Barbra Austin

By the time the year is over, I will have attended five weddings. This breaks my 2008 record, a fact I’m commemorating by wearing all of the same dresses. Or at least the ones that still fit(s), a category which shrank significantly after the second wedding, in Spain, where all personal ham consumption records were shattered.

I was buying milk at the local Park & Shop the other night when something in a display of reduced-priced merchandise caught my eye:
Naturally, I bought it.

The only way to arrive at Bako National Park is by boat.

Our captain pulled his skiff around, the outboard buzzing anemically. The four of us stepped on and were off, passing a colorful village on one side and a mesh of mangroves on the other. The strait widened to an expanse of tides and currents, the ongoing negotiations between the Sarawak river and the South China Sea.

I was worried that Tim Ho Wan wouldn’t be as good as I remembered, that we would have nothing to show for the commute to Mongkok but two hours of waiting and a completed Sunday crossword. But then the pork buns arrived.

Showing up to a lunch date 3o minutes late and short of cash is probably not the best way to make a good first impression.

We went to Top Spot for dinner on our first night in Kuching, and returned on our last night because we liked it so much. Perched on the roof of a parking garage, Top Spot is a collection of competing seafood stands facing a sea of tables, a sort of massive food court. It was hard to know which one to choose; they all look more or less the same. In these situations I think it’s best to follow the crowd, and the crowd was at stall number 25, Bukit Mata.

I found myself in Kuching somewhat unexpectedly, which I realize sounds strange. How does one find oneself unexpectedly in a place that requires plane rides to reach? I’m still not entirely sure, but there I was, arrived with my Hong Kong friend via Singapore, where we picked up two others, old friends of his.

I had been here before but was happy to go back, particularly considering there would be ten of us. More people, more food to try.

The name of this legendary food shop in the Testaccio neighborhood of Rome is Volpetti, but I’ve taken to calling it “my happy place.”

As I began to write about lunch at Noma, it felt a bit like describing a dream.
Not in the ideal sense (dream job, dream boy) but in the vivid unlikeliness of it all.