprawling, fantastical, technicolor utopia — positively Eden-like, with a lot more than apples to tempt you. Scarecrows made from terracotta plant pots wave from fields teeming with 300 edible crops, fat pomegranates growing alongside tangy tamarillos, willow trees swaying in the breeze.

I arrived home six pounds heavier after three weeks in Sicily. That is the weight of a gallon of milk. Eight cans of beer. Or a small Yorkshire Terrier. I could try blaming the Cerebrus heatwave on my filthy granita habit and lack of almost any bodily movement (and it didn’t help) but the reality is this: Sicily is the fantastical realm they say it is and stupendously beautiful. And the food is even better.  Roman, Arab, French, Greek and North African influences spectacularize every meal. Almond milk granita is spooned into glistening brioche rolls before you can wipe the sleep from your eyes. Chocolate cannoli appear out of nowhere at breakfast. Arancini oozes globs of molten cheese in a manner that’s, quite frankly, sexy.

Forget Barcelona. Say sayonara to San Fran. And so long, London. Post-Covid, Lisbon has become a hub for the creative, hungry and cosmopolitan. A throng of new restaurants, wine bars and buzzy co-working spots has formed a playground for the young and ambitious.  They’re squeezing every last drop out of their free time, too, joining the tourists in thumping nightclubs before escaping to beautiful  beaches. But plenty of weekend visitors don’t know (or have time to discover) that the city is flanked by bucolic countryside, dotted with world-class hotels and agriturismos. A forty-minute drive can take you to pristine white sands, enchanting pine forests, retro beachfronts and sprawling national parks. Next time you’re in town, tack a road trip onto your city break.

To beat the killer combination of jet lag and altitude on arrival in the Mile High City, use the tools at your disposal — or local dispensary. I advise newcomers to: Jog around Cheesman Park and the Botanic Gardens in bright sunshine, or thick snow (likely both) Buy up all the melatonin in Walgreens Drink copious local beers Have a smoke, if that’s your jam Grab a meal Hit the hay Repeat as necessary Denver’s bursting with shiny new concept restaurants and kitsch little nooks to drop into; so my muddled brain was grateful for any steer. I hounded discerning friends for recommendations, downloaded Stoned Appetit (a genius app full of the best spots to satisfy the munchies), and took aim at anywhere with a James Beard nod.

I’m hungry, so I know it has begun. December. The month when the kitchen transforms into a battleground, no soldier safe from its vigilant sniper’s gaze. Seemingly innocuous snacking is off-limits: one must assume that everything edible — everything — has been squirreled away for festive drop-ins, cocktail parties and The Big Day. “Wait! Don’t open that. It’s the Christmas wine.” “Hey. Don’t even think about it. That’s a gift for Auntie Jo.” “Put those back! They’re the Christmas Eve cashews.” We must struggle with bizarre concepts like “having a banana” or “waiting until dinner.” Or, do as I do. Continue in vain, scribbling an IOU list that grows as long as my belly grows round. I’ll buy it back tomorrow. Of course I will.

My wife and I live in Northern Virginia, in Fairfax County. Whenever we go out to eat, we almost always go somewhere in the suburbs. Fairfax, along with neighboring Montgomery County in Maryland, is home to a wealth of restaurants serving cuisines from all over the world. Just last January, Bon Appétit wrote that “to travel DC’s Beltway is to sample the flavors of the world,” and the New York Times declared that “America’s next great restaurants are in the suburbs.” You could argue that the suburban food scene in the DC metro area surpasses that of the city itself. Nonetheless, DC is widely seen as a “foodie city,” and its restaurants generally get more coverage and hype than their suburban counterparts.