When I think about certain places, I remember the food before I remember the landmarks.
Not always the best food I have ever eaten.
Not always something particularly special.
Just a meal that somehow became attached to a place.
A table.
A smell.
The sound around us.
What happened that day.
Who was sitting there.
I love that food can do that.
You can forget the name of a street and still remember exactly what something tasted like.
Sometimes a smell brings back an entire city before you even realize why.
A market.
Fresh bread.
Spices.
Coffee.
Something being cooked somewhere nearby while you were walking.
And suddenly you are not standing where you are anymore.
You are back there.
I think this is why food becomes such a big part of how I remember travelling.
Sightseeing tells me where I went. Food reminds me what being there felt like.
Some meals become stories.
The thing you ordered without really knowing what it was.
The restaurant you found by accident.
The food you were convinced you would not like and ended up loving.
The meal that was completely ordinary but happened after a really good day.
And sometimes, years later, you try the same thing somewhere else.
It might taste almost identical.
But somehow it is not.
Because part of the taste belonged to the place.
Maybe that is what I love about food memories.
They are impossible to recreate perfectly.
The ingredients can be the same.
But the moment never is.